Verba Mea

light | intense | passionate | inspiring | love | warm | fiery

Shamelessly Awake

I chased birds rather dreams,
I loved pain rather solace,
Matter not the imprisonment;
But the smell of wantrust.
Taketh all my possess and leave me alone.
Except one of course,
That be my heart.

Laugh behind my soul,
Cut me to pieces, slice me to shape.
Serve me and bill me,
The fountain of my blood,
Maketh you wealthy.
Take all my possess and leave me alone.
Except one ofcourse,
That be my heart.

Guarding your mansion,
My half is lost.
Caressing a deception,
Other half has gone.
Grill my meat, chew and spit
Except one of course,
That be my heart.

Stripped to naked,
Burning in the fire,
I blaze and glow,
Like a coal in the flame.
Taketh my skin;
Taketh my flesh;
Taketh my thoughts;
Taketh my desires;
Taketh them all.
Except one of course,
That be my heart.

Bones aligned.
Senses convened.
Skin redressed,
Emotions redone.
I tried my best,
To keepeth my heart.

Show some mercy,
Before you maketh a doll.
Destroy me not,
That to never retort.
Take all my possess and leave me alone.
Except one of course,
That be my heart.

Let me live,
My small,
Happy life.
My love, My heart
That’s all it takes.
Acquit me from death,
To lead a life,


– Deepak Warrier



The first light of the day was never so beautiful. Last night her nanny had told her the story of a beautiful flower that would soon blossom at their backyard. Nanny would be a rather polished word to be used in this context. She was an eerie woman. A dirty scary crone to many who just gave her those passing looks. But for this kid, she was much more than that. She was her nanny. When an abandoned soul survives her age and lives on to become a burden in the family, loss in memory and irrational circumstantial behaviors are quite justifiable. It seemed like the only remaining mission of her life and the only solace of her delusional mind was taking care of this kid. Her anger and potent strength would surface even at a stranger’s misguided look at the kid. The kids’ parents scared if the lady would harm their baby, but little did they know their baby was the only reason the lady still lived. She was a hag to the world, but to that one kid, she was her first friend. While her nanny gave her first lessons on walking, she gave her nanny a few rounds of hide and seeks. While her nanny gave her love, she gave her smiles. While her nanny struggled to conjoin her thoughts, she pulled her leg and teased her to merry. The picture is mixed up. It would be unfair to judge the depths of their relationship. One side was a kid, barely a couple of years old and the other side was a lady, hardly a couple of years away from natural death. Still they seemed so much in tune with each other.

She felt her nanny’s lap was the safest place on earth. The only jewel nanny wore was a chain with golden bubble beads. Not sure if nanny would remember who gifted it to her. Bur it should have been someone special, because she clung to that chain like her most precious possession. The only person who had access to that chain was this kid. The kid not only played with nanny’s chain, but when she lay on her lap to sleep, she used to bite each bubble one by one to make them all disfigured. Nanny never stopped her, instead kissed her forehead and kept caressing her hair. While she ran her fingers thru the kid’s hair, their eyes kept looking at each other till slowly the kid slipped into her sleep. She never sung a lullaby nor did she ever pamper the kid with chocolate words. Their relationship grew like a nature’s law.

Last evening, while nanny took her for a walk in their backyard, she showed her a bud and explained. “This would flower tomorrow”. That should have been nanny’s favorite flower. The white lily tree had flowered before too, but it was the first time the kid was getting to know of this transformation. While she went to sleep, all she could dream of was the newly blossomed flower. She got up before nanny and ran to the backyard to see if the flower had bloomed. She picked a fallen flower and ran back to give her nanny a morning gift. Nanny from then on woke up to the lily’s fragrance every morning. This went on.

One day the kid’s parents who were working away came to board the kid to a nearby school. Like every child, her routines changed and she started to drift away from those innocent smelling lilies. Nanny, unaware of the schooling would wander during daytime in search of the kid at the neighborhood, under the cot, behind the trees and on top of the chimneys. Later, helpless in her attempt to find the kid, she would drag herself to the window of her room from where she could see the long stretching mud road and kept waiting for her dear playmate to appear.

Days passed on and her nanny slowly started to move out of her. While nanny came behind her, she ran to avoid contact. When nanny cried seeing her climb a tree, she laughed at her from top of a trunk and made faces of the senseless nanny. When friends came home, she never introduced them to her nanny. She cruelly hid nanny’s pillow and the half blind nanny crawled around the room touching everything around to check if it was her pillow. The older she got, the more the kid ignored her. Sometimes during vacations, a quick trip to her old house would mostly exclude even a visit to the by then bed ridden nanny. The face of her nanny slowly got blurred in time, by now leaving only an impression behind.

Years later nanny died an abandoned natural death attended by none much, not even her last ever playmate.

The kid grew up to a girl, a woman. Today, looking back at the minute attachments in her life, quite little of what remains, she remembers her nanny. In a very complex emotional feeling, she tries to figure out her nanny’s face on every old abandoned disregarded woman on the street. I wish I could accompany her once, back to her old house, where her old friend walked her around. I wish to see if nanny’s favorite tree still blossoms. If it does, I want to pluck one flower and place it on nanny’s grave and confess how much I missed someone like her and let her know how much her little playmate wished she could just hug her one single time again and leave a few drops of tears on her shoulder.

The Great Indian Betrayal

I am proud to be an Indian. We all have collectively, massively and derivatively shown the character to move on and forget. Whether in question be our credence, allegiance or secularism, we have at each step been assured, reassured, further assured and finally betrayed and trashed without a pinch of guilt on the same grounds over and over again.

Conspiracy beyond visibility and treachery beyond intuition have time and again come to haunt and ruin our every moment of pride and exuberance. We were for once provoked and instigated to fight a foreign evil and start dreaming of being an Independent Nation with constitutional rights and so associated growth and emergence. But as Hastings rightly visioned, India was not prepared. We had the talent, but no planning. We fell into pieces and no one could really hold it together from day one. One man could have. He made us dream, he made us move our bones and instilled sense into our brains. We stood together for him, behind him and fought through him for ourselves. Not many of us I am sure would have had a clear picture of India after Independence. But a man in his self-woven dhoti, walking hastily, took the nation by his hands and we all were to believe he is our saviour. Struggle followed and finally the foreign slugs were out of the map. Victory was still half-baked then. If thoughts were that his mission was accomplished, I beg to differ and probably argue that his mission had just started at that night of Indian Independence. But he chose to remain ignorant or rather too cowardice to understand the deep conundrums India would slip into. He was not appointed by anyone, but was trusted, supported and corroborated. But in the end, when we needed him, then more than ever, he retreated and let the nation reel in the clutches of unorganized, unplanned and unprecedented waywardness. As an Indian, from my heart, bowing in front of the Mahatma for all his eminence and instaurations, with a hand on my chest, with much pain and bleed I would still say, you betrayed us. You showed us the light, but before we could reach, you slipped back, leaving us in deep-pitched darkness and scary futurity. We called you father. You abandoned your kid.

India runs on a stream of tolerance. Right from the first official political establishment in India which Mr Nehru virtually procured; to the current rubber stamps, nothing has changed much. All of them have time and again, just found themselves rather shamelessly being molecules of indignity flavoured corruption. Starting from the Indo Pak splits, which I believe was the first wrong step of free India, matters have only worsened. I wish the revered Nehrus and hated Jinnahs could come out of the grave and speak a few truths at least now that my children would learn the corrected and not the perceived version of history. We only complain and never act. My friend Dipu mocks Mr Nehru with his unique style on how he impregnated the India – China, Bhai – Bhai concept. Mr Nehru, we trusted you and followed you. But finally we lost a part of our body, Through your words, actions and beliefs on which we had started to bank our faith, you eventually betrayed us. The first Indian Prime Minister, with all glories and accolades attached to you; how would you ever answer the Indo Pak split conspiracy and the Indo China war. Your betrayal has left deep incisions on us.

By now India has started to learn it the hard way. Elections have become customary and voting has transformed from choosing the right leader to hoping on the lesser corrupt one. You gave me dreams and made me fly, but at every flight you cut my wings, one by one, till I fell, flat on the ground, nailing me to the filthy stinky arms of political evils.

If voting is a way of showing trust and expressing hope, then all the Politicians in India have betrayed us, in sensational and provoking parameters. If ever a stainless person was found in the system, you played politics to either beleaguer him or no hesitantly throw him out of the political process.

When we had just learned to move along with all these nefarious politics pardoning the corruption which has by now moved from thousands to lacs, from lacs to crores and from crores to lacs of crores, we have a man here, trying to shake us once again.

Mr Hazare, we respect you and trust your intentions. But let’s make this barter. We will support you, we will stand by you and we will start to dream again. But promise us this makes sense. 63 years back, Indian politics should have been clean. Now we are fighting one of the biggest corruption crises. 120 years later I don’t want my grand children to stand under the hot sun, sweating, braving the weather, shouting slogans and supporting a then Gandhi or Hazare demanding a whitewash of the entire political system. Promise us, your enthusiasm is not a kick you get out of an uprising support. Promise us, you are here to stay to take the nation forward beyond a one odd heroic act. Promise us, you would get into planning and find ways to utilize and sustain this support we have given you. To mould a healthier nation giving us severe comprehensions on true living.

It’s easy to win our trust. Speak like how we think, talk like how we want to hear and express like to choke our frustrations. But time after let not you too be called a compatriot who betrayed.

Jai Hind.

Love Exists.

As I waited for the lift to take me to the 4th floor, a roof top restaurant at Gulbarga, a town which drew me much closer and beyond the expectation from a low profile telecom sector that it is, my eyes stuck on a family relaxing under a slab built next to the lift. It would seem deceiving to call them a family. But that’s my perception and purely my wish. I insisted the bigger stronger one of the three be the light holder of the family, another matured looking dogie to be the house maker and a small kiddo running around them to be their child. Seven of us waited for the lift which took its own time to reach. A rather old fashioned lift with grilled sliding doors took me back 20 years in time, to my rather old flat in calcutta which had a similar one. This part of the world has not progressed since the time or probably the stagnancy contributed to its beauty than anything else.

Four of us used the lift first as it was too old to carry more on its drooping, slopping, slippery shoulders. As it carried us up, passing us were the small wall portion which comes after each floor. They were all in all it beauty spattered with red pan spits. My boss felt it was sick. In my opinion people of Gulbarga have a good sense of their targets as to aim a spit exactly on the walls as the lift moved up and accurately avoiding the doors. The view however from the roof top restaurant was pleasing. Spread across towards the southern side was a lake which shared it boundary with the restaurant. On the shores of the lake to the side opposite to us were buildings, only lights of which one can see. Some yellow, some white and furthermore some red. It’s been cloudy but somehow the weather has been kind on us so far. The conversations between the seven of us were purely official or rather mocking at people we knew officially. There were no outside incidents or characters. Everything was internal and slowly a few people were realizing that jokes on one person was gaining more laughter than ever. They continued to build on it and I continued to smile, motivating each story teller to roll out another one with more flavour. My boss by now seemed quite detached and lost in SMS chats quite unusual from his real self.

I started to feel monotonous in my smile and promptly rose from my seat. Walked down to the edge of the terrace and kept observing the scene in front of me. I started to feel nostalgic somewhere. I called her and spoke to her. I wanted to tell her this moment, this view, reminded me of our last ever break up. We chose to remain close friends since some time later, but at that moment that view of the lake, overlooking a varied lighting shore on the other side reminded me of the terrace of skyline apartments,  a fore running sky scraper at the marine drive, overlooking a similar view of the Willington island on the opposite side. A night I would have preferred to forget, yet which hit me so hard with a gush of powerful emotions, fresher and stronger each time. That day she admitted it’s over between us and that she has already started seeing someone else. That time it had invoked a lot of senselessness in me. Years later, I stand to realize that she could be a good friend beyond love and sensuality. I dialed her recently changed number. I tried to sound normal, I asked if she had dinner.  She confirmed she had and was still trying to settle down in her newly hired flat in cochin. I abruptly ended the call as the six other people behind me had started to get noisier.

I preferred to stay where I am, from where I could hear everything they spoke or rather overheard all what was spoken. “He likes everything in double”. Exclaimed one of them addressing a capped individual between us. “He always have two pegs, two motor bikes, two houses, and to the extend, two wives and two kids each”. Now did I hear that right or were they just joking. But it was surely going somewhere interesting. The narrator became more aggressive as he knew people were interested in further disclosures. “He is addicted to the number: 2. He is never contained with the number one”. My boss suddenly stopped his SMS addiction and looked up at the gentleman. “Hey come on, is it true”? He asked with an obvious curiosity. This is where it all became serious. He nodded his head in a proud gesture. This gentleman, my friend seemed to have two wives and two kids each. In a century with strict objection on polygamy constitutionally and socially, this revelation came as a surprise. I started to get irritated as he started to explain. His first wife is a government employee and when she came to know about the second marriage she revolted. He did all he could to convince her, but finally got into severe blackmailing to curb her down. As he explained his heroics, I felt like to slash a tight slap on his filthy cheeks. But somehow I kept rooted to my conscience as he continued to explain pre and post marriage developments. Was he drawing a hero of himself? It was absurd. Topics went from one to another, to the weather of Gulbarga, to major attractions, to the very prominent adult pick-nic spot of Jhamkhandi, an open human flesh market 120 Kms down west of Gulbarga. Night was getting old and it was time to leave. But still, the capped gentle man and his words kept lingering on me. We waited for the old lift once again to climb the 4 floors to take us down on its arms. I wanted to break my silence, wrapped my hands over his shoulders as friendly as I could and asked him, brother, why did you really do it? His answer was frank and had it all. He said, “Kya karoon bhai, I fell in love. It’s not that I have started to love my first wife lesser, but just that I started to love someone else too”.

His reply in no way convinced me of his doing. But the concept of not cheating on a person he loved pierced me. How many times have we all loved someone in all ways we could and just let it go claiming circumstantial aberrance?  Here is a man who I just hated a few minutes back getting some respect in my heart for being so unfazed over his adversity and standing strong over a factor called love which though happened illogically.

We got down the lift, and walked out of the building. It had started to rain and the climate was starting to freeze. In one corner the dad and mom had come closer to make a warm space between them, where rested the puppy, like in a blanket made of love.

Love exists.


This might sound absurd, senseless, stupid, insane, irrational or whatever! But I have nothing against anyone who says I might be quite off my mind.

It’s true. I have felt it now, many times before and now more frequently than ever that there is a presence in this 100 sq ft room of mine. Its instances and occurrences that make one go beyond and over a few feelings and sensations and start trusting on a few indications.

I am open. I have a laptop that runs on windows which is not genuine or rather I have not activated it even after repeated reminders. These days, a new method adopted by windows is to display a screen as we start up to remind that you are a cheater, you don’t have a license, go get one looser and activate windows and yourself. But after interpreting so much from the otherwise simple message it displays, all you have to do is click on the button which says I will do it when I feel like you dumb good for nothing piece of technological jargon, let me for now and almost forever just log in. It’s pretty boring to see the message flash on at every startup. You can never just push the power button and go with your chores expecting the machine to have fully started and running by the time you return. You have to wait, click on the “Activate Later” button on the flashing screen and then wait for the login screen. One day I had almost decided to sleep on an empty stomach when a friend called up and said it would not be a good idea. Giving his words some respect, I drooled down to my cupboard, peered at the possible options and picked a ready to eat pack from the many that I had lined up last week. I had by now closed my laptop for the day and was possibly thinking on better options to guide me to sleep. As I was warming the pack, I felt like logging in again. The dish was by now warm and ready to gulp. I picked a plate, a spoon and moved to my table to settle down and watch a movie as I have my dinner. I pushed my power button. At this instance, my hand touched a hot area in the plate and I just pulled my hand in reflex. The other hand with the spoon was not balancing the plate and the plate was to fall down. I drew my thighs closer to catch the plate if it falls and somehow gained control over the act smartly with my palms. My one hand was throughout under the plate and the other hand had the spoon. I lifted my head, glared at the screen and it was asking me to enter my login details. Where the hell did the activate screen go? Who the hell clicked “Activate later”?
You are free to feel it’s silly. But this was only the start which I never took seriously.
I sleep with music playing on my mobile. I am addicted to a playlist I play so often than it has become sort of a drug these days. There is a Sufi number originally composed and sung by his highness late Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. At all his glory and grace, he wore the song like a pendant and exposed it sparkle during all his live concerts. I have the audio recording from a concert and I just love its originality. But at one point, at the peak of his thrill, seeking prominence to the tiny nuance is the song’s route, aggressively expediting into the most intricate swara changes, and washing himself down in the epitome of self satisfaction, somewhere, a slight somewhere I used to wake up and feel a bit disturbed at night. Somewhere some notes bother me. Brings an eyebrow raise and often I skip the song to a more softer and less noisy track and tune back to my sleep. One day I was tired. I didn’t have to listen to music to sleep. But still I put my mobile on charge and initiated the same playlist as it has become customary. I slept peacefully and nothing should ever have woken me up that night. Next morning I woke up relaxed, soft and peaceful. I unplugged my mobile from the charger and was above to close the music player as I do every morning. I was about to close it while I paused. A moment. The playlist had not played out completely last night as it used to regularly day on day. It’s paused. On track “Alla hoo” by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan at 6 min 32 seconds. I resumed play from that point and the portion which sometimes wakes me up at night pierced my ears. Who the hell paused the song at sharp 6.32?

I returned from home one Monday morning to my 100 sq ft room in Bangalore. Sick and lost. The day passed bed ridden. At night a local chemist suggested a few extra dose medicines. To prevent further complications of having medicine in empty stomach, I had a bun pinched into pieces and ate them one by one, counting the remaining pieces after each bite and moving pieces up and down the plate with a very prominent dissatisfaction on tastelessness. My table faces the sliding window in my room. The window faces another road on the other side of the building. This window is the only source of air circulation in my room and I never keep them closed. But that day, I felt the cool breeze which blew across into my room was too much for my illness to handle. I closed the window tight and continued to have my bunny dinner. As I completed my dinner, I took the pills and went to bed. Would have been around midnight, I started to sweat. I was feeling uneasy, rather difficult to breathe. I wanted to increase the speed of my fan or was it a need for fresh air. I pushed the blanket off my legs, turned around and lay on my back trying to breathe through my mouth and nose. Memories are vague, I continued my sleep somehow. Next day morning, the sun shone brightly on my face. I rubbed my eyes and kept staring out through my window. The curtains have been half moved and the window is slide to let some air flow. Who the hell?

It was a day of insult. The first ever public insult in one’s life would leave a solid mark on your heart. At a rather premature age to be involved in the field of music, writing, computers and a bold move into business from there, have never given a chance whatsoever for anyone to show disrespect or contempt at me. Gods have probably been kind on me and I repaid his kindness by being kind. I have never harassed anyone ever in my life, neither the housekeeping boys at my once famous restaurant back home, nor spoken a work aloud at the people who initiated the downfall of a probable business growth. Having tasted success at every point of career till then and then the contradicting drastic downfall in business was literally the most heart loosing instance to be experienced. What remained was me, or rather just my shadow. Life has come a long way from there. The dreams have found their coffins and living have become on mercy. This day I stood, like a boy, in public, with words fulminating all over me, daggering me at every fraction of the second with vocal arms, as loud as it can get. Doomed, not knowing to react, shocked and bewildered I cut myself a goofy foolish jackass. Devastating every repute and respect I tried to protect for myself, I came home and crashed on to my chair head bang on my table trying to make myself stronger. I could not take it. I wrapped my hands over my head and broke off trying to strip out every ego in me, trying to make me realize where I belong to; trying to convince myself to get over my past. Tears rolled out of me as I cried, as loud as possible, to break me free, to set me free. I felt the tears would wash away the bruise. At least for some of us, bruises are not physical, but emotional. To be quoted stupid, foolish, and useless among other words in public made me feel so small. Suddenly I felt something moving on my feet. There was no breeze. Fan was still switched off. I looked down to find a napkin which had found its way from somewhere in the room to my feet. As if someone wants to hand me a napkin and say don’t worry, wipe your tears.

Eerie Woman

The arms of darkness, cloaked me in a blanket so chill;
I kissed the road and moved ahead, the same pace, the same race.
My motion strapped, I spooked, deaden over silence;
Feet ahead and there she stood, invisible, yet so Visible.
Wrapped in black, to a stick she clinged,
Tressed fuzzy hair, from the face they swayed,
Not a statue. A woman, with bones, no flesh.
The days of age have long left, the fate of sorrow, on her face.

There stood an eerie, scary el daemon
Half stooping, to her stick she clung,
And the head, held up and straight;
Her eyes kept still;
Neither it blinked, nor it stir.
What is she, woman? I said no.
She is a hag. A dirty scary crone.

I saw a daemon, I told as I hustled home.
She haunted me and woke me at night.
I thought I drank water, but I spit it for blood.
She could be on my window. I trembled and feared.
I closed myself tight, and slept. Or did I?

Was she always there, or that I never saw.
For I saw her, the next day and on all days then.
Slowly the fear was it gone;
I moved closer as I walked past her.
A glimpse of her face, and it stung me hard.

Next day I slowed, and moved more close.
There stood an eerie, scary el daemon
I must be joking. She is a human.
I saw her eyes and they were so dull;
I saw her hair so curled like whorl.
The gods were pleased, while she was made.
For a sculpture, would still, delight her curves.

She’s not a daemon, I told as I strolled home.
She haunted me again, and woke me up.
Her eyes once would have been so bright,
Her hair once would have been so smooth.
I wished to see her outside my window,
I let myself loose, and slept. Or did I?

Take me back across years,
Take me back across time;
Till I see her, in her youth and young.
Not less than a fairy, more than a charmer.
How would her smile, reflect her eyes;
How would the wind, slip off her hair.

Let me see the men;
Who waited her glimpse.
Let me smell the breeze;
That brushed past her hair.
Did she smell of sandal,
Or did she smell of flowers.

Today she dwells, like a daemon,
Among the rats, beside the dogs,
Licked by the cats, smelled by the pigs,
I just get a feel, she has a story,
A story, that could make me weak.
A story, that would make me cry.

Let me move ahead.
And wait for her death.
The solace of calmness, bestow her soon.

Foggy Heart.

 There are always a few things which happen without a reason.

It was drizzling today since morning in this city of Bangalore and nothing could ever help recover from the cozy feel of the dayspring. I lay helpless stuck to different thoughts and motives. Got stuck to a feeling that life has changed a lot. In both volumes and values. The volume of people circle has decreased and so have the many values of life I once upheld as a teenager. It has become more like living to struggle than struggling to live. There is no struggles as such. Maybe a lack of motivation here and there adds to a bigger part of my frustration. Again, am not a frustrated individual, just that at times, like we all do, go a bit overboard on anything and everything.

This happened while on a drive. The unmerciful shower was forcing itself hard on my windshield and it seemed to crush everything that came under it. The road lay long and in stretch. The rains seem to be keeping everyone home tied. The vacant roads made me relax and switch on to a softer driving attitude. Adding joy to the ride was the “Aaina Mujse Mere Pehli Si Surat Maange”.. A filmy ghazal by his honorable Roop kumar Rathod carefully knit by Rajesh Roshan for Daddy. The words of the song pained me like a drug and I doomed in it over and over again. My motion was stopped by a RED. Here starts my reason for this blog.

I sat alone in the car, wiper swaying from right to left as hard as it could to beat the rain off my shield, a half foggy view from the shield and the red light at  a distance. That’s all what could catch my vision and it was worth a frame. As I kept seeing this, my heart started getting heavier. A gush of emotions started to force into my heart and soul. I was feeling as if there is something wrong happening around me and I could just break off any moment. Old moments of unfaithfulness, present moments of artificiality, the losses, the ruptures, all lay bang on me. Not letting me move. The signal countdown was steadily progressing. I was stuck. I tried to cry to come out of it, but in vain. The RED turned GREEN and suddenly I was liberated like from a grip. I moved my car ahead and continued my journey. I drove a few meters ahead and I was self induced to stop my car. I lay curious on what slipped me into such a diorama. I did a rewind and I could see more that what was just described. There was a subject in that frame probably which squeezed the emotions out of me. The signal had a small station which was probably meant for the policeman to stand and elegantly guide the traffic during its honeymoon days. But today that shelter is nothing more than a space leaking from all sides and centre. I could see a dog with its head up dribbling its saliva which was getting diluted in the rain water that flowed past it. Beside that was a lady, and something was covered and kept close to her chest, probably with an intention of giving it warmth of sorts. I remember seeing that small covered thing move. Probably it was an infant, a few days old? I could see the mist in her eyes. A rather young lady. She neither had help nor care. How the baby was born, could be another curios case to ponder. But she was protecting her kid irrespective of her circumstances.

I had shared a thought long back with a few friends of mine when I had once seen a scene through the glass window of the state owned volve bus which took me from Bandra Kurla Complex to Kandivilli. A similar rainy day, splashing its fury on the mumbaities, a fateful day for many. Hopelessly stuck in a block near Dindoshi, my eyes got stuck at a lady near a temple. There was some sort of a makeshift tent erected nearby clearly indicating a group of socially disregarded people. She was carrying an infant in her hand barely protecting her from the rain and asking for money from people who passed by. Initially I felt furious on the idea of using the child to beg. But soon I was corrected. The baby was just born a few days back as it revealed and this lady had no money to protect that poor thing from rains and the cold. The child seemed sick. She had it wrapped in a cloth and was asking people a helping hand to get the child to hospital. She moved from auto to auto all shooing her away. Even saw her touching the feet of people who came to pray in the temple nearby. The people of Mumbai probably had so much belief in god that, even with such cruel attitude, they expected to get all their wish granted and sins forgiven. I was about to get out of the bus and it started to move. My inability to be faithful to my emotions refrained me from stopping the bus and getting out of it forcibly. For a second, the selfish, purport man in me worked up and I sat glued to the seat. Closed my eyes tight and relaxed back in the seat.

This was a realization that nothing has changed from that day to this. I am just the same. Non – Reactive, self centered, asocial, meaningless human being that I have always been. The emotions, the frustrations and the outbursts are probably a mere way of exhibiting what I would have been if I had a pinch of genuineness attached to me. I am a human being, less attached to its literal meaning, more tied to its contemporary meaning of being heart less. I wanted to get out of the car and wash myself off in the rain. I kept moving and the pain slowly mellowed out.


For the black light,
For the strained vision,
For the diluted commitment,
For the boneless graceless words,
For the dreams and the realities,
Apologies; for being me.

Thank you..

I am glad, atleast some of you really showed the mercy to comment on a few of my posts. And thanks for requesting me to keep writing more in this space. Howerver, I dont know if I write on par or even if you can call these writings. Off late I haven been scribbling anything just because there was nothing happening and trust me, its been a while now.

Hope the world inspires me more. Or rather hope I wake up soon enough to realize how well this world is inspiring me.

Luv, To all.

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