Saturday, May 18, 2013

STRANGER

Custom made on an assembly line
An owl staring into the sunshine
A one-faced coin in a sea of head and tails
A sly serpent slithering away from its scales
I may be velvet in a cotton mill

A bird with clipped wings
Is a bird still..
NOSTALGIA’S CHILD

Pierced by the fresh, the old gold inside turns to dust
Fresh sounds sound like noise from a damaged radio
Murder, victory, conquests, evolution
Love, power, revolution…
All algebra to my dyslexia

New tastes singe the soft tongue
Bring forth a liquid torrent from the drying eyes
Touched by new flames, I shrink like burnt paper
Retreating to the cold comfort of nostalgia’s cave

Cave of visions – broken mirrors – some bite, some excite
But the pain of stepping on them, I recognize

A medley of sunken sounds
Old songs with new meanings
Old poems smell as fresh as dew
Broken words fall from a string of meanings

I scurry after them like a bounty hunter
Afraid of losing the map to my treasure
Scared they too might desert me like my 4’am dreams

Memories wash me like hot water from a geyser
I am building a tomb:
Of unripened truths, baked myths and nascent mysteries

Pray, when finally exhumed
I am taken there to be buried
It shall be worthy of me
And I of it….

Sunday, December 30, 2012

A bookish love story: My Entry for the Get Published Contest

Kabir, an unusually shy guy in his early twenties has recently started working for an MNC in the capital city of Delhi. One day, he goes over to the house of his sister’s friend to return some of her books. He has seen her and talked to her on a few occasions before but never found her attractive. But now, as he finds himself sitting in her drawing room, looking at her approaching silhouette; a strange feeling of calm passes over him. He forgets to be anxious – something he can never avoid in the company of an unknown. But is she really an unknown? He wonders for a moment and then loses himself in the innocent wonder of her eyes…watching her lips gently form words…words he does not hear that day, words ringing hollow behind the din of his wildly pounding chest. They exchange a few pleasantries before moving on to the topic of books – the only topic they are both comfortable with and passionate about. She, a literature student aspiring to be a writer; and he, a secret admirer of the written word who never quite had the courage to acknowledge his dream, let alone pursue it. They open up to each other like a young bird opening her wings to take her first flight – nervous, but wildly excited at the thought of flying in the free air. She starts talking about her poetry and acting, and he sits there like a log. Suddenly, he remarks quite coolly that he also write poems. She insists on reading one and he promises to bring it for her on his next visit. Quite bewilderingly, she asks him to write it down the next time instead of getting a print out. That’s weird, he thinks. Let her try her luck with my horrific handwriting, he chuckles to himself and says his goodbyes. This short visit leads to a series of meetings, culminating in the coming together of two strangely awkward personalities. Both lost in their own ways, each waiting to be found by the right eyes – eyes that don’t look past their dead faces, but eyes that look inside the inert façade to see them as they are. Without trying to change, without trying to judge. Both looking to come across love, unwilling to find it……….. An old world love story about two simple souls finding solace in each other, what makes this story enjoyable is the attention to the protagonists’ feelings and their deep awareness of emotions – their own and those of lives around them. In the end, I believe what matters in a love story is how much it makes you remember from your own life – that adolescent crush, that adorable someone, the excitement of getting drenched in the rain …..simple emotions etched on the canvas of our strangely complex lives. This is my entry for the HarperCollins–IndiBlogger Get Published contest, which is run with inputs fromYashodhara Lal and HarperCollins India. Total no. of Words - 500

Sunday, December 4, 2011

The rejected script for a short




The present

Scene 1: A sultry hot afternoon in a small town somewhere in north India. A few 6-8 year old children are playing hide and seek in the compound. There is a lot of noise and chaos. The camera zooms in beneath a staircase. In the cool darkness sits the protagonist, a 7 year old boy – average height, fair complexion, hair neatly combed to one side, plump face; he is sitting on his haunches, anxiously awaiting the seeker, staring straight into the camera for half a minute. Then he looks down and there is a sudden gleam in his eyes – something to his right has caught his attention. The camera focuses on his excited eyes as he bends forward and picks up the alien object. He hides it in his fist and pockets his discovery. Then he goes back to his original stance and the noise outside returns to its earlier chaotic levels.
Scene 2: A small bedroom in the small north Indian town described in Scene 1. A middle aged woman, around 35, medium height, wearing a cotton sari; is sitting in front of her dressing table. The camera shows us the woman from a distance. Next, it zooms in on the sunlight entering the room through an open window and moves on to the slowly revolving ceiling fan. We hear the woman humming an old film song slowly. Then the camera moves to the mirror. Through the mirror, we get a glimpse of the woman’s face. There is a faint, excited smile at the corners of her mouth as she applies kohl to her eyes. The little boy (the protagonist) comes running into her arms. She lovingly lifts him in her arms and places him on the bed. Then she holds his little face in her hands and says – “Tere papa ka phone aaya tha, wo kal aa rahe hain”. This brings a wide grin to the boy’s face. The mother leaves the room, humming the song excitedly. The boy jumps down in front of the dressing table, deftly touches his shirt pocket and lifts his mother’s mangal sutra. He puts it around his neck and starts grinning, staring at himself in the mirror. The camera moves to the TV set in the corner of the room, flashing images of the Kargil war.
Scene 3: An army truck, moving on a rugged mountain road. Just before twilight. We see a group of soldiers sitting in the open back of the truck. A soldier standing on one corner of the truck, stares into the open space around. He is a middle aged man (35-40), but looks older. Has thick stubble. The camera zooms in on his focused, unyielding eyes.
Scene 4: A small railway station. It’s around 11 am. The station is in its perennial state of chaos. Amidst the crowd on the platform, we see our protagonist standing with his mother, waiting for a train. The child is holding his mother’s finger. He stands with his head down, staring at the shadows of the passing passengers, humming a rhyme. His mother stands craning her neck in the direction from which the train will arrive. There is a glint in her eye as the sun shines on her face. Soon, we hear the rumbling sound of the approaching train. We see in the distance the smoke billowing out of the engine. Then slowly, losing pace, the train enters the platform. Mother and son take a couple of steps forward as the train slowly screeches to a halt. The man shown in Scene 3 emerges from a compartment some distance away from them. He is carrying an army trunk, which he drops at the sight of the approaching duo. The mother takes a few quick steps and hugs him. They let go after a few moments. The child, waiting patiently till now, tugs at his father leg. He lifts him in his arms, grinning widely. The father kisses the child on both cheeks. The child then takes out something from his shirt pocket, his fist clenched tightly around the object. He says to his father – “Papa, aap humara budday bhul gae the, but hum nai bhule. Hum aapke lie present laye hain”. The father asks what it is. The boy asks him to close his eyes. He obliges. The boy slowly opens his fist and puts a black thread around his father’s neck. The father looks down on his chest to find a plain black thread containing a small, yellowish pendant. The camera zooms in on the object in question. It’s a golden bullet, glistening in the shining sun. The camera moves to the father’s face as the son asks him – “Kaisa laga humara present?”. The wrinkles around his eyes are enhanced as he looks at the pendant, then at his son, in a state of utter confusion. A dark shadow crosses his face as we see a closing shot of the glistening bullet, resplendent in the warm sunlight. The sound of a gun going off is followed by darkness. THE END.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Night




When the day has run its heady sprint
In glaring sunlight your eyes burn
The winds of change distort
Age-old patterns on your skin
Innovations block evolution
Clipping the wings of desire
In honour of survival, quietly walks the songbird
Away into the sunset
For it knows there will be darkness
At the end of every shining beam
The dark night will return
Silent, cool as a shadow
Smoothening its furrowed forehead
With a soothing touch....
Its arms open unto infinity
Songbird embraced...no questions asked
No plans perceived
The darkness will restore the vanishing light
To those swollen eyelamps
And rekindle the embers of the dying fire inside
Prepare you for the many battles ahead
The many silent nights
Biding their time, behind the glare of tomorrows!

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Do ghante aur!





Do saal do din do ghante hi sahi
Mil jaate agar to kya kia karte ham
Kya jaan lete wo shireen raaz
Jo band aankhon ke piche chupe andheron me quaid hain?
Kya chu hi pate un andheron ki tanhaiyon ko?
Us khamoshi ki tamaamiyat ka andaz bhi laga pate ham?
Kya us pyaas ko bhujane ko kaafi hain do ghante,
Jo is rooh ki gehraiyon me ik sadi se baaki hai?
Us masoom chehre ki ek jhalak bhi dekh pate agar
Jo is shakl ke hijab ke piche se nazar aati hai aksar
thodi dhundhali, bohat azeez si zaalim
un aankho se do jam hi pi lete agar
to samajh lete ham bhi
ke do ghanton me paa liya wo
jise kho kar na jaane kitne janmo
se ye aks zaa’i hai!

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