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.