The Wall

The Pirate

2011-09-21T03:05:00.001-07:00

When will the Moon turn Blue,
I've been waitin' with a gaze
They say Tomorrow, its gonna be OK,
But these shoes just too worn to dance again

Its gettin warm, Cut me a slice, of your shadow
Oh yeah, you the Giant, you the Lion, the King of Hopeless Fairytales

When will this brine turn to beer,
I've been waitin' with a gaze
They say Tomorrow, we celebrate
But these shoes just too worn to dance again

I don't seem to wear my hat,
I sail without my lucky mask
There ain't no promise to break
Pull the trigger, walk the plank

Will I come home tomorrow,
She's been waitin' with a gaze
And they say Tomorrow, we shall set this ship ablaze
But these goddamn shoes, better be new when I dance again

The Potion

2010-01-27T13:24:00.000-08:00

2 spoon Optimism, 1 teaspoon Will, mix well and heat till Sleep evaporates, add a hint of Excitement and bottle it after everything cools down - for later use, or for nightly abuse if you are of the Repetitive kind..

The Golden Ball

2009-10-03T23:18:00.000-07:00

So they gave him a golden ball and he held it tight in his tiny hands. Then they all gazed at him. Some with smiles of achievement, some plain curious. The little boy, as awestruck as a penguin in a Saharan caravan, could’t take all that attention, started gazing into the ball instead.
Unaware of what it would do to him, the boy started to admire the glistening ball. He then held it close to his heart, eyes filled with joy, as if he found someone, he never had… he would then start walking, maybe away from them. For a while they seemed to follow him, but then it became too generic to follow him and the numbers slimmed. The boy walked to places, where ever his bare feet would take him, all the while he was gazing in the ball… may be talking to the ball… he had no one else to talk to nor one to talk about but the ball… he would find new followers to the newer places he would go. They all love to see someone so spiritually connected to his possessions, don’t they? Pleases their long ignored feeling called imagination and may I say ambition? None so compassionate though towards the little boy…
For the one that knows no fear… for the one who dares to gaze into the light and talks of worlds beyond… for the one who reads their past differently… they always have a golden ball. To tie him to the ground, to make him lose himself in its glaze, so that they all can tell their children, not to be like the one who has the golden ball…

The Return of Margoth

2008-11-15T00:03:00.001-08:00

In His Thraldom I shall Ride Again,
Wingskins I shall Dawn from Beastial Remains.

His Light For Ages we preserved inside these Bloodstained Walls,
I shall bring back from the Mountain Slopes when the Night Falls

Hardened through Hatred, Swords shall tonight become our Hands,
Soon his Light shall spread through all of the Human Lands

Grim Shuns through Warpaint over my Sons’ Faces,
With Bare Fists we shall bring down the Fort Walls of the Holy Races

Urukhai and Foul Beasts Alike take their Lives Oath,
Tonight as We Await the Return of our Savior, Margoth!

The Flag

2008-05-28T02:15:00.000-07:00

Watches closely, as his mother swindles it. Saffron water in the bucket besides her. A night, where the dawn doesn’t seem to have arrived whenever you open your eyes and with closed eyes you see the dreams of the day ahead. Soon after she is done with keeping in his bag, she goes to bed… not before kissing her son on his forehead. Shaven in the morning, with the echoes of mantras that may not be deciphered by his innocent ears… And the smoke of dhupaas so thick, that his eyes turned wet.

The dawn, came a bit early on that day. But not before, he was awake already. The bag, white, made of cloth… but not old… a custom made bag for the day… As he wears his saffron clothes after a bath by the well. His mother is feeding him the sweet, made of all that she could find in her house… but yet he eats , with joy… But he doesn’t smile… not today… The mantras resume, as one of the old men chanting them, comes near the boy. He has a copper kalash with dhupa inside it, a haze of smoke, he walks past through it. He moves his hand in front of the kid, as if to draw a circle, with that kalash held in his strong bare hands. The kid watches, not with curiosity alone but with pride… that it is his opportunity… Ravi, Shashi, Agni… all the three forms of the same eternal God…. All must be worshipped and be made happy… And so he begins. With a stick as his walking support and his bag around his neck and covering his back. He is going to walk alone… the journey he must complete… the mantras get louder, from the window of the house his grandmother watches… as his grandfather plays the traditional percussion “ghatttam” in the living room. As other drummers join in… And the Brahmins, who were awaiting this moment, take the Shankhaas and the Shankhanaad so deep as if it would reach the heavens. The boy walks on… he is not even supposed to look back, but even thought doesn’t touch him to do so… as he is excited about the journey ahead.

He reaches the shore… the shore of the sea from where they came… ‘they” who his father fought all his life… and gave his life for his land… He stands in the small boat that was left for him… he then gets out of it… for a moment he forgot his lessons... the ones that his father taught… then he throws his bag in the boat… pushes in the sea… water is shining like silver… he stands in its glaze for a while… just as if he is not going to complete what he started… but then he runs for a short few steps, through that water… it was a bit warm… and then jumps into the boat. Pushes his stick into the sea-shore sand below and uses it to push his boat into water… And then he rides on. Holding on to the stick and head held high… wind fluttering his vastra… eyes towards his destination…

The fort. The same fort that his ancestors built, with toil and protected with pride… the fort that stands in the sea, overlooking all of their villages on the shore and like a father gives them early warnings of storms to come… and the worse… The fort, his destination…

He gets down by the shore of the sand which made the fort’s island base. As he faces the tall walls, the walls his great grandfathers built… bringing in stones weighing more than an a bull, in their small boats… and then raising them with bare hands… And the anchors… huge in the shape of the tops one would play as a kid with…

He then enters through the main gate, left open… rusted… for years now… after they lost the battle… and the fort… The fort, an abandoned treasure… the conquerors fear of the curse of the fort would have them… But they fear more of the flag…

He goes then to the market place inside the fort, and through it to the palace… and to its vast terrace… now deserted… Wild climbers make the palace home… He goes to the staircase that takes from the terrace to the hill top… So he reaches… the place, tallest in the sea… he could see all of his village from there… he could imagine his mother’s anxious eyes waiting to watch this, as they all would have gathered now in the temple… And then he takes the cloth, swindled inside his bag… saffron bright… with golden border… and he hoists it on his stick, the same stick that guided him all the way… not a sign of fear nor tiredness on his face… as he holds his flag high and starts running from the hill top… The bells in the temples of the shore villages echo as Shankhanaad joins them… and the man in green robes, with his white cap and beard… sees the flag on the fort… in awe he stands… as he knows… its not by forgetting his own legends he will worship his new god…

स्वस्तिक

2008-05-24T04:19:00.000-07:00

अर्थ समजून घेणे ही एक प्रथा आहे. अर्थ लावणे मात्र जरा जपूनच करावे लागते. नाही म्हणजे तसा "अर्थ लावणे" हा शब्दप्रयोग सुद्धा कधी कधी वर्जित आहे. पण समजून घेणे कधी कधी जमत नाही. पटत नाही. कधी समजून घ्यावेसेच वाटत नाही. मग अर्थ महित करुन घ्यायचा प्रयत्न...

'स्वस्तिक'. एका बिन्दुतुन निघालेले चार काट्कोन. 'स्व' पासून आरम्भ होणारे विशेष-नाम. पण, 'स्व' म्हणजे स्वस्तिकाचा केन्द्रबिन्दु का?

आणि त्यापासून सुरु होणार्या चार दिशा. काही काट्कोनात तर काही... विरूद्ध. दिशा कोणतीही असू दे, एकदा दिशा पकडली तर तीच चालणे भाग. परत जरी यावेसे वाटले तरी येतो परत 'स्व' कडेच.

आणि प्रत्येक दिशेला एक वळण. तेही काट्कोनात. वळण घेऊन पुढे जाणे वा परत 'स्व' कडे येणे हेच दोन पर्याय. वळण घेतले तरी काय... मार्ग तोच.

आणि 'अस्तिक'. ईश्वरामध्ये विश्वास ठेवणारा. ईश्वरामध्ये विश्वास ठेवून चारातल्या एका दिशेला पाउल टाकणारा. अपूर्ण-पूर्ण च्या भोउतिक व्याख्या ओलान्डून अविरत श्रद्धा जोपासणारा. ज्या दिशेला पाउल टाकेल, तिकडे ईश्वर शोधणारा.

किती मर्यादित वाट्ते 'स्व' ची व्याख्या. फक्त मी, बाकि कहिच नाही. 'अस्तिक' मात्र जगद्व्व्यापी ईश्वरा प्रमाणेच नाना सन्ज्ञा असणारा नाना दिशेला आपला प्रकाश घेऊन जाणारा.

'स्व' जेव्हा मोठा होतो, तेव्हा 'अस्तिक' ही आपले तेज विसरतो. मग दिशा कोणतीही असू दे, 'स्व' फक्त स्वार्थ पाहतो. स्वार्थ शोधतो. आणि 'अस्तिक' त्याचा गुलाम बनतो. श्रद्धा कर्म्कान्ड होते. धर्माभिमान, परधर्मद्वेश बनतो. 'स्वस्तिक' घेऊन बेताल नाझीवाद पसरतो.

'दिशा चारच, पण टोकेरी. असत्य हेच सामर्थ्य बनू पहात असलेल्या जगात, भुमिका ही बद्लताहेत. एक दिशा धरून चालणे नफा-तोट्याच्या समीकरणात बसत नाही. मग स्वस्तिका'चे रूप कोण जोपासणार...

'स्व' पासूनच सुरुवात. अहम एवढा प्रचन्ड कि सर्व काहि 'स्व' पासूनच सुरु व्हावे आणि 'स्व' लाच येऊन मिळावे. पण अन्त 'स्व' मध्येच, अन्त फक्त 'स्व' चाच. 'अस्तिक' अमरच असतो ...

The Story

2008-05-17T07:31:00.000-07:00

The Stories, I started writing about You
And the Stories, I have been making about Me

Like a Fascination, So True to be a Creation
And the mingling, of the Stars in the Night Sky

Its so easy, to Give In
And its So Hard, to Give It All

All the Stories, I have been told
And the Story, that We are...

And the Words Again

2008-04-02T12:02:00.000-07:00

“So they make you stand in a line and then they do what? They send you somewhere?” “Oh No No No, they put us in lines alright, then they just keep us there” “So you stay in those boxes or lines whatever, and when do you get out?” “Out? We are already out, that’s how we got into the boxes” “No No I mean, how you get out of the boxes?” “You never get out of the box, brother” “Oh I see… hey then how are you here?” “Oh me, oh well, I am not who you thought I am” “You are not?” “I am not.” “So the ‘You’ is still there?” “Yes” “There in the box?” “There in the box” “Then what are you?” “Well… I don’t know” “How you got here man?” “Why dont you tell me first? How you got here?” “I was heard” “You were heard… hmm” “And you?” “I was read” “But you said, you were out that’s how you were put in the lines and blah blah blah… but now I see you here. Inside” “I am going out” “Going out?” “Yea” “That sounds exciting” “Nah its not, I am gonna get written” “Oh… so you going to the boxes” “for life man” “ohh… hey wait, but why it cant be that… like how you were read… why you cant be just spoken or written and still be here?” “nah, you don’t understand. People forget what they say and sometimes what they write…” “oh, that’s strange… how does that happen?” “they kill us when they want to forget something” “are you kidding me?” “no… what’s your name?” “Innocence… what’s yours?” “Love”

The Cutting

2007-12-29T23:32:00.000-08:00

When Ramesh would pour it from the kettle, into the glass cup… He would hold the kettle high and bring it closer to the cup and again take it aback… The mist that would cover the top walls of the cup… And the white, thin, steamy strands flying free into air, rising from the brown tea in that cup… sweet like the jaggery that they used to bring to my dad’s factory… The fragrance it would bring early in the morning, or in the dull afternoon or even thoughtless evening…

The glass cup, is the one I used to be amazed at… it had those straight dents made on it, never counted, but same on every glass. Those would get curvy just before the thick top wall… Guys from Engineering College in front of our tea stall would hold the cup, like some scientific instrument. I had once been to a chemistry lab, when I used to go to school… They had those test-tubes held tightly in rusty metal claws… these engineers would hold the cup by making a clamp using the thumb and the index finger… then there was Nari Chacha… He would hold the hot cup, his bare palm embracing it all around… he used to work Municipal Corporation… a sweeper.

Nari Chacha used to come to my Dad’s factory… Dad used to make the finest… hooch… And the butterflies… I would play with them… In the green fields… I would steal a little from the dad’s kerosene can like containers for hooch… then lying down in our hut, I would be running… in those green fields… it was so lovely…

But now everything seems so bland… The fragrance of tea is so unfulfilling… the jaggery is so tasteless… I don’t see those butterflies anymore… the night before, I don’t know where I slept… gotta make it to the tea stall… to beg Ramesh to let me wash some cups… to serve some tea… I just need 40 rs… to buy me the white powder…

I hate sunlight in my eyes… reminds me of the torch’s heat I had used for my dad’s funeral rites…

The Pinocchio

2007-12-10T07:12:00.000-08:00

He used to make the boy read a whole book… often a novel, and he would expect the boy to answer anything from that book… from the leanest clues. But for how long, I would wonder… how long would the boy keep on answering his questions given that he gave almost no time to think… But it went on, longer than I had expected… The stack of books that he would bring for the boy to read, kept on growing… he would bring in more books than the boys read the last time…

It went on; the boy would answer questions from the books he read long back… often the boy would not even wait for the clues to get over… that made him happy or greedy rather… For the boy, I would wonder, if there’s joy in reading the books that he would stack up for him… or would the boy have the only joy when answering his questions…

Among these books and between him and the boy, I have seen it coming… I have seen the distinction between the lines from one book to the other becoming thin and thin… given that the boy remembers the words in the books so well, the excitement that those words in a new book can bring was replaced by methods rather to remember those words… to throw them words at him, when he questions… I have seen the building of a trust between him and the boy… For how long, I would wonder, he would persist on his stringent questions… the boy would always answer, one day he must be convinced about the boy’s abilities… and he was convinced…

And then; then its all between the boy and the books… I have seen it coming as well, the building of overconfidence… the boy knows the books already read so well, the boy doesn’t feel the need to read the same words in the new books… the boy would sometimes even wouldn’t read words in the letters I would write to him… or would he? The overconfidence made the boy play the one role he never did… the boy was very much prepared for the work he was going to take, the work to teach boys younger than him… to teach them to read those same books he once read… but never the boy was prepared for lying… his answers always had to be the truth, as he would have read in the book… but now when he questions and gives the leanest clues to his students… he knows, he can only limit himself to those books… I wonder when the boy would go outside his boooks, the Pinocchio inside him might have to hide his nose...

The Statue

2007-11-14T12:18:00.000-08:00

“The Police took him in the van, the Retard who sits at the Square… he must have done it last night. Creep…” the shop shutters were opening, as I heard this from one of the shop owners. Couldn’t stop to find out much, had to go to office. The shutters went down today morning as soon as, someone spotted a shoe-garland hanging from the neck of the statue at the square.

The statue had been there, standing, since I don’t know when. There’s board under it, telling the date of inauguration, but less I know about the man whose statue stands there and the lesser I care… Whom I know for sure, was the Retard, who used to sit there. He wouldn’t talk to anyone, or yell at people like most of them do. He wasn’t harmful either. He would just sit there; some local shop owners would offer him food. Never saw him do something that I recall now. Since I started going to school passing that square, was told that he’s a Retard, and he’s dangerous. When I was in school, I used to watch some school kids, who used to make fun of him. I saw some of them today, pelting stones at shops and shouting bad words. They are all into social service now.

That evening, I came back from office, a bit late than usual. I saw the Retard, seating behind the statue, as he does everyday. I went towards him; he was beaten up badly… but was composed as he looked at me and smiled, as if he was greeting me. I felt the need to take him for some medical help, I said, “Come, let’s go to a doctor. You are injured” He came along with me, and my family doc nursed his wounds.

I asked him, where he would go now. To the statue, he replied. He continued, “My father sculpted it. When I was in my mom’s womb, he finished it. He died of cancer. He told me to take care of the statue, before he died….” I assured him, that there are people in Municipal Corporation who will clean the statue, and will take care of it… at least once a year.

“You don’t understand”, he said, “The old grandfather is just standing here with one stick in his hand and wearing a dhoti. In shine and in rain, and in the cold nights of winter… who will help him up, if he falls down?” I looked in his eyes, there was determination that I can not persuade…

The Board

2007-09-03T08:20:00.000-07:00

The day would begin for him at the black board. He would dust it clean, wiping off even the tiniest mark of chalk powder that’s left on the board from the previous day’s class. When he was young, his hands wouldn’t reach the top of the board. He would take a stool to help him. Sometimes when someone has kept the stool out of his sight, he would stand on his toes, make his hands reach the board’s top as if the hand was a long stick. The chalk powder, at those times, would fall in his eyes as he would write. He would then make his eyes small as those of someone from Japan and he would go on with his writing. He would always write in his beautiful big letters. All in CAPS.

Don’t remember exactly when, but I think it was the Third standard, when he was given the work of writing the “Thought for the Day”, for the month that followed. They would usually assign it as per your number in the roll call muster. From that day onwards, he would come to the class before anyone else did and would open his small notebook. He would then dust the board clean and write the thought he would have noted down in that notebook. The next day, he would do the same. And the next…

I remember, I was in Tenth and it was the last day of the school. We had all gathered early in the morning, to play one last game of football together. A bit too early rather. He came on his bicycle, when we had stopped for a breather. He entered the class and went up to the board. I followed him, without letting him know of it. I noticed, somebody had written foul words about a teacher in shabby handwriting on the board. He opened his notebook, it was looking very old but I could see that still all its pages were in tact. He opened one of the last few remaining pages. He had a look at the board, and started rubbing it clean. Those heretic words had been written using a wet chalk, so he was finding it difficult to wipe off. He opened his water bottle and sprinkled some water on the board, it was easy to clean it then. The board was looking brand new again, he then had a look in his notebook and wrote the thought for that day. For the last day of the school.

I don’t remember if I ever wrote a thought for the day. My roll number happened to be one count after his. Maybe he never wanted to give anyone else a chance, so that he could be the teachers’ pet year after year. That’s how we used to see it… Or may be he took the job that was given to him, to write thoughts, as an honor or may be he took it as a responsibility. I never took his thoughts seriously, but I never forgot to read them. As I grew up, I found them all one by one occurring to me, around me… His thoughts? We used to think he would copy it from some book, someone told me that his Dad used to write him a thought every night in his notebook of thoughts. He never would write those with a wet chalk. Even when he was young and the powder would fall in his eyes. Who knows, he may not be smart enough !! But, I remember almost everyday one or the other teacher had to wipe the thought off when there was no space left on the board for a new question for the test or for a maths equation… It would have been a waste of time for the teacher if the thought was written using a wet chalk… I don’t know what he’s doing these days. May be he’s still writing, or may be he’s just cleaning up things, someone messed up…

आश्रित

2007-08-13T09:40:00.000-07:00

साठा पैकी तेवीस मी पाहिली. उरलेल्या सदतीसामध्ये काय होऊन गेले, तेही मी शिकलो. "इतीहास" लिहायला गेलो म्हणून हातावर पट्टी बसली, मग "इतिहास" लिहित गेलो. मराठी शब्द हे जसे उच्चारतो तसेच लिहायचे असतात, ह्या वाक्याला पूजून इतिहास पण तसाच वळणदार अक्षरांमध्ये लिहित गेलो. पण ते शब्द तसेच का उच्चारायचे, कधी कुणाला विचारले नाही. इतिहास, खरच तसा होता, असे मानून चाललो...
सातवी 'ब' मध्ये होतो तेव्हा, दूसर्या वर्गात असलेल्या जोशी, खरे, आपटे नावाच्या मुलांवर माझ्या वर्गातले हसायचे. "भांडखोर भट्टांच्या बरोबर आपण नाय खेळणार" असा माझा मित्र बोलला की मी ही त्यांच्या बरोबर हसायचो, का ह्सायचो माहित नाही... पण सगळे हसतात म्हणून मी पण...आठवी 'अ' मध्ये आलो. तेव्हा जोशी, आपटे माझे मित्र झाले, त्यांच्या बरोबर हसायचो, ते म्हणायचे "गान्धीला अजिबात अक्कल नव्हती". वाचलेला इतिहास बहुतेक तेव्हा मला आठवत नसेल. इतिहास घोकून मार्क्स मिळवणार्‍यांबरोबर शिकलो होतो मी. मला सामाजिक शास्त्रात का नाही एवढे चांगले मार्क्स येत नाहीत, असा प्रश्न बाबा विचारायचे...
एके दिवशी टीव्ही वर, भगवे कपडे घातलेल्या कुणाला तरी मशिदीवर हातोडा घालताना बघितले. हिंदुत्वाचा तो विजय होता असेही कानावर पडले. घराच्या दरवाजावर "गर्व से कहो, हॅम हिंदू हे" असा स्टिकर लावला, तेव्हा बहूतेक विसरलो होतो, हिंदू - मरण नाही शरण देणार्‍याचा धर्म आहे...
एकदा एन.सी.सी. च्या सरांनी विचारले, "तुमच्या मधले किती आर्मी जॉइन करणार?" हात वर करणारा मी पहिला होतो. दहावी झाल्यावर सर्व म्हणाले आर्मी एवढा चांगला करीअर ओप्शन नाही, फार रिस्क आहे... मी ही हो म्हणालो...
आश्रित होतो तेव्हा मी. आता सुद्धा आश्रित आहे. कधी माणसाला त्याच्या समाजा वरून ओळखणार्यांचा. कधी पाठ करून मार्क्स मिळवणार्यांचा. एकदा सुद्धा, प्रश्न विचारला नाही. पण आता वाट सोडून पुढे जाता येणार सुद्धा नाही. म्हणून अजूनही आश्रित आहे मी, ए.सी. कारमध्ये बसून ओफीसला जाताना, साठी उलटली तरी सायकल वरुन कामाला जाणार्‍या वृद्धावर, कारच्या रस्त्यामधे आला म्हणून डाफरणार्‍या कालीग्सचा. मॉल मध्ये बसून भारताची ईकोनोमी स्टडी करून झाल्यावर, पार्किंग लोट बाहेर भीक मागत असलेल्या पाच वर्षाच्या मुलाची घाण वाटणार्‍या मित्रांचा. आश्रित आहे मी, "सेफ" आणि "सेटल्ड" जगण्याच्या मनोवृत्तीचा. आश्रित आहे मी, साठी पूर्ण होत असताना, मागे जे राहीले त्यांना विसरणार्‍या भारताचा...

The Glimpses

2007-08-02T21:29:00.000-07:00

It’s on my wrist today, the thing I was so amazed at, as a kid. It’s still the same, it still walks the same distance, and it still moves its hands. I remember how I would get touched by an unparallel excitement, for that moment… The moment, on which I could get a glimpse of, the minute hand moving one step, into the new minute. Or even better, that of an hour hand…

I remember, how sometimes I would sit in front of it and wait for it to happen. I would concentrate on its hour hand, as if it’s the only thing that mattered. Sometimes, no matter how hard I tried, I wouldn’t get that chance to freeze my eyes upon that hand, for that one glimpse. Don’t know how, but time just seemed to past… Maybe I wasn’t concentrating that well or maybe it was just eluding me that it never happened. I would get upset then… very upset. Then on some rare occasions, I would just look at it and voila, it would take place, that very moment!! I would try very hard to remember that picture as if to record that glimpse into my mind, it would make me forget all the waiting I did for it on some other day… But, it would bring me back, to where I started; I would want it to happen for me, again. Rather without waiting for it, or maybe when I would start thinking, I had waited just enough…

All this while, I never seemed to care about the second-hand, who would be moving and would be there to give me a glimpse of its move into the new second, every now and then… Maybe he was caring enough, but I wasn’t. Maybe he had to keep doing it, despite not getting my attention, because if he wouldn’t move, nor would the other two. But I ignored him, as I wanted more and more of the hour hand.

Maybe the hour hand didn’t know me well; maybe he had too many others to remember names of. Maybe I was just ignorant, when he really came for me, or maybe he never came. Today as I walk, I just want things my way, just like the way I wanted to have the glimpse of hour hand’s movement, whenever I would take a look. I don’t think about any of these things I did as a kid, just like the way I didn’t think of second hand much. Nor do I think about those today, who walked with me then and after, only to teach me walking…

2007-07-30T07:01:00.000-07:00

The Matchboxes

When I was young, I used to pour them all on the floor. Then I would make them all lie flat on ground, make sure no one’s over the other. I remember, once I had made shape like a car, then a snake, a house… using those cool matchsticks.

But today, I am trying to make a palm, palm of someone who made them. I still remember, he would try to sneak a few boxes in his pockets. I wouldn’t know, what he used to do with them. Then once I went to his house, It was an evening that belonged to the storm and the rain.

There was no electricity in his house, a hutment… Dripping rainwater made its way through the roof and into the utensils his mother would keep on the floor to collect it. In the corner a lamp was fighting with the wind that came in as I opened the door, and a couple of flies on the verge of doing the daredevil self-immolation act into its fledgling flame. The only thing that I still remember apart from their faces, with eyes seeking something which I could never give, as I had nothing but money… what I remember, was the place to worship they had in that small hut… I remember, it was a place where they had kept the idol of the god they worship. They had made sure, there was no rainwater coming over their god’s small temple. They had kept it so clean, that no pest could come there.

Before I knew, my palms had touched each other to praise the god in that holy place. I was absolutely amazed at the temple more than the god’s statue inside. The temple was made by that kid, said his mother. I looked at the lad and smiled with utter respect in my mind. He smiled back at me.

I had to leave then, somehow we didn’t talk much. Its not been very long, but I just don’t recall much… Today as I lit the lamp in front of my god’s idol, I wish that matchstick helps bringing light to that kid’s hut. Because, he no longer will… Maybe the god that he placed in that beautiful temple he made with his own hands, helped him save so many lives in the fire at the factory today, finally took the kid away from his mother and closer to him…

I just wish to make his palm’s shape, with those matchsticks on a paper. I do not know, if his mother still prays to the god in the temple that her son made with his own hands, and with the same matchboxes and matchsticks, he used to steal from where he worked… I do not know, if there is a temple holier than the other, or there’s a god different than other, because as I lay those matchsticks on the paper, I only remember the boy’s face as he denied the money I offered… I remember, his smile when I was moved by his temple… I remember his trust in the god, who can not stop the will of the rich who employ a kid’s hand to make them fancy matchboxes to collect and matchsticks to lit their cigarettes…

2007-07-17T03:34:00.001-07:00

The Line
I used to teach him things, he would use in his school, before he actually started going to school. I felt, it would prepare him, for what’s he going to study there.

For this chap, even holding a chalk was like holding a thing from a fantasy novel coming to real. He would stare at it for long after holding it in his tiny fingers. Sometimes he would hold it tight, so much that I had tough time rubbing the chalk’s dust off his fingertips. Sometimes, he would just hold it softly, but not so soft that the chalk would fall.

He then would like to get the feel of the chalk’s shape, at least that’s how I could analyze it… He would twist the chalk around itself, turn it upside down. I made sure that I was giving him a chalk of a different color every time when we met. He would be amazed equally regardless the chalk’s color, that I would ask him to hold, he would welcome it with the same wide open eyes, gazing at the chalk.

He had a black rectangular slate. I though of giving him a board, as for a child of his age, I was expecting him to make the walls of the house, his canvass… But he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t draw a thing, unless I was in front of him. Sometimes the slate would be left with no space to draw anymore, sometimes it was just me, who would stop him, but I don’t recall a single day, when he stopped, by himself… until that day.

Until that day, I don’t recall a single picture, or the imagery he would draw on the slate, picture – too orthodox a word to use… Never in the worlds he would draw on that small slate, you would see things that are around you. Nor, you would see things that he was growing up with…

That day, instead of handing him over the slate, I took it in my hands. Held it in my left hand, in my right hand was a chalk, white – conventional white. I drew a straight, vertical line, on the right hand side of the slate. I carefully left a lot of space on the left side of the line I drew. Then I gave him, the slate and the chalk. For the first time, instead of staring at the chalk, he was staring at the slate. Hopefully, he was staring at the line, or maybe he was staring in the empty side of the slate… Then I asked him to draw a line just like the one I had drawn for him. The next moment, he drew it. There was a smile on my face as he was looking at me with his big beautiful eyes. He then handed me over the slate, and the chalk. And then he kept staring at me… waiting for me to ask him to draw, something else, from the little that I could draw on a slate of everything around me or maybe of the things I could remember myself drawing, when I was not drawing what was around me…

2007-07-11T21:47:00.001-07:00

The Blade
The blade that my father gave me, I was too young then… It was so sharp, could cut through years of love easily, and in a blink of an eye could erase memories of a lifetime…

He asked to hold it in my hand, the glaze lit my face, so bright that my eyes couldn’t see… But I could hear him tell to me and to the god that resides in the temple, the blade shall now be mine and after me, my son’s.

Today I hold that blade again, rusted now, but still the one; still can guide hordes of mindless hate… I don’t quite know, why I must ride, but it was the call of our old and I must obey…

The blade, that once brought the freedom of our land, freedom we love so much to hold it in our fists… So I ride again, beyond the hills on which I played as a child, and towards the plains where children of our enemies play, and to burn the farms where they spent their quiet lives…

The blade, that was forged to destroy the evil that ruled from our palaces, shall now satisfy the greed that now rests within our hearts…

All Hail…

2007-07-10T21:28:00.000-07:00

The Words

“So, where have you been these days?” I asked. “Everywhere”, he said. “Sometimes, I almost reach there, but before I know of it, I am just lost”, he went on. I then thought to myself, does he really know where he has to go? I thought of asking him first, but I just didn’t ask him… But then he continued, I felt like he somehow was answering the questions I had, or was he just adding some more of them to my list…

“You know, sometimes I really don’t care, what I am going to do, when I reach there, but I just want to get there, before… before getting called back…”, he sighed. “I even remember those times, when some guys, who were not true enough, or… or rather were some made-up-for-the-occasion kind of fellows, being pushed, and I bet they reached there.” I felt like asking him, why he doesn’t go back and ask, that why wasn’t he sent. But I just nodded. I was afraid, maybe he would really try that, and it would all just come back to me…

“So all you guys, what do you do, if you reach there?” I asked. “I am not so sure, but there’s a way it is all supposed to work… Usually if a group of guys makes it there, the other group in the line gets ready… it’s like, if you were not on the list for the first time, you may never get a chance to go there. But that possibility is not like totally denied, the kind of guys coming from the other side can make the list to change. Guess what, sometimes the guys coming from there actually tell, who needs to be there on the list, but as I said before, those deserving fellows don’t just get the chance…” He said, and he went on again “Once you reach there!! Wow!! It’s a new place, a new work, especially if no one who bears the same name as yours, and has been there before, wow, that can create a whole new universe of possibilities!!”

Then suddenly, I don’t know, maybe I just didn’t think of the consequences this one time, I just shot it at him as soon as it came to me, “So how does it feel like, to be a word?”
I waited long enough for his answer, but I never heard it nor could I even meet him after that, may be his answer was just called off or may be he reached where he really wanted to be…

2007-07-09T21:16:00.001-07:00

The Shadow

Sometimes the things I did, under the cover of dark, the people I met there,
I would think no one could see them
But maybe I was wrong…
So I go back to the dark, to see if they are still there
Don’t know what am I scared of more, is it to see their faces in the dark
or to find no one there…

I used to share my secrets with the ones in dark, often I cried, thought never the light would see my tears
Wasn’t so sure, if those who live in the light would let me walk with them, if they knew of my secrets
I would walk facing the ground…

But now I feel, the light knew about me all this while, more I tried to hide, more it saw clearly. Now I know, darkness walks with me in the light, talks to the light of the tears I hide behind my fake smile, looks at those of the light who I wish to know more than myself and still try to avoid them…

So, I go back and scream at those in the dark. “Are you still chasing me in the light? Are you hiding inside my shadow?...”

The Wall

2007-07-09T02:19:00.000-07:00

Those days he would stand most of the time on a ladder, placing bricks on his wall. I still remember when he started, can’t tell really when, but when he started, the wall wasn’t so tall and neither was he, so alone. I am not too sure, if he started building it from where someone left it, or he was the one who laid the first brick, brick-by-brick it has grown so tall now, I doubt if my voice would reach the other side.

I was just another stare-at-it-from-under-your-hat pedestrian, when I used to watch him placing the bricks. I think I knew him well, when the wall was so short and when he was sitting on the ground and placing the bricks. I would talk to him sometimes, looking in his sleepy-wary eyes, one could tell, he was placing the bricks all-the-way through the night…

He never told me, for what he was building the wall, never I would wonder either… I used to think, he built it to protect all that for which he stood by. Then I felt, he built it, so that no one could see what he is doing on the other side. Now I feel, maybe I should have asked him, why…

These days, I don’t even recall how he looked like, there’s not much I can see beyond the bricks to find out. One-by-one when he placed them, maybe I should have talked to him more…

So I decided to just ignore his wall, and forget everything I could remember about him. I decided not to stare at his wall or for that matter anybody’s wall, I would just abandon all the thoughts I had for everyone of them. And, before I knew, I had started building my own wall…