To Sinhgad Fort

It's cold Sunday morning. The fog is still low, now and then springing up surprises. And I ? Well, I am rubbing my palms and doing about everything to keep myself from freezing. Freezing to cold windows, finding their way from tiniest freeway and channels between the windows. And in the ride is silence, kind of one before the war. No, no one's going to war, but I along with 300 odd heads are going to trek. Everyone is kicked up. High on energy and excitement.

It's trek to Sinhgad Fort, that has its own prominence and history. Especially of battle fought by a maratha, Tanaji Malusare to retrieve it from the mughal. And so am I battling to reign over my own self and pleasures. 

At the beginning it seemed "achievable". I was running, through the muddy and rocky terrain. But as I went on, it was getting difficult. There wasn't energy or stamina to continue. The more I looked up, the more disheartened I was. People were running ahead, old and young alike. Given my ego and illusions and beliefs, I take that as "losing out", It sure wasn't encouraging. The thought, that I must go back, than to front was resonating. I wanted to. But the journey has begun already, destination is only end. 

All my energy is sucked out. But then I had to complete the trek. It took me lot of will, patience and pushing to complete that trek. Slowly, taking my own time I completed it. And then there was this wonderful sense of accomplishment. Perhaps that which could breather life to lifeless, teach hope to hopeless. 

And as I looked down at the rocks I climbed over, slipped on, I see they are very obstacles of my life to be and I must not lose my heart at their sight. And that I completed trek, that in midway I lost all hope of doing, gave me a satisfaction that for quite a period, I longed for.

And it was definitely good time out, knowing my 14 other colleagues of mine.

Trekking - It's more about understanding yourself. And battling your own shortcomings, dogmas and illusions that were keeping you away from what you truly deserve.

Searching no expectations land!

it's a truth we hate, but don't have choice,

we have to accept it regardless, that's our fate,

we resigned to, guess since we first were here,

to the land, planet and so universe of expectations,

"expectations", a will and belief, but on ourself,

expectations that can never be met,

expectations that you only want to bet,

expectations that only go further, Away,

while it isn't wrong to have one,

but sure is last time we wished,

to smile back, to show affection,

to enjoy our being, to celebrate the moment,

and when you own one,

there's gluttony of misery,

of greed and jealousy, that breeds,

like a parasite it feeds, 

and hence, was a decision made,

consciously attempting an effort,

to search a land of no expectations,

not with expectation, but uncertain hope. 

Alone in company of myself

Alone in company of myself,

I am wailing to the patient walls,

which have sheltered me,

for all, I truly am,

For long, wandering in tomorrow,

as well yesterday but in today,

I look at roughened hands,

regretting what I never did,

Regretting my sense and myself,

I am lost in unclear dreams,

that had no beginning,

don't know of end.

Alas, I am lost, totally,

I weep. and cry for help,

from anyone who can hear,

and understand, the pain of lost,

To show me direction,

to help me build, and dream,

a dream, but to my dismay,

I found no one, and am alone,

Alone in company of myself.

At morning 0600 hours.

The tower clock strikes six. No, not to the musical phrase of tower clock ( someone busted it's musical nuisance:P ), but to unfailingly dutiful prayers and chants of panditji of shiva temple nearby , my sleep yields. From the neighboring flat I can hear , Mrs. Avasthi has already begun to bless humiliations and tantrums on Mr. Avasthi.  Poor Mr. Avasthi, I wonder when was last time he wished, "Good morning". The choir of birds is getting big, evident from the birdsong that is becoming only sweet and loud.

The air today is laced with uncommon fragrance of soil. I ponder, Why ? The mist seems to have blanket the world outside. A meager noise is disturbing the eerie calm of loneliness, that my room is engulfed in.  A sound, similar to one when a water drop bursts into water. Right there, down the pane, water droplets are trickling, merging and making pool. Each droplet that fell is now beyond distinction, loosing all it's identity and entity. Guess, it rained, while I was too lost in my dreams.

The guy from the past is smiling at me from the broken frame. I never understood, why? Whether he is mocking or saying out, "keep smiling, every pain will ease". Well, I decided to let it be. I shall know it, when I come across it, as they say, "your past never leaves you".

Ding-dong-ding-dong, my door-bell rings. Here comes my milk-man. Well friends, it's time I go. Have a nice day !!!



P.S - I request for your suggestions, the merit of which shall not go un-valued. Thank You, for your time :)

The lost sense of beauty !!!

As the sun rose in the eastern horizon, its rays touching every living souls, as the bird chirps, in joy of finding their way to destinations awaiting their arrival, awaiting life, there was a rose flower that finally blossomed, in my well tendered garden, that was wet in the early morning dew. 

It took eight weeks of patience and perseverance to grow it. Like a mother doing rituals for her child, who will carry forward her culture, who is form of herself and her values, after she materially vanishes into the lap of mother earth, I watered, manured the  soil, to grow this beautiful rose in my garden. It was tough, but the 8 weeks of character building. The rose that blossomed, wasn't any like other flowers, for it was my sweat and it was my fruit. With lots of care, felt between a mother and her baby, I tended it. I was hurt, when its thorns pierced, like a woman hurt when the baby in her womb kicks, but was happy for tomorrow there would be a rose blossoming, just like a woman who is realizing the motherhood. It rose, from a small seed, to a big shrub, spreading fragrance and beauty around, just like a baby that grew from embryo, to bring joys of no bounds to his/her creators, who endured pain to give him/her a life. It was symbolic. It was symbol of joy I got, of pain I took, of fruit I realized, when being patient and persistent. It was my joy, that I wished to share, but no one cared to take it.

But, the beautiful rose, was just a "r-o-s-e", to the people around, with "busy-life" and "high ambition". Said, they to me, "So what kid, it's just a rose ? Big deal ?", when I said, "There's a beautiful rose, that grew in my garden". Another gentleman, curiously staring at me from far corner, calls me, and when I say to him, "There's a beautiful rose, that I grew in my garden", inquired me, "What can I tell about rose ?". As I respond, "It's a flo . . " (intercepted), he cuts me, "it's a woody perennial of genus Rosa, a family withing Rosaceae. There are around 100 types . . . ", reciting wiki to the last line. These people in fine suits, sitting in back of chauffeur driven cars, wearing rolex watches, working on screen, with 100 and innumerable people, speaking language, that no third person, nor themselves could understand, seemed educated illiterates suddenly. These people know of hierarchy of rose, but do not have slightest idea about it. They don't know it's arresting and soothing fragrance that has ever been pleasing to anyone and everyone, it's shape, form, arrangement that always appealed. And, I pity rose, for it's to die. Not, that it lost it's fragrance or charm, but because people have forgot what "rose" is. And beauty depreciated to simple adjective. It's a sad, but a factual realization. 

But then I wish the day isn't too far, when I hear of rose as a flower, beautiful and appealing with everything that is about it.

From hopelessness to hope.

For a long time, I haven't been myself, as though non-existent. Thought, work, moments, and time, everything deserted me. Looked to the shadow, it already had it's back to me, but reluctantly being dragged. Everything was looking so dull, lifeless. The oxygen that I breathe, was toxic, poisoning every drop of blood flowing. It's something that I have never been at, anytime. Even in adversity, nothing ever was pointless and senseless to an extent that the existence be questioned. Every cry of help, was vanishing, like gold when put in mercury, amalgamated. It was as though I was standing in the middle of desert, on naked foot, and sun melting me in it's heat, ceasing to exist. Something was pushing me to edge. I was feeling as though cornered. Despite good and corrected vision, I couldn't see anything. Everything was invisible like in dark, or maybe, I have lost my sight. Not knowing, what better I could do, as I sat trying to gather myself, I find my cheeks gone wet. As my eyes float in the salty water, unaware, I dozed off. Reprieved.

I "had" a dream.

"It's not chaos, but more than it at the traffic signal. Cars in the front honking to nothing, and ones behind as well were honking. People seemed to be in a hurry, nonetheless were acting senseless, not realizing that honking won't change red into green, for another "blurred" seconds that it was due. As I sit in pleasure, spoiled by my luxuries, worrying about nothing, I see a kid. He was without an arm. He was cleaning glasses of cars. The people in the car, were cursing him, for cleaning their windscreen of-course, rather I say touching it. He requested that some change be spared to him, not that he was begging, but for work he did. He's turned away, while the driver is munching burger. He asks again, putting his soiled palms over starving stomach, gesturing that he's hungry. Nope, people weren't yielding, to an "arm-less" kid, doing something. They were too busy, honking, and cursing honkers. He runs away, not to dirty gunny bag lying on lane, his address, among the high buildings and buildings with mercs, but to another car. He does same, people keep doing same. As time is ticking, he's staying at a car, for even lesser time than at previous one.  And it's green, it's despair and dejection. He want's to cry, but then who will hear his cries, when there's none for his words. But, he doesn't let a tear or cry, that he is matured by the hard truth and cruelty of reality. Among noise of cars, wind-screens of some gleaming like new, thanks to him, he walks away from his work, from those gleams, without a complaint, not minding due credits. He's going to his small home, the gunny bag. He isn't cursing anything, his fate, or the people. The wind-screens, the gleaming ones, shining flashes of reflection on him, the least they could, thanking him and blessing him. 

Next day, he's doing same. Hope battling fiercely for itself against the giant hopelessness. 

Every day at that signal, I see him do the same. Never giving up on people, working for and living on rare breed of kind people. And I, yet with everything, am crying, about everything, giving up hope on, almost everyone and life . . . . . . "

A good dream, and I wake up.

The kid, never bothered about the lost arm, but thought about what he could with his one good arm. He didn't bother about people who couldn't spare a change, but was bothered about what he had to do to get it. He knew he cannot impact on people, but something he could do, that hopefully will impress upon them, is work, with all the resources he has. He did better than resigning himself to cause of lost arm, or fate that seemingly deserted him to misery. Deep down he knew, effort is all he could do, and he didn't give up on it, and was sure that it too wouldn't give up on him. He determinedly decided to keep up hope and faith, if he can on someone, and if no one, then on himself.

Hope is all I have to have, and work is all I have to do. So said to me, my conscience. A beautiful flower can't just wither away like that, and so cannot my beautiful life.