The Pirate

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

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

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

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

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

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

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...