TILL THE LAST DROP

Till the last drop of paint draws
The brushes won’t cross the line
Of hope and despair
The curvy innocence draws red
Still fresh, your smile dwells souls

A full stop for rest over
You are creek to jump into
The point on a circle called life
Bright strokes lit you alive
Setting forth a random array

No one tell what till you see the other side
Loose flakes fall from the sky
Struggling to form a life
Grey eyes covering the haze
Battered hands go up in sky
Folded in sigh

Hope against hope is yet to come
A season of cold is in full swing
Fallen leaves tranquilizes the streets
Crushed under the feet
Forays into a life of itself
Peachy with spots all over

Evolved is new time of the life
The perception never fades
Till the last drop of blood draws.

34 HOURS AT CHARBAGH

My good friend thought I was plainly joking when I reported to him about my stay at the Eleanor railway station of charbagh and he unwarrantedly offered a stay at his family house which is just a stone throw away from the passage that is less visited ,so nice of him, I would rather stay with myself alone why? Well that makes the experience complete without oneself needing any ease to chill and also making a company to our rich heritage of railways at least.
I checked into this enormously populous station with all the touchy feely crowd leaving no stone unturned in making one making a bad guess, with my good friend Rohit and so began our struggle through the dilapidated locales of the Ameenabad and nearby searching for a neat and clean hole in the wall, after several throws over we seemed to finally have hit the nail but only to be dispelled by the ever non-friendly locales and bad mouth hooligans walking the station and the suffocating locations. such a turn off! Finally I landed into a spacious and strikingly clean retiring rooms cum dormitory where my first impression was that of a grand Victorian lounges achingly poignant, to be seen in a classy movies or living out of some narrative. The Layout was simple with beds all lined up along the length of that space with desperately crisp sheets and pillows. there is too much of rush just outside of this room window making it look like an exodus.
The crony attendant was a lady with a rough neck and an interesting voice hoarse enough to keep off the unwanted travelers trying to barge in without a permit. She shoed away a lot of enquirers with a tone of a vamp in old hindi movies. Sure she was friendly. People here are from different groups and age mostly 40+ .

Travel is a basic realm of life which empowers our senses with real experiences desire to transform from one state of being to a higher degree of awareness, in all travel leads you to discover, share and most of all devise. The place is just a stop to connect further journey with the previous one. When stops become the focal points in journey they leave an interlude for a good part of the memory to preserve from all the other parts. Sashaying through the stops and halts makes all the difference in a well conducted travel experience.

My journey obviously had several stops since I boarded the train back to hostel but the moment where I lie right now is well poised to pluck a part that will be remembered by me for its simple being and an earnest two days, for I wanted to be here not because I had to but because I want to. I almost feel like a free bird jumping here and there without a single thread of social connections, too much absorbed in my own flight of thoughts and convictions, the loosely built dreams and broken efforts and more efforts coupled with my wows to see my dreams come through.

For the last seven days life has moved an inch closer to my sight my own reality exposing my naked central ideas to whom still cling to and my apathy of being what I mean to be, faring unprejudiced in this unpredictable life. All this time gave me an immense pleasure to walk free no strings attached.

THE OLD BOOK BAZAAR: WHERE JANE EYRE,KARL MARX AND ARUNDHATI LIVES

‘‘A book lover can travel the boundaries world over without moving an inch"

Picture this: books occupying almost every inch of the space available along the pedestrian on a stretch of more than 2 Kms on a Sunday afternoon simply makes for a visit from a booklover worth his salt. This is only one of its kind you can imagine or experience no matter how well you are travelled. The bizarre setting of the shops transcends you to a similar ecstasy that of a Kasbah in elegant landscapes of Morocco. The vendors are desperately trying to hand you almost whatever you ask for be it a preparatory rhyme or a book for the human anatomy, with a feigned perfection of that of a master librarian. Ask for a Jane Eyre and he will promptly hands you the hardcover classic from a 1960 publication and that too for just 100 bucks at maximum so that you just bite your tongue in sweet dismay of the unbelievable amount you just paid for a masterpiece. This is nowhere but the Old book Bazaar, daryaganj in picture for real long time now and though the times have battered the streets local administration plays mooted on the apathy of this landmark.
For a first time visitor this is a different place altogether, with a tonnes of stacks of books scattered onto the ground in makeshift columns as they practically begged us to be bought and land out of the misery. Bookstalls too busy churning out the books at any rate is equipped with experienced people of significant amount of titles and the reading trends. Just a curious eye and you can spot numbers of volumes ever printed and that again on an unbelievably small price.
The Sunday mornings here are bustling with activities of shoppers and bookies pitching in from different parts of the world digging for a title or two .Generic crowds here is common to spot going for anything that’s classy and old. I spotted some of the sepia tinted hard bound novels, rare works of all timers like Thackeray, Shakespeare, Milton, and Dickens lay on the sidewalk in a silence as if they were shouting for attention that was already theirs. I bought John Keats- the complete collection of the poems, Karl Marx, Thackeray, and it was a sense of possession of a great value. And adding to that it set free the volumes off the century old dust and dampness of a hush corner. The cover, pages and the hard bindings makes them for the breathless beauty they are only to be stocked in the library of great care an importance.
I, first, had been there at the age 15 for my textbooks with a cousin who always bombarded my imagination with idea of modest pricing and most of all the great titles. I said “OK so when I get to set up my own library I’’ put the name s of this place in my frames”. At that time I only walked these streets fir my texts or some random stuffs that are abundantly available on the streets there (mind you there is much more to explore there).
Some old faces whom I practically have memorized still sells the same thing and once I get to interview a guy, a newcomer to the scene, only of 15 named Ali casually asking him originally used classics and he was suddenly got more interested cutting me short “i don’t have these titles right now but if you confirm me the details the next time you visit here I’ll surely help with that” said he. But that clearly was for business adding to the details prices will be altered for the exclusive titles. And I am looking forward to hand him my list the next time I visit the place.
To buy or just to unwind at my own ease I come here whenever I can it sets me free from this society that is increasingly being intolerably hypocritical and let me be me, then I go back and being a part of the circle having no ends.

A BULLET IN THE VIEL

The romantics of the age when Ameer Khusro mesmerized the times with the eloquent honey tipped Verses transporting the audience to a new experience, the zero-journey to one’s personal side. When social boundaries melted to give way to a society which was not priggish in its essence. That was the era of greener pastures for the post modern fanatics and there are several lessons to be learnt from the way social threads were fabricated to pave way for harmony.
We have arrived in the age of neo-science and pre defined boundaries, amidst the chaos that is incorrigible, where life look for alternatives be it a humane bonding, the most trivial of all or everything else that is obvious. We love ourselves to the extent forcing us to view through a glass biased to reflect a brighter picture turning our eyes grey to the co-existence of rest of others. And then we do things which cut the flesh deeper than the knife.
Living in a free republic my right is to speak up, the equal opportunities or fairplay.Being taken for granted or having been forced to step back from what we deserve is the most horrendous crime a state can possibly commit. This is in urgent need to be wiped off the existence if we as society are to survive the going onslaught biased on religion. One may ask what is it to be the way we are. “It’s not much different than it used to be when we were brothers “I may quip in.
The crumbs of today, when global sensibilities are at a debate, yet mooted, are only signs of our insecurity and the how conceited we have become. Time check now!! We ain’t here for too long friends!!We can just see it through or shrug that’s everything behind us.
At the pace life expects us to catch on we surely have option than to turn non-feeling android operated by a programmed features like a television controlled by a remote ,like a man bent on his desires. We can switch off the television but we cannot stop us to get hooked on. A gesture of a smile when a stanger spots another one in the eye is now rare. A little effort will let us know what it is to be like what we are! And we can get answers that are but obvious.

A sunday afternoon and a cutting chai..

Breezing though my morning share of newspapers,a news declaring the coming of age of artwork what might someday could have reffered to have been kitcsh and grotesque now is revelling in the glory of modern culture that is shelter to the most deserving artforms these days.

i picked my cuppa sipped it half empty and steered clear of the page and i encounters a ruthless murder of journalism in name of commercial paper.The author of the article failed to appreciate even the smallest of the individual sensibilities while declaring loudly"the gang has arrived,you get ready to be massacred".Plainly i stand against cheapest of the journalism standards that are being aired 24*7 without knowing much the craving for real spiritual versions.

My cup was near its end and i just turned over to a newspiece saying "goodbye,wallstreet".Begging for a satire i found myself liking, i frowned at the hint of editing.

I am now about to end this romantic read and bid goodbye to some "wannabes good for nothing crappy papers".In the end it was a more balanced way of spending an afternoon.