Release me far away
My affections and all else
Wrap me in and let go.

Knowing the consumed
The seasons left the lips
I was the kiss, the lips and
the throbs 
In the dreams and all the days
I would kiss again, watching.

So
Release me far away
My affections and all else
Wrap me in and let go.

Questions I escaped into
Reading helped no more
The poems of mine read evil if
I did not read it aloud.

Therefore
Release me far away
My affections and all else
Wrap me in and let go.

.
Chained ankles observing birds in flight,
One day the chains would know too,
They would also fly with me.

The hidden time of lovers runs out,
Then again only into memories of gardens where they met.

Burning you in to you,
Then why is my search
In opposite direction?

The haze
Sleepy daze
Walk, no walk
Smoke from a burnt cigarette 

I can read
Whatever you offer

Experience I want of yours none 
I have nothing hence to share

If you see foot steps in sand,
Wait for the tides, they might be of some help

On my bed 
Sleep sleeps no more
Some sounds they come
They go

When a self walks away
From a self
I would still not be able to say
I'm free to you.

A day another day,
Advantage me again,
All it needs is for me
To go, go, go,
Keen about what it holds,
Organizing reports of yesterday, say,
How unimportant and how
Easy it is to LIVE.

Sigh.

When you are confronted with the enormity of the obvious, and hit by the futility of sharing you risk the possibility of being far from civilization.

You are speaking to no one in particular and no one is speaking to you.  

Picture this:
A path with red soil,
Grey hills at the horizon,
Green fields by the sides,
Hazel sky,
A solitary tree.

What my eyes saw:
The time.

The stimulus in my ears:
Noises of silences.

The feelings on my skin:
Warm, cold, warm then again cold.

I couldn't walk or sit.

I belonged to that picture.

I in it completed the love.

I called it the universe.

I could do so much here now.

Through a static a movement is born
Not through intuition 
Not through absolute
It's a movement
Always from state of static to a
State of dynamics.

This I in movement being
Limitless and through a finite 
organism
in which the potential remains
Unexhausted,
Energy keeps creating energy.


 

Nothing can come to an end till I want it(whatever) to end. Even when it ends, I never come to an end. What only ends is the ending.

Memories again,
I keep coming back to it,
To them,
To know is to remember,
What I remember should fill
my experiences just like light fills
up a room.

What remains now makes it clear of what will remain tomorrow.

Is it like standing on some
stairs(?),
All my life,
Waiting, climbing, counting
seconds,
Inevitable is anxiety with
certain IFS,
But if,
I am not separate from
all the happenings,
Who is there to read the
difference.

The silence had to guard
the secret of branches,
the gardens and other meeting places,
The whispers, the smirks, the wings, the wet mud and the muddy fingers.

One day in the springs
a day of loneliness overcame
the silence,
Where people enjoyed picnics,
Silence remained like a solitary
house.

It was a small sapling once,
in love with the breeze,
And it's morning kiss,
under the shade of an oak it grew well, 
invisible hands nurtured color and perfume to it,
it was happy, it was pure.

That day in that spring
an insight
penetrated the spirit,
the silence seemed prisoned,
Words stopped to drop,
The tears throbbed the heart,
a hidden voice of agony united,
In that one day, the day in springs.

I approached it,
Sat by it,
Felt a ghost in it,
Separated by thoughts
we sat in unison,
somehow I knew,
In the season of wine it
accidentally tasted vinegar.

Deep in thought it finally 
Looked up,
I smiled, I smiled as if
to a dark cloud or green silk,
It's today was made up of past,
The stink of past had stirred up
It's self-consciousness and hence
it felt lonely,
Lost amongst the bees that
buzzed  around it.

Meanings remained unclear,
The eyes extended a horizon, 
The horizon smiling at the sky
understood the eyes that saw it from earth.

Clear answers, I wanted,
I touched my ear to the ground,
I heard foot steps, gentle,
Of a child, running from the mother's lap to the horizon and the open sky,
A thought in me could see,
A purpose which it could not understand.

Then.

Stood by a window,
Windows have a lot to say, always,
A path, a car, a distant shop, market street and
then a horizon,
But the eyes only would look at
what mind wanted to see,
Could I understand it all,
This I am, I exist, we exist, all.

If I name it

it has to be thirst

need to quench it

but then why should I

Can i

or, flow in desires

a rain drop once spoke to me

it was in a drop and how it flowed

in the mist of the life

in love with life

flowing, to stay thirsty,

it was a rain drop thirsty,

flowing supported by a dream,

I too once stepped accidently

unsupported on a dream,

no shoes whatever,

and look I walked as i allowed

myself to walk,

let me be hence,

I be.......

Love needs a vacation
You go, go girl,
Plans can stay,
Build a temple,
You can be dreaming,
Happy to ignore the moon,
No tears now, stop,
Love needs a vacation too,
People love and half past sun,
Flecks of light turning to stars,
Smile and never be nervous.

In my car
The buildings whiz
By.

In my car I am
Independent.

In my car
I can be in comfort even
By being lost.

In my car
I am witness to the
speeding Past.

In my car
I remain rooted to
the landscape.

(Quote---)Grief Strengthens Cynicism.(---Unquote)

Questions of money
Haunts my beloved,
Possibly I make none
No treasures are forthcoming,
I see it as a mystery and
She as my laziness.

I work, my entire heart out,
I do in my limitations.

She rushes to me that all I do 
Is waste
If it pays not in money,
such work hard is the work of
lazy,
A mouth needs money,
Not words, if I have to
Remain your beloved,
Understand the grocer should
Never turn his back on you.

Study a cage
Inside outside,
They come, a reason there too,
Yes, it is lack of reading,
I never can understand fully,
I still feel chill in language
Digging deep in my warm skin.

Mondays become tuesdays,
Springs turn winters,
Motion in straightness,
Nothing else comes,
But a Monday again,
The spring new.

Should I stay to be,
The determination to rid the guilt or anxiety,
Not indulgence alone,
But in genuine reason, in meditation,
Who wants to remain a tourist,
Tourist only one is if One travels outer spaces,
Study the cage,
It may not be of cold steel,
May be images,
May be random,
Connect and see.

I give up, everything,
I gave up everything;
I in love
I give up
I gave up.

Clouds now,
Skies clear, in readings,
Two facing each other
Give up
Gave up
The past, the self.

Thank you for being here,
A travel belongs in engaging,
Journey holds a meaning
It cannot start if I don't
Give up
Gave up
Thinking of staying back home.

Childishness Me,
A room there for you my love,
Carelessly
I give up
I gave up.

The source cannot be Seen if you call it a Mystery,
The source could be a sound
Or sands,
Existence has to make me existent,
It's been a life,
yes forty odd now,
A long time played, the mechanics
of pain seen clear and free,
Closed hands could pick roses
The pricks of thorns hurt no more,
A drop of feeling locked apart,
They rest for some time.

The heart when slows the beat down, it seems all couldn't be mechanical, it had to be cold,
Emergence can only come from a 
Yes.

What holy did you choose?
For a span chose you, you know this already,
do not sing, I don't about this or why now
should I think.
 What did you choose to choose?
A step,
A stone,
A human,
A crutch,
A love,
A railing,
some of them or none of them, okay if all of them too;
birth happens in blood, even of a day, stay aware for rest could turn to junk
if water flows without a feel.

Not a perfect me,
never me,
me always in some sort of weaving,
who would know me,
I myself never knew me,
one day in a story,
a line turned in to me,
not really me, actually  not yet
perfect, but almost an inspiration.

The stories do turn,
wonderful at times, slow at other,
dead sometimes and fire in nights,
they have doors that never open and windows
that are huge to allow memories, yes of all sizes,
to enter.

What would I leave behind,
an imperfection,
may be, but it would be for you,
you would know how then to take it
to your definition of perfection,
I hope that for you too it remains
just a definition.

A construct reconstructed.

I dream a day.
I dream a night.
That I think I change.
That feels love at first sight.
The walk on water.
About my living.
All remain.
The dream that names itself day.
The dream that names itself night.

Passion - knows nothing of the
the word called reality, what and how
can a river too know off volumes when in rage,
the winds and clouds flow to call it a flood,
the veins rip apart,
the body sculpts, the mind unleashes a dimension,
freedom in passion can never exist, it makes no personal
history, if it stops to make one, life stops.

The stage always stands still,
in darkness or in flood lights,
naked or in full effect,
actors get lost, so do their costumes and lines,
the stage stays there to tell stories to audiences, who if like it,
understand why they were there.
Love speaks when stage holds.

A situation always finds me, so
does a question,
interesting at times, happy at other,
I walk out, walk in and then resign,
behavior if to be called it has to have you in the frame,
if you are in that life-wrap, a situation always at all times
hunts me down.

The nature can never intend,
it is just dangerous some time,
the specie survive, they intend to,
some applications stand firm, even if you
and your god disagree.

Whoever designed circle, had to first fall in love.

Paths and books,
relationships and abandonment,
of what a woman thinks
and about why a man never thinks,

She would always have a question that could
one day become a book,
he always had a path that could be loved.

Both could be together, both could be one,
as they are if that is all they could be

Every day a page,

a page in pictures and words,

I know some, remember few,

the night knows them all, the eyes replay that what

they see creating the page on a screen,

then the night binds them, stores them,

I laugh at all who call these pages

unknown or some kind of sub.

My mind, what and how can it be,
it is awed by itself, own self or
Confused and puzzled or
Walks in clarity
all through itself, by itself.

My mind interrupts as you talk,
Wonders what would be coming or going away,
I know it orders life,
then at times talks of living alone,
creating and destroying relationships of itself, by itself........ MY MIND.

Memories are good,
memories are great to have
I could change some
may be more,
I need to tell you it might be a retrospect if it has you
in it,
I could call me a fool or clever, then a gull again,
Like all I could spend time in introspect,
Come around and think it to be waste,
May be some insight with reasons being explained could walk around,
If I could change, memories would always be good, great too.

Examine emotions in time,
in night and in day
when while talking,
or if listening, all my life,
all that loving,
in entire capacities, the beginning or in endings,
there are always a you and me in some emotions
trapped or otherwise.

I could say -
It happened to me once upon a time.

What's a market where a beggar, a prostitute, a trader and a politician, all standing, there, to take in what each other can take from itself?

The market would be blank,
May be what makes a market a market, is a child,
have you seen markets that sell toys to little children?
I have seen one, the streets have restaurants too, the ones that sell toys to you.

Lots and lots of jumps
of laughs and of walking the edge,
these I know will always turn into books.
you too if you do well, will live in a book,
I live in one, immortalized till a new edition kills me, but,
I tell you a secret, if you live, you would always be looking at it.

On a ticket counter, I insisted,
instead of a ticket I got a story,
the teller was at ease, the train wasn't coming in soon,
no one behind me,
I heard the first line,
his wife it seems was a house wife,
then I tapered off,
I guess he might have have always wanted to travel......

Yes I'm listening,
Always been,
And always been thinking too,
Who, who am I listening to?

Change I say to me
Stop listening, It might give me then an answer,
Thinking too is listening, listening to whom,
But I'm busy, I guess like you, telling you,
As you tell (never ask) me,
Are you listening to me?

Chance discovers all of us
Catches us by surprise
Seduces us
'Religion, music, love, house, country, blood',
It says ' was all brought to you by me'.

I feel no need to talk about it
What is there to even acknowledge it
If by definition it is chance
It cannot be a discovery.

Let me now then see all about it.

If love caught me
would I be thrown in a prison,
Yes I guess,
No I think,
I would want to be caught,
It would be a risk,
But I would learn, and only then,
How she would say one day
GOOD BYE.....................

Can a journey be called a journey
If I start walking back from my gaol
to the source where I willed that goal

Walking back would be a walk in time
I would require a mind and maps in that mind
Yes it would be a journey
So what If my feet would be standing still

So many times the poet writes lines
then walks on them back again
writes them again without a change and
feels it is a night rolling itself out again

Sometimes it happens
we start walking back
the tools here remaining simple
the walk seems small

so I thought so
so I thought so

When a painting looked at me
A questioned walked up to me -
'Was I a shaman,
A mad man,
Or ignorance looking at it?'

I feel free to talk - I replied
I feel free to look at you - I continued
And I admire your self-control - I ended my little speech.

It held me long
I stayed in
It wanted me to believe in signs
In fate
I kept laughing,
Then it died on me
Becoming one more map
What was once a paining, so it called itself.

I lie down and it is the night,
There is nothing to do, nothing atall,
Slowly, ever so, the noise
Of air reaches the ears,
the eyes look into the night,
the life kicks back again,
I lay there now doing,capturing all
the undoing.

A mind remarkable traced a body alive,
in prayer and a work to do.
The walk could count each breath,
The face endured the sun,
It knew what it wanted,
The path finally met the man.

Yes!
In a mortal skin moves an
Explanation, a love,
a relationship.

If you read well between the lines
You would know it wasn't ever an
Irish coffee.

I'm so glad you dint
Would you then might have asked
Do every one go to heaven
And I would have said yes.

But you never married
And never practiced a religion,
Upto my neck I sang
And you never read what was
Between the lines.

You saved your self,
You had a way with you,
I thought though, you knew and
You remained with your god.

The concept of reincarnation is so boring. To make it only sound interesting all the ideas of nirvana hence have been devised. I mean who wants to indulge in living again or come Back again. To travel further or transcend sounds like James Bond Movies. Ironically James reincarnates.

Only humans Make Love. The rest of the planet is indulging in sex.

Time must come in days. There must not be any such thing as a Moment. Moments can be experienced in time which comes in days.

How long would you stay in my eyes asked Laila one day to Majnu.
As long as I need answered Majnu.
And when I die? she asked him again, what would happen to the eyes in which you stay?
I would have a build a palace in my mind for your eyes to stay long before you would have died.

To make anything happen you need to make it happen. There is a limit to all communications and limitlessness to what can be made to happen by you.

No one wakes up or sleeps to nothingness. The day does end in nothingness if one applies nothing to what one needs to.

Let me pretend that I can hear you. Makes your job easy and you get paid well.

I wonder (well that is the most I can do) what would be the heart of the universe. There has to be a super-nova lurking somewhere and a god protecting everything else.
It must hence boil down to what would be the fuel that one must fill to see and make the motor drive without any problems.
What problems the old man asks. What?

The mouse accidentally walked in to a shop of cookies one day. It was the also the day it died.

Perfect and yet changing. I laughed when I understood this. It couldn't be anything other than me. 
And this has to be about you.

You would be held. Made a prisioner and be bonded and gagged. Your only crime would be that you loved and applied that love. So was I told. Hence I write here to know, to see how nothing matters when I do what I love to do.

Walked right, walked left, up and down. Seesaw was tried too, rocked steadily and randomly. I had to be human to know I was in love and I could hurt.

She for certain did gift me a country side. A green pasture with sun, drizzle and a rainbow. It would be nice if she would complete the frame. One day she would.

.....something is still alive if and when a phoenix does rise.... or may be it was lucky that something in it's ashes was all not dead.....is the universe godly......or a universe lucky.....may be the earth could be called a phoenix....it rose up like from a universe that was otherwise still burning......

Your eyes.

The intelligence of your eyes; reassures me that my errors like me, would be understood.

Stand off.

Every so often, you simply outgrow them. There is no active breaking of rules if you can't recognize them.

Love is not Harmony; Nature is not built for harmony; but within this self; there is no war so there is no unloving; and no untruth.  

One cannot break unnatural laws in the open; and not expect an unnatural war. It's not an issue of cowardice, as much as cutting off the inconsequentials.

I will break all natural laws that I must; but never the unnaturals; it's not my war to fight for those who own it.

The follow through is never for the self. It's absence is a huge presence.

It's easy to make a follow through picture perfect; once the decision is made.

River flowing alive
Sparkling and no end of it
Working nothing to it
Only flowing to it and
Never ever becoming a story.

Virtue is alive
When it flows
Blossoming of a dancer
And it's dance
Up the stairs the sun shows
A thousands steps up.

No edges, no pieces,
The tree in it's all
Truth and not through imagination,
Identity describes,
The death conceives,
The space crams everything and...
The river,
The river only flows connected to
All of it outsides and the sunny fields.

And the blue bells rang
And I lived again

Little by little feet move
Wisdom now far far away
The source of fountains
Is what I only have

And the blue bells rang
And I lived again

Far from home as I could be
From boredom and mechanical as can be
And teachers and their purpose
The child man stood in the child with an engine in front

And the blue bells rang
And I lived again

I do recall, all still exist
Somehow they aren't me now
That which holds too went
All maps weren't mysterious no more
The father and the grand plan
Died

And the blue bells rang
And I lived again

Difficult to choose
Every time the eyes shut
The problems could never be enjoyed any more
The town and it's light now left
The child with it's two little feet
Was thinking to build a bridge

And the blue bells rang
And I lived again


Happy Children's Day

A dream.

I had a dream. A woman is in a red saree, in a some function, flirting with men; and I am getting burnt because she is not safe.

luckily its just a dream and I don't know the woman, and I wake up sooner than later and she will be safe and the dream forgotten.

Rockstar - Movie review.

In my younger days, I had a predisposition of wanting to like everything that caught my attention. I had no preferences, and what drove me was the need to understand the object of my attention in its essence before I brought it back with me to create a judgement through integration.

In some ways, it still continues with movies today. Any movie that catches my attention, I walk into the theater to watch, and my pre-disposition is to delve into that world and discover its essence as it stood and liking it when I saw internal consistency in that world.

So it was with Rockstar, the movie.

There are many performers, but very few artists. So the performers of the lead artists were just that, performances; quite competent at that; But they don't touch the realm of living, and hence art. Though, Ranbir Kapoor is a willing learner; and that is always a good sign. His transformations are visible, and that is an achievement in itself.

The story is not event based, hence, it is a directors movie; where he is delving into creating a story of contradictions in wanting and being; between wanting the world and living yours. This can always be a bed of manipulation, but it was good to see Imtiaz ali, recognizing his limitations and steering clear of the manipulative aspects of the story in conversion of his vision into an artifact. And his conversion of vision into celluloid (or bits) is above average. Which is to say, perhaps he had a grander and wider vision that didn't translate in its totality on screen. But this is rarely a limitation, and is worth an applause for the future.

The points touched are competent, if somewhat lacking in poignancy. Janardhan finds grace in Dargah to become Jordan the star.  Various influences and impressions taken from various classics to create an effect in the story (a touch of wuthering heights for example). All fine.

The novelty, factor - fine for Indian audience, but I doubt this is unique in world history.

The attention to detail, sufficient to create an emotional narration. But compromised by the nature of cinema we watch in India today.

Overall like, I like it by my predisposition, but not enough to quite judge it as much as learn from it.

Worth a watch. The BGM and songs are good too.

Question.

Can the effect modify the cause?

The blue prints, all
In one single cell,
All outside and in
Reflection on retina,
Never stays there still,
Travels inside to see people.

I can prove this,
It would take me away and
The image shall die, even if
I don't know where it is,
But I see them,
In colors and shapes,
I lived like that,
I live like that.

As a child was amazed with kites,
Use to hold the kite and
Run on windy beach,
Never fly them, but run into
The winds.

The singing self.

I laugh at my errors,
I smile at my sins,
My home, I have lived here,
Like a memory locked,
By your curling lips

You walked in like the wind,
Swelled like my air,
Within these walls,
You were shining,
You were grace!

After your fall,
Before my spring,
Let me nurse,
This broken wing

Green by life,
A collectable by death,
In your loving arms,
Let me catch my breath

Make me a subject,
Click me an object,
Frame me a memory,
Pick me up, for I am fallen too ...

The ending of a make believe is no ending at all
And the real can never end 
So if both never come to an end
Then one would also never know anything called birth of
A process
Or a birth of thought.

All emotions as of now
All most all desires and thoughts
of them as of now
All are Known,
What remains to be known then,
How could anything come to an end......
An idea never ends,
Nor do the centuries that speak
Of how it made it through,
through the blood, the violence.

The ending of a make believe is no ending at all

Don't say it should go
Discovery and adventure always
stays
Reading these pages here made sense
You could have been taken elsewhere 
An out of body experience, kind off.

So, don't say it should go
You would keep coming here
Weird poems and eccentricities 
All written here may seem a mistake
But a movement from dark to light might happen here.

Don't say it should go
The English may need a brother
Cold it may seem
Driving all to east
But all modest request of heart's
Are scattered across.

Don't say it should go
Don't say it should go

Hopes unchained, then woke up
to find no hope
Words could not call it hopeless too
It was a dream dreamt in human
thought
The all in it came from a language
The fear was make believe and
unsupported by a phantom heart
Could not buy a voice.

The morning in silence supplied
a time ideally spread
The heart was missing
The head tight and strong
Shook out all lows and heights.

If I be the dream, the dreamer I would be
My spirit would be my spirit
In a cycle, what follows is what is
The winters don't promise springs, and
Neither because of hope or hopelessness 
The spring follows,
These dark winter nights are bonded and chained to the springs.

Days of early have sources
The rivers rarely remember the springs 
I remember somehow
The work on me that made me now flow in spate

Energy was developed by benevolence in the days of spring
The guardians possessed unlimited 
access of romanticism 
I could study and play as the heart desired
I was a child and I was grown as one

Discovery I was taught is what all are born for
Want of skill should be revered
And imagination the only god
Production would lead to an ocean
That would realize the birth to the one born

Constellation moved for Cinderella
A fantasy that seemed more real
The tears flowed because of desires
The desires that always began with
'Once upon a time.'

Different voices challenging conflicts ages and in histories
Bringing the best out to
tackle pages of life
Stages and audience available all at all times by default
There is nothing that will end
There would be available plenty
To stop us turning back to clay

The flowers on grave are flowers on stone
Nothing but stones exist inside them
Life merges in to life
Death remains merely a definition that would always remain a grand illusion.

The axe and the killer all
in the causes of reflection 
The real being devoid of all beauty was never the goal
Sentence a sunrise, the sun still never moves
Love a sunset, it still remains there 
Yet the boys go to fight
To see born an event that they
Think how men should live 
On this earth, Marx being a classic example.

I'm intrigued and I wonder
I take myself off 
I remain responsible to me
That would be the truth 
The beauty and the image
All integrated to call a me.

A sticky world in my love poem.

On love please write says an echo
A fortune would wait when you write
Let years scatter, the world tear to pieces
You write on love, till you know real.

I know I reply.
I  have met love in dream, a beautiful emotion arched, it felt
You could do what you want, for you dreamt love.
One morning after the dream, I asked if it could be dialectical,
It was felt and it would sound crooked when it would run in words?
It may, it may not, 
But yet it would never be a business
Nothing to be sold or bought
There would never be a cage in which love could be held.

Love cannot be a relationship
Yet it requires two, and
Always two that take it to the grave.
Incredible yet and it begins and the ones in love feel human and the rest aliens.

Love is the word that gave birth to words like eternity,
So write the echo kisses
There may be more to be discovered 
As the forest still seems large.

So run along and write about love.

The sands held the light bright
I could see as I was on earth
The dust had a purpose for me

The sands held the light bright
For me to go on
At sunrise to see the path I
made when it was night

The sands held the light bright
Each step of mine built a new flame
Each flame held a promise to bring
More light, more strength to keep standing.

The sands held the light bright
And I finally asked the dust fleck
That held light in front of my eyes
What sees me inside my eyes?
My own body seemed strange when eyes remained closed

The dust looked and stared at me
It was quiet and knew it could hold light only when I opened 
My Eyes.

I could always See.

The abyss seemed cut
I could see it and name it
It remained known to me
Hence it up to the depth I saw
Remained no abyss.

The perception would always remain mine
The search would end in me
The road would always be lighted
If I walk or stop
If I walk I would own it
If I stop I would call it my freedom

Let then be done more
If abyss be recognized
Then it shall be cut
To build temples of work
Each to it's own can build
It's own god.

The tears flowed
They were made so as such
They had sensed a spirit
Many had seen
Many had forgotten
Then came time when
A man stood still and in that
The I was seen in light
In which where a life could be built
A house would thus come so

The tears flowed
They had to,
Living a truth for understanding
The joy of its own responsibility 
Such could exist
Such do exist

A need intense
Just to be with you
Look at you
Admire you
You being alive
You being able to see me
feel intense

You and I
Hmmmm, you and I
Are two different things
Behind a face or 
Like a shadow in a dream

Catch what I try to sing
I can only do that much
Or it would turn again in
A definition 
You wouldn't want that
No
No
No arguments ever again

Of a you and I
Which would always stay
Two different things

Wash away all the tears
Or the blues
All that stood in front of you
Was all inside of you
How can still
Can you walk at
such a slow pace

Every where you be
Anywhere you go
Across all lands
You and I stay
Two different things
 
Nothing seems as it seems

Vibrating in thoughts
Hit by it
I was blessed
Blessed to go
Round and round

Round and round
Round and round 
Everyday

A pretty bad space
The ways I feel
A child knew the merry-go-round
I know now too
Everyday I go
Go
Go

Round and round
Round and round 
Everyday

A state so conscious
An existence so real
And I
Talking, standing on grounds
with holes 
Wrapped in a chocolate box
I so glad move
Move
Move
Yes move

Round and round
Round and round 
Everyday

I remember 
I still can feel the blinds

I lie
I lied
Will I always lie

I never witnessed anything else than an I
Fair enough, not anymore, 
There had to be a reason 
There was always a reason
Ignorance is sin
Innocence never stays
I lost it 

I lie
I lied
Will I always lie

Suspended now the lie
I know it was the truth
There was no crime ever committed by anyone still
Yet I thought I was wronged
So..........,

I lie
I lied
Will I always lie

Give me a reason
My own standing in my way
I coming back again
To a blind alibi
Devil knows I stole his
soul too
Ha........

I lie
I lied
I will always lie

Set the head rolling
Kick off a brand new past
To find a mood to a natural
or real to wiggle out a future

Do it, do it, do it
The old hag shouts

Abstract concepts die
No words running the sky
In a line I ride
I can I say
So I keep writing stars new

Do it, do it, do it
The old hag shouts

A chain knew
But never the thoughts
The life and
The movement of life
I'm nuts
I'm nuts
Where did I come 
Where did I go

Do it, do it, do it
The old hag shouts

Black crows lie
They fly low and stay hungry 
A fever runs high
I feel the heat
I know I'm alive
Let me love
Let me do
Do it till I die

Do it, do it, do it
The old hag shouts

Where did I come
Where did I go
Set the head rolling
Kick off a brand new past

Feels like feeling nothing
Back on back
Relaxed to take no step

Not together
Not in a life, just a
A process in some head
Your or mine

Feels like feeling nothing
Back on back
Relaxed to take no step

Face to face a
Mirror stands 
A street that promised had
no list,
A wise man follows

Feels like feeling nothing
Back on back
Relaxed to take no step

I am all over
Playing to some storm
Standing by my own
Under celestial music dead

Feels like feeling nothing
Back on back
Relaxed to take no step

Jhoot.

Joothe Tickto pe chute lamhe,
Lamho ko ab sach bata dije,
Laut aaye jo rote veerano se, unhe,
Darwaaz-e-dastak ka ab tho pata dije

Two movies.

Moneyball : ok for watch. Specially if you want to know how an individual took on the establishment in baseball.

Paranormal activity 3: went to the premier; that's 3 hours and money in liquids wasted and time at a chore wasted.

Ch 2: April 1st, I change, but I don't (Part 1)

"Kaia, Kaia" where are you?

The sound of ones own voice in memory retains a vibration; without the nuances of the voice. The voice of memory, is a longing, to re-imagine what is lost, something that indulges in a recollection of the original emotion, while experiencing a compliment with its own beauty. A beauty that is the only purpose of recollection, for now, you could stand detached to the original memory.

Its a peculiar recollection. In it one finds his voice, without the noise.

And it was all noise when I had first called out. I was always agitated when I ran looking for Kaia. The agitation born out of a world turned upside down for a minute, or two, before it regained composure.

It is odd, I never thought of the question itself, I always knew where to find her. Getting there was a problem, my legs never seemed to carry me fast enough. An inconsolable cry, that would, in my certainty only settle when I reached her doll house, or her plant in her garden. Or perhaps I was inconsolable so I could run looking for her? Its difficult to tell now, for the dust has settled on all my fears.

When I found her, we played, we pretended, we fought. She never asked me about my agitation when I got there, and I might have mentioned an inconsequential in the passing. It was a ritual and we both knew what we had to do.

On some evenings, she might come to watch me play. She would make no noise, just watch us play, me and my friends. Everyone would notice her in her pretty pinks. Even then she had the presence of a silent force. Tom, would always call out and ask her if she would play, she would smile, rather dismissively, and look at me. Like a declaration that she was already in her game.

I was rather good, in everything I did. For her it was like she had nothing to do.

Codnt.

Rearrange experiences as what you do next may not be born from past.

The chemist of this planet have kept quiet. They don't like flashy physicist who now talk nonsense.

Can the stone under my foot know how much it suffers? I left it alone on the road where I stepped on it.

Nature began for all. My nature to my neighbors nature came from all nature. Nature is defined as a limit till rationality proves it to be limitless.
Anti-pragmatist are not humans. They talk of humans to be a super man. In reality I have to design my life.

No way out actually gives a way out. Deal with it as it is beyond our control. Free is how the order appears. What appears has to have matter. Sensations too come only from matter. Human touch adapts to all and reduces all to past concepts.

What belief makes or can make:
1) A dead a Sacred Dead?
2) A dead increase it's Deadness?

Ch 1: March 31st - Like a Bubble floating into the air

“You can hide me but not contain me”

I don’t remember if it was an act of telling or permitting. Perhaps it was an act of innocent love? 

But those words echo sometimes in my mind. I don’t remember why she said them; I guess we were playing in the garden then, Innocent.

I remember laughing out loud and daring her, not realizing that she was baring herself for me to see. I wince every time I recall it. If only I had known then what I know now, everything would be so different, or maybe not for the cruelty it could mean. Childhood should never be held against where we stand today; even though the closer we get to the origin the clearer it becomes how far we travel from what we see. If only we were born with clarity. But then do we need clarity when we are born? The sin was not in the birth, if at all it was, it was always in rebirth, something we hold against being born.

I am still holding clenching my fists, wetting the edges of a fragile piece of paper in my hand, reluctant to let air in as I imagined I was gasping for breath. Could it be her? Of course I knew it was her, but when did I know her totally by what she said?

It is sometimes so difficult to know a person without a signature. But this was her signature, it simply read, “Meet me at Smiths on Apr 7^th”. No name, just a date scribbled on the top right corner, March 21^st. Today was March 31^st. 7^th day from now.

This year? I desperately wished so. Yes, desperate is the word and my heart was pounding hard. There was no name, but I knew it was her, I had long known to hope for this letter to come someday.  It felt and sounded much different from how I had imagined it yesterday, but it felt.  Today is perhaps always unique.

Was she dying? Plausible, and strangely that thought didn’t evoke any emotion. Her body I knew had done enough before we parted. She was reborn every day we were together and each day was a lifetime of strain on her.  But I didn’t want any of this to end, this self-inflicted but strangely liberating sense of life. She couldn’t die even if she wanted. She had much more to do and much more to travel and it was always more never less. It was a matter of running even to stand still. But what would an onlooker know?

I know she was not expecting a response or confirmation. She would still wait even if I had not gotten her note in time without an emotion out of place even if I had responded with a denial. She had to be there then, and feel being there with me or without me, every slice of being there was important to her.

I would still write, perhaps. Something might change if I wrote, I told myself. I scribbled back a note, “Smith’s isn’t what it was”.

It was just yesterday that we met, but yesterday was long ago. What is time anyhow? But I am struggling to recall events. All I have in my mind is a set of emotions and images from once. Events were never important anyhow, there are so many of them happening all the time. What you make of them cheat on the simplicity that the events are and they are the keynotes to living.  Only keynotes remain from yesterday.

I had to regain my direction, my senses, those events, those memories, it was elsewhere this world I was invited to visit. I needed no bags, no trains, no money to get there, just respond to the recall with a recall. I was lost, you wouldn’t know it if you were with me for a lifetime, and perhaps I wouldn’t tell. Explanations are messy and tiresome; mystery is more exciting and maintains the chase. I know this too well perhaps. But It was a recall of everything lost, and now was the time to explain and she always made it effortless filling the gaps for you. Believing your story and a willing performer of any character you assign to her. She barely had questions, an occasional “how” maybe, but no “why”. Perhaps because there were no boundaries and no flag posts and she was wary that the why would fall into an infinite abyss? I am inclined to think she knew it all. Perhaps she did sooner or later.

A performer draws from his experiences to create art. What seems to separating art from life is the lack of inhibition on its shores.

But for her there were no inhibitions in life, it was hard to tell when she was performing and when living. It made you distant from her, for you were an alien in her space and you had no point of reference to know her affectations. Her unbearable love was always inside waiting to be given, but who could take it?

I tried. I did. And we parted.

I still am trying, but what it takes to do is always higher no matter how high you scale, then there is the understanding that it’s impossible to be her. And even undesirable, for it might diminish my love for her, and oddly she did not seem to love herself either, she was always looking at me.  I am no mirror, and if I pointed an odd flaw she would laugh and admonish “If I did half the things I already knew I could, I would look to learn something new”. It was true, and I was holding onto a slice of her as I only could, that is before she slipped between the fingers again.

Then again, all this was her as I saw her. She was however, perhaps, different. I hated it. I still hate it. And it is inevitable that I am drawn to love it for the same reason.

I am not helpless. Neither is she. I am not joyless. Neither is she. But in equal measures we wanted nothing we could sense and feel, but know was there, like an invisible shadow. Everything was a limitation and of no value but that changed nothing in our lives.  It was an invisible layer of separation, visible only because of the separation. You could never grasp it all. Just see cheer or leer and stand back smiling.

You could burst it, but not own it, neither was it unnatural in its creation. You couldn’t hear her scream; it was too personal to her and only she could bear the noise. But you know it is love and you can only try to guard it. I tugged to hold on to “what is” while having a vision of what I wanted and she let it all go.

Like a bubble floating into the air. My Kaia.

PAST - Where are you from.


Dr. Morgan often alone in his chambers was lost in his thoughts about Megha. He was an alcoholic who was now sober from past ten years, but off late his unconscious mind dreamt of liquor.
The cause for his wants of liquor primarily being thoughts and writings of Megha. They bewildered him. Her past he thought had to be known, for in it were the cause for her views and her clumsy brilliance about an economical utopia.
Although he rejected her idea in class by a wave of a hand, he longed to discuss them alone with her. Her initial reports claimed about how she wanted to participate in times to come about international trades and exploit her journalistic abilities to uncover trades that affected crimes and political turmoil in countries.
As a writer he knew she had to know all aspects of morality and ethics and all their echoes that were now surviving to maintain a conflict free trades for world.
His own alienation came about in his younger years. His insights that he kept to himself was the reason for his growing up as an introvert.
One of Megha's passages that he read and re read and the reason being he thought was not to interpret it.
He feared his interpretations more than Megha's unspecified ideas, unspecified ideas he thought were again according to him alone.
Megha defined economics by stating that objects bought the human life in a cyclic and a mechanical cause and effect chain. A chain that chained the human beings now.
The finest passage according to Morgan read:
' If no right or wrong is where mind functions, a country whose governance pushes weapon production and specialization in arms trade would obviously do little to rationalize racial discrimination. Value to value, what would remain would always be a zero sum game. Do odds lead a productive life? Do odds lead a productive civilization? Why are we now thinking and worrying about fundamentalism, when we know about its causes. The cause is what now decides the stakes and stakes decides the morality of trades."

Megha he thought needed guidance. He decided to meet her father.


Gambler - Borders on transcendental causes.

Mornings - Melodies from skies.




"The driver won't take Leesa and the watchman in school too, so Megha you can't take her," Nancy's voice now going cold.
Megha's voice still had a song in her requests, the mornings were filled as usual with Megha asking Leesa to accompany her and Nancy refusing her till Megha actually boarded the bus. The culprit thought Nancy in a very funny way was Leesa too, the way she looked at her when her voice went cold on Megha.
The next hour passed in smiles and tears from the inner most depth of her being.
Megha was growing, changing, like a pure source, she was music to ears. She was developing amazing capacities for music.
"I know it Nancy, I see her, may be my dreams, may be those will be hers tomorrow, but the girl can sing." Biji sounded in a distant voice. Nancy was busy with the sweater, it was almost complete and before November Megha would have a fawn colored sweater same as Leesa's fur. Biji was half asleep and knew Nancy had already dreamt for Megha.
Nancy's imagination sometimes questioned God's gambling attributes and other times she used to remain in tears thanking God for Megha. The days and nights were all one, they were simply glorious.
The town planners were thinking of building a lake, the news paper head lines spoke about it and how then everybody could enjoy a full moon night by the lake. " Good for us, finally something constructive from our government Nancy," Biji sighed and gave the papers to Nancy,  "Biji maa what is lake?" asked Megha.
"You, my child, you are a lake." replied Nancy.
"A big, very big puddle of water," laughed Biji looking at a very confused Megha, "Don't listen to Momma."
"Can we take Leesa there then?" Leesa too looked at Biji.
"yes, yes, yes," laughed Biji hugging Megha.


Past - It is all over your body.

Notes - Whatever is there is your own personal travels.




The boarding school seemed strange to Mehga, nobody spoke to her. The ceilings were so high, they seemed too dark in corners. She had a confidence in her walk and wanted to be the best in class. She asked Kumar to buy a small house and stay there instead of the school in her letter. Kumar agreed but from the next term and that if she fared well in this term. She kept her promise and so did Kumar.
Sneha walked in to where Rose had left Megha. Sneha became her only friend. Sneha's parents visited the school often and when they took Sneha out for lunch, Megha accompanied them too. Sneha's mother liked Megha's long black hair, she use to sit with her and before leaving them back at hostel give them both a nice head oil massage.
She finally thought with Sneha around nothing bad will ever happen to her and from now on everything would be fine, her dad had already promised a small house near the school after the term and then she and Sneha would stay together there.
Kumar was surprised with the stack of letters on his deck when ever he came back home from Megha, some of them were blank pages, some had a lot to say. He knew Megha could read herself from inside and the best way to avoid her would be to keep reminding her that he had lot of work.


Mornings - Omnipresent.

Work - Each cognition depends on past perception.

Kumar had lost sense of chronological time. His traveling made no sense of day and night. He often found himself in an isolated tunnel losing himself for hours together.
The last he remembered of Rose was a pale face in pain asking for a medical diagnosis, he had left her lying in the hospital as he had a flight to catch.
Today he waited with bare walls for his daughter. He had no clue what and how he would welcome the child.
He hired a care taker and saw to it that he renovated a room and filled it with toys.
"Of course I forgive you, Mumma asked me to do so and the Sunday- Church class I attended always taught me forgiveness," Megha replied softly to Kumar's question of forgiving him.
"but your photo that Mumma showed me looked different from you," she concluded to sit without talking to Kumar for the rest of the drive back home from airport to house.
Megha couldn't sleep for most of the nights, she laid awake having lucid visions, which seemed to be more real than reality.
She first made friends with a cat, she called her cheenu. Cheenu purred and meowed and filled Megha's days with laughter. Cheenu used to watch Megha from breakfast to dinner, when she bathed, till she tucked herself in bed. Sometimes Cheenu disappeared for hours together and Megha as the time passed used to become sure of her not returning back. She would come back to the sobbing Megha, who then for next couple of days tie her and sleep.
Kumar had now changed three care- takers, he could not handle her passive-aggressive behavior. Always saying yes to all her demands, he again took Megha as work unable to crank up any emotions inside of him. The only thing that comforted him was Megha looked and walked like him. Her being quiet for hours together would not hurt him, but now she had to join a regular school. He decided to send her to India, and put her in a boarding school.
Megha was happy to be out of that place but she pleaded her dad to let cheenu come with her.
The next morning she got up to find Cheenu missing again but this time she never returned.



Notes - They have to contain a life.

Therapy - The indeterminate perception is always attributive by default.


Rose one morning happened to read Megha's diary titled  'Letters to God'.
She was touched by her innocence. She thought may be some people lose everything, the loss takes away the imagination to see the future. The loss is not because of some speculation in market or some trust issues or because of arrogance, not because of losing a limb or a lover. The loss has to happen in the corridors of minds, that individual's mind.
Megha was starving she thought. 'I have no right to take her away from Kumar,' she wrote in her letter to her aunt, 'I see here people staying in the premises of the churches, amongst them some barely live human existence, wire fences marks the limitation of their world. Then there is this human spirit that asserts itself which I realize reading Megha's diary. She sometimes does play with those children along the barb wires, laughing and singing. In me I see a new leash of surviving and being resilient, for Megha at least.'
The letter was never posted.
Megha was very humble, the teachers and Nuns called her human touch very striking. She was open and vulnerable.
She was later to understand the definitions of good and bad fortunes and their disadvantages and advantages.
She trusted the guardian after the death of Rose to return to her father in Germany.
She kept her self open in the fire that burnt her soul, the sun rise she saw from the window of the plane she flew would bring her more troubles she knew. She was eight and she knew somehow the value of hope.



Work - It is what that has to be DONE.

Pets - Unrestrained Moments of Joy.



"It's a fawn colored Labrador retriever puppy, female, I checked with the owners, they seem to be good people." Biji had called up Nancy during lunch hours.
"How much?"
"Eight thousand rupees Nancy."
"Expensive?",
"yes, but one look in her eyes and you don't won't to look anywhere,"
"you won't show it to Megha before buying it Biji?"
"You want me to, actually it isn't necessary."
"May be you should."
"Okay, I guess the owner has had a litter of eight puppies."

Megha named her new friend Leesa. Leesa was in her seventh week and had black button eyes that wouldn't leave Megha's eyes. The head use to twist and Megha would know Leesa wants to be carried.
Leesa would run all over the place, tumble at will and keep staring Megha. She was proud and the friends that spent the evening with her and Leesa as their center of attention would thrill Megha. Every evening she had a story for Nancy, Leesa did this, Leesa did that, her  oratory resembled Biji a lot.
"Momma look BijiMa and I made a box house for Leesa, she can now sleep near my bed."
The corrugated box house lasted only for one night, the next day Nancy hunted for a carpenter to get one simple box made for Leesa.
Every morning there was a new tantrum of taking Leesa to school too. Every evening Nancy thought she had gone back in to past when she bought Megha home. Medicines, what food to give, what not to give filled all the spare hours.
"Biji, all your fault," said Nancy one night completely exhausted."
"Mine, look who's telling me this." and she burst out laughing,
"she was trying to make her sit and then later how to shake her bums, Oh Nancy! you had to see it to believe it how hilarious it was."



Therapy - Try A Puppy.

Opposites - Everybody understands in bits.



"They are promoting me, seems like work trouble, I guess more of paper work and management issues," Nancy seated herself besides a sleeping Megha, she took of her glasses and continued, "I have to sort this out."
She did think of quitting the job but was afraid to act. Her concern for Megha and giving her a hundred percent attention was the cause behind the fear.
Megha had now some friends in the neighborhood and she spent the evenings with them. Biji would always accompany her and never leave her out of her sight. 

" Hug Biji and she won't be hurt anymore." Nancy smiled to a pale Megha.
"No hugs, no kisses, she knows very well she can't hide behind you."
"then bring me my own dog, I want it," Megha suddenly threw a fit.
"this all your fault Nancy, look she is turning in to a brat now; and she was fine actually, the minute she saw you, she knew she had a cover." Biji winked at Nancy and kept the voice cold and stern.
" listen to BijiMa Megha, you cannot play with street dogs, they can harm you."
"I know tili from when she was a small pup momma, BijiMa saw it only today," the voice was now flowing in tears, "ok, ok, we will see about it tomorrow, now come here, let moma get fresh, she has just come back. Come here, are you hungry?, want some noodles," Megha came out and followed her BijiMa.
"Can I have a small pup of my own BijiMa?"

Much later in the evening as Nancy sat drinking coffee she pondered and smiled, "Remember Biji her potty training took so much time, she refused to let go off the diapers."
"yes, yes but I guess the diapers are an addiction of sorts, they provide safety to the falls, the child senses it can fall when ever  and it does not hurt; and the child feels dry all the time, they cost a lot too, in our times we had almost fifty small cloths hanging all over the place, drying." laughed Biji, "I know, the diaper packs wouldn't even last a week," said Nancy while stroking the neck of Megha who was deep in some fantasy dream. She smiled in her sleep.



Pets - At a certain age they are always around.

Healers - A way to be human again.

Nancy was happy to see her swing. Little Megha would sit on the swing and twirl it round and round till it was all tightened up to rotate back to it's original state.

Her stance in the kitchen when hungry was like a stalk with little just about to bloom flowers.

Sometimes she would walk in a drunken state, never at a place, from here to there like some butterfly.

"You lose a great deal if you don't observe children in this age, it's an education for us." Biji spoke while cooking curry.

"I can't take of my eyes from her. my father would have done the same, may be," relaxed Nancy in the soft rays of setting sun.

"You had to know or hear my mother speak of me with sand, me in sand and sand in me, she said this for all children, how and what sands do to us in that age, pity we have no beaches here."

"Could we watch a movie, some movie about sea and beaches or oceans, or this summer we could go somewhere?" Nancy got up and raced to the kitchen.

"Yes, yes." laughed Biji.

"The other day as I came out of bath, she was standing by the door, waiting for me to finish and step out, her face full of questions, pale and she might have had shrunk too, she held my hand and took me to the veranda and showed me a pigeon that was lying still, I touched to find it being dead and she ask me where is the bird, I was surprised by her question, she might have been occupied with what was happening, she might have seen it in movement and then it going still, so she wanted to know what happened, and I was wondering how could I explain her."

"yes how could one explain it being alive or dead to this age."

"Sometimes all these books how about teaching children are all lies, I threw all the books out," laughed  Nancy.

"How did you manage?"

"managed it, but all my answers made her ask , then momma where did it go? her eyes never left my eyes."

Opposites - Anything we know of it is speculation.

Masochist - The body in which the head is detached.



Kumar was always demanding from the body, his body. He drove it through fast cars, alcohol, drugs and sex.
Mr. Patel  knew of his escapes but kept quiet for Kumar's running the office was more than perfect. He was also fine with Rose not disturbing him.
"Is he developing his body or destroying it?" Mr. Patel one night after a couple of drinks thought aloud to his wife.
"ha ha, he swims in your soul dear, why does it bother you?, anyways Rose is leaving for Beirut next week."

The beginning of seventies was changing the streets of Beirut. Skepticism ruled the man on the street. Kumar too felt the heat as sales dipped. He use to come home early to only find Rose slashed, drunk crazy.

The telegram announced Mr. Patel's death, a massive heart attack he suffered in the bathroom while he showered, the office and shop were closed for the first time in four years.

"He has no head Mom, only a body that demanded sex all the time, if I was drunk he used to leave me alone, but then offlate he used to rape me." 

" You walk out on him Rose?"

No, I see my body as a thing too now mom, addicted to his dangerous moves."

Mrs.Patel was very sick now and Rose pushed her frailty through her talks. She wished to be left alone and thought if Rose was driving herself to madness who was to stop her.
The extreme entertainment finally got the universe to plant a story in her womb. She hid it from Kumar till she knew she  had developed cancer.
Kumar took both the news with the closure of his first office because of violence on the streets of Lebanon with more liquor. He pushed himself harder, the fire burned like hell in him, swimming in the success of business.
The fishes in Rose swam dead.
Megha was born to a very sick and spiritual Rose. She was sad and yet connected to Megha in the Gulf of Mexico.
Megha never understood the bald head of Rose, she was asking questions to God in her diary.

Healers - A million prayers brings one to you too.

Ignorance -    One can live of it by choice.

Lebanon had always fired Rose's father Mr. Patel's imagination since 58'. Beirut was always talked about in his circles. His present offices could not offer him the luxury to start something there. The 60's was very vibrant for Beirut. He made a lot of tours there with young Rose, who fell in love with French there. Mr. Patel was in love with the heaven called Paris of the middle-east.

It was by 65' by which Mr. Patel got a shot at his fixation to own an outlet there. As Kumar left for his honey moon to the Swiss, he left for Lebanon.

Kumar was late again, his flight to Lebanon was at 12 noon, he would meet Mr. Patel there. Rose wanted to stay back as their  two month long honey moon had exhausted her nd she had to get back to her friends, so it was Kumar flying alone to his first ever job, his first ever office to be run by him alone.

The overwhelming humidity of August made Kumar remember Porbunder and the first night of his in Beirut was spent in flashes of his journey from a small sleepy town to a fashionable, fast moving and a very friendly city.

He picked up Arabic and french in no time and his letters to Rose were now in french asking her to join him soon. He could work without taking a break Mr. Patel had claimed proudly and this had disappointed Rose a lot, she was now in no mood to go. Rose's mother did know of their violent fights during the honey moon as they stayed in a friend's chalet there. She never mentioned it to Mr. Patel as he was busy investing money for Kumar. There was a night she had spent in a hospital with a minor head injury, the cause mentioned was a slip on stairs, but she knew it wasn't so. She was more than happy to have Rose with her. The heat of August in Beirut was a good excuse for Mr.Patel and Kumar. She knew behind Rose's 'all being well' exterior loomed a madness.

Masochist -    They have to be cultivated.

Restlessness - Energies that bubble like Lava.

"I haven't been able to make friends Megha and its been like eight months now, I know this is not your first time alone in the world but for me, who never stepped out of his small town, it is." Harish turned and was about to get up when Megha pulled him back on to her, "you have me." 

"Yes and this too was because you..." her fingers stopped his breath, then she kissed the remaining air out of his lungs.

Megha had a brilliant mind, she even excelled in the quiz contests. Her visual memories amazed a lot of people. She had many friends and her alertness was always discussed by the teaching staff.

Harish and she never exchanged any talk in the campus. Harish had managed a part time job from the field visits he had made during the project work of Dr. Morgan.

His restlessness was a great high for Megha, she could feel it in his muscles and his breaths, almost like an addict she had to go to him for her fix. For him his liberty for expressing his desires and being himself without any inhibitions the high.

Memories operates almost differently for all thought Megha, amazed at her father and Arun and how her's operated. Mr. Kumar spoke only when Megha called, mostly for money transfer. Arun's complete stop of letters and calls to her got to her now. She did feel guilty for being angry and agitated when Arun wanted to get close to her and here she was with the releases she felt through Harish. Every act with Harish bought Arun closer to her.

The letter to Sneha was more about this understanding, this need for clarity about her memory than about Arun. Sneha had no clue about Megha and Harish and in her innocence she got in touch with Arun asking him about his wellbeing and letting him know about Megha's concern, obviously she exaggerated. A casual question about Arun's whereabouts was mishandled by Sneha.

She knew she had made a wrong move.

Ignorance - Born from feeling Bad.

Plum - Prunus Mume



Dr. Morgan was fifty-five years old man. His reading glasses were big for his face thought Harish. He sat there in the professor's chamber unsure of the project that he had to complete with Megha.
Six months lost he thought.
"sorry, did you say anything?" Megha asked.
Harish shrugged. "No."
Could she read minds or did he think aloud he thought.
" Anything bothering Harish?" this time Dr. Morgan asked from behind the piles of his books.
"No, just that," he sat gazed, looking at the notes in his hands given by Dr. Morgan.
"yes,"
"just that, hope I generate enthusiasm for this line of work."
"Don't worry, you will, so you and Megha will assist me with the field work and gather as much statistics you both can from manufacturers, distributors and bankers."
Megha left without saying a goodbye, probably she wanted nothing from me thought Harish.

The field work was carried out as messengers would carry out a delivery. The statistics would or would not benefit anyone was a question that often filled Harish's mind.
"Lunch?" asked Megha in one of their field trips.
"No, not hungry."
"You could sit with me, till I have mine."
"I have to finish my reports."

"Will help you later, lets have lunch." She knew he was hungry and after some prodding and provoking he did order a sandwich for himself.

"Tell me about you, where do you come from etc, etc, or whatever you like."
"Nothing much, I'm the only son, my father is a credit manager in a bank who wants to see me heading a branch of a foreign bank one day."

"hmmmmm, you sound like my father before he met my mother."

"what did you say, I could not follow you."
"nothing, just said I come from a luxurious background and my father had a vague idea of where I am."

Later while walking back home he broke the ice for first time and asked,

"are you concerned with what happens with you?"

"No, but right now I want to do this, hence I'm doing this." She went right close to his face and wished him goodnight.

"Belief and questioning go together," said Megha to Dr. Morgan, " right Harish? Till you ask you aren't certain, once you are, you have no questions."
"I may stop asking out of fear too," replied Harish.
"yes, but a true economist only observes, the observation is the conclusion."
"Brilliant Megha." Dr. Morgan smiled.



Restlessness - It has a source.

House - A concept that is overrated.



'Reward and punishment are tools of economics, dealing with the reward or punishment is the science of economics. So much has already been said, written and studied about it. How the living deals with it is what takes the studies further, is what helps remove contradictions from existing theories.'
The auditorium applauded as Megha paused to sip some water.
'Are the stakes solely responsible for cheating? Individual representatives of state or individuals that form government of a country can cheat the summits and the organization they belong to depending on their own individual stake or collective stakes. History has time and again proved how trade unions have cheated the cause they fought for. This aspect of economics forms the greater part of game on the countries where trades decide the future of the strength of their respective currencies. I would like to end my speech with a thought that was inspired by my late grand father - Cheating has to be understood first hand so as to not to become a skeptic. However paradoxical this may sound, it is not so. ThankYou.'

Nottingham school of economics was discussing the Globalization and had invited the students to speak. Megha's speech unnerved a few teachers there, others thought it as a simple need to present contradictory ideas to show oneself off.
Dr. Morgan was impressed and waived Megha to meet her after the session.

Arun harassed Megha for first six months in UK calling her from India and writing letters. She thanked God for Arun's financial condition not allowing him to fly to Nottingham. 
Here she lived in an apartment with three other girls. They would not see each other as all would remain locked in their respective rooms, sometimes bump each other in kitchen and would return back to the room till the one who occupied finished her work in kitchen. One of them was a Chinese and she had her boyfriend in her room all day long. Disgusting she thought and complained about her to their land lady who promised to speak to the Chinese about it.

Harish had a tough time in Nottingham, his financial condition back home made him think even to buy bread which when he converted in rupees seemed very expensive. He would sleep often with a slice of bread and cold water in his stomach. The determination held on his face used to motivate Megha but she use to hesitate to approach him. She knew a smile would end up in affair.

'Mr. Morgan, can I come in?' knocked Megha,
'please do, come in, here sit.'
'thankyou,'
'give me a minute please, we are expecting one more student, would you care for some tea?'
'later, who are we expecting?'
'Harish, you know him, don't you?'


Plum - When it falls the palms must be stretched out.

Thoughts - The dog often chases it's own tail.

The day trip excited Nancy and it showed on Megha too. After a very long time she thought. She had never attended the picnics with her hospital colleagues, always stayed back.

Seasons bring in happiness she thought and every life in it's life must have four seasons. The play of five elements that she read in one of the spiritual books that she had bought for own self had intrigued her.

The sunshine filled the veranda and there was Biji waiting for her, "Biji and and her sandwiches, ready to sail maam,"

shut up, good morning, just give me five minutes and I will be with you."

The drive was halted by many small breaks, some for photographs and some for Megha.

Finally the smell in the air changed, "that is Bakula in the air Nancy, hmmm."

The temple sat on a brick path and the backyard had this huge landscape with a deep valley, the bakula stood proud in the right hand corner, the flowers had weaved a carpet around it.

"Biji this is beautiful, very refreshing, you must have come here before,"

"no, I wanted to but my husband, forget it.... but now I can do and be what I want."

"Megha, stop, don't run fast"

" Mommmma," her small thin voice sang, "look."

"that's a squirrel my child."

Biji had a sweet voice and she could sing too, Nancy too learned a great deal about Biji that afternoon,

she said something that went on repeating in her mind all the way back to house and through the night, "how could God invent eternal, when I live this day, I live because moments aren't eternal, if my husband wouldn't die, I wouldn't be here free."

House - The walls exist on the outside too.

Money - Earn it or marry it.

Kumar could just go back packing anytime. Strongly built with a square face he decided to leave for Brazil instead of leaving back for India. His father had warned him if he did not return back he would severe all relationships with him.

The heat on the streets of Rio was killing and the nights hot. The nights as the day always had people on street participating in something or other. Carnivals he had heard were worse, noisy, loud, bright and colorful. He stopped by the corners absorbing the sound and colors.

Woman walked with clothes clinging to the curves, the heat in their eyes glowed.

"Rose, and you?',

"Kumar, you from India?"

"No Germany, but ancestors yes from India."

"Vacation?",

"yes and a no, with my parents, dad whose on work and my mom attending some circus, me utilising his hard earn."

Her thighs slipped off the stool and the cigarette fell on her linen skirt that barely covered her thighs, she was already drunk. Kumar just managed hold her and got the cigarette before it could make a larger hole.

With the stick between his lips he held her strong and she laughed.

She threw him away and managed to sit back still laughing. The hole in the skirt disgusted her, Kumar's eyes looking at it made her more angry,  she took it off and ran towards the water.

"you up, look outside see how beautiful the morning is Rose, coffee? aspirin?" her mom spoke softly, " your dad was furious last night, but I guess you don't remember any of it, and who is this Kumar, where did you meet him and fall in love with?"

"kumar?, ah, aspirin and some coffee and my cigarettes,"

"no cigarettes, you got some guy with you yesterday night called Kumar, you were semi-naked, drunk, and said that you wanted to marry Kumar then and there, we knew you were drunk and so was Kumar, he sleeps in the next room, your dad checked his passport and some other documents in his back pack, he says Kumar has just finished his MBA in US and at present talking to his parents in India."

"I don't know who this Kumar is mom serious, I need my cigarettes, CIGARETTES PLEASE or I will die now."

"how's she?"

"on sleeping pills as regular, but milder ones today, what did you find of the boy?",

"his father has disowned him, he hung before I could ask him anything."

"the cops said he saved Rose, he seems to be ok to me'"

"I think he is up, will speak to him soon."

Rose was up again by afternoon, feeling heavy with pain all over, she walked up to the corner where her purse hung, she took out a cigarette and lit it.

She walked slowly towards the kitchen, as she passed her father's room she saw him in conversation with a man.

She went near the door and could now hear then discussing Lebanon and the political situation there. Boring she thought and was about to leave when she heard her father calling her.

"Rose?, you ok, come here, sit, you know Kumar, he saved you from drowning yesterday,"

Kumar seemed to look away out somewhere in infinity, not even listening what the old man was saying to Rose.

"whatever dad, I'm going for a swim behind, see you later."

did you eat?, your mom left some eggs and toast for you, she would be back soon,"

"damn."

The love, he felt for her last night intensified with the job offer to run a new office in Lebanon fired Kumar. She was there on her back floating on water, her slim body with her beautiful long legs stopped him in his tracks.

"swim?"

"no, I'm good,"

"smoke?"

"your face is never expressionless, something about you that kills me inside'"

"ha ha ha, never heard that line before, so what did you trade with my dad?"

"my freedom for your hand."

 

Thoughts - Perpetuate on their own

Culture - Break-Away is possible.



The ring did not let Megha sleep, she did not let Sneha sleep. 
"Arun, Arun, Arun, I'm bored Megha, you have told me about his proposal six or five times now, stop it,"
"coffee then?" giggled 
"but aren't you going back to UK to continue your job?"
"no, I'm settling down, I will quit, marry Arun, would have kids, and shop and just chill for the rest of my life."
"I don't like Arun."
"I know, I love him. And I'm twenty-six and I have known him from childhood Sneha."


Megha in her third year graduation had now known Arun from seven years now. Their relationship had seen break- ups and patch-ups. Arun was in the families construction business having left college in second year itself. 
Dominant, rude and brute is what described him. Megha liked and disliked his being hard on himself and others.
Mr. Kumar, Megha's father was in business of semi-precious stones, traveling most of the time with offices in Germany and Libya. He had no blood relatives and few distant friends in Delhi, they hadn't been in touch for years. He still preferred India for Megha than Germany, Libya was out of question, but it was Libya that bought him a lot of money.
Megha was pampered and all her wishes fulfilled before even asked for. At twenty Megha needed no caretaker in the bungalow and she lived all by herself. A river down the road was where she spent most of the time with Sneha talking about traveling the world like her Papa. She had decided to do her post graduation in UK in finance. 
Arun never wanted her to study and this led to many of the fights. 
She wasn't talking to him now rather never, he had forced himself on her and she wasn't ready. She had slapped him and now wanted to leave for UK mid- term. Arun too left for some distant site for work.
"no Papa, I want to study in UK, I am dead sure of it, make it possible for me and when are you coming back?"
"soon..." the phone went dead.



Money - Provides incredible support.

Memories - Knowledge.



The Sacred Heart School was vibrating in excitement. The results of the state-level interschool arts competition were to be announced.
The seniors sat ahead for they were the most tensed, the competition always threw surprise winners and the tension had gripped the auditorium.
The primary grade sat behind, some with their parents. Nancy sat with the first grader Megha in the second last line of the auditorium.
The first four grades took part in the internal school competition amongst the first four grades.
They all  had to wait till the results of the inter-state competition was announced.
The auditorium suddenly went into pin drop silence, the Principle and the arts teacher had taken their place.
The Principle understood that he needed to delay the report, the silence was beautiful.
"The Sacred Heart School my dear students has had an history of excellence, our corridors are now packed with our achievements. There were 257 schools in competition compared to 235 schools last year. Here inside this envelope are the finalist, the runner ups and the winners of the competition. This year our school shall earn a special place in history."

"and Biji she slept the entire afternoon in my lap, the Principle kept talking, reading the prize winning essays and Megha comfortably slept in my laps, ha ha"
"and her painting?"
"she did get two stars for it and tomorrow would be their poetry saying competition in class."
"its too much to include the first three graders in this function, right?"
"we never had all this and yet we produced great artist and scholars, times have changed now, very competitive, ambition driven environment has been pushed to extremes. The other day I was reading Megha the Arjun's story in the Mahabharata , she had so many questions."
"lets take a day trip somewhere, Megha would love it,"
"that's a nice idea, lets do it on Sunday."
"there is a temple some 65 kilometers from here, with a bakula tree, it's very beautiful and in the mornings the ground is covered with fresh flowers fallen from the tree."
"ok, sounds nice."

Culture - It maintains its continuity.