Memories of You…

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Last night I was going through the pictures of the past and suddenly eyes started to well up and heart got soggy.

The memories of the past started dancing unbidden before my eyes. The gossips done with you, the excursions taken out with you, the smiles shared with you, and the life lighted with you are all torturing my mind. I feel totally unable to stop the stream of salt emanating from my eyes.

I try to reason with all rationality that life has to move on, yet I seriously yearn to revisit the past that always seemed perfect with you.

I miss the fun, the fights, the wrongs, the rights that I experienced with you. I miss your existence around me; I miss your fragrance that used to surround me.

I never knew that I would feel so lonely without you when I had the luxury of your proximity. I never knew that I would feel so lowly without you when I had the luxury of your vicinity.

Feel very horrible that I can never experience the life again that I could with you in the past; I guess I will have only memories of you till the breath that is the last.

No doubt that I am thankful to God that he showered upon me your presence but I won’t like to conceal my grief that why he made your presence only ephemeral in my life.

I know the world out there will say grow up! But this time I want to be an adamant child – who is sans reason. I want to be stubborn for getting those days back from the hands of time.

I might sound stupid and unreasonable, but all devotees got blessings of their Gods when they got called insane!

That is why I cried…

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I know things have changed and I can never experience the past again,

And that is why I cried.

I know the Sun has set and I can never experience the day again,

And that is why I cried.

I know the flowers have wilted and I can never experience the same fragrance again,

And that is why I cried.

I know the leaves have fallen and I can never experience the same glorious tree again,

And that is why I cried.

I know the smiles have evaporated and I can never experience the same happiness again,

And that is why I cried.

Encore—No More!

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Once again the guffaw of cruelty reverberated in Mumbai and silent became many smiles. Blood that is meant to paint life, painted roads. Innovations that are meant to save lives, primarily, snatched lives. 

Once again there is clamor that there is nothing to panic, so what that some people had to sleep forever; so what that some eyes will never see the light of the Sun again? We must not panic is the assurance.

Blasts after blasts, we have gone numb. It doesn’t matter to lose few more lives in blasts anymore. And that is why; we are lethargic in taking any action to protect the lives of the nation.

We have gone so numb that it has stopped to matter whether a culprit is punished or not. We have resigned everything to the will of the fate and act as an inanimate thing that is bereft of any reactionary powers.

Even if we try, we fail to create an impact.

If we don’t act as a responsible nation towards the threats that scare the existence of humanity, the history will remember us as a nation of weak minds.

Do we want to be remembered in a negative light by history? Surely not!

So, there should be no encore of the ghastly music of bombs that tears apart bodies and lives.

We must pledge to become voice for those who lost it in the attack and inform the mind of terrorism that we are prepared to stop any encore of its deadly dance!

Sycophancy: A form of art!

Art helps understand the proceedings of life in a manner that is deeper than our general viewpoints about life.  Art helps reincarnate situations from life and gives them a shape that human mind always desires for. Art is an escape from tumultuous ways of life and it has various forms: painting, dancing, singing...etc

You must be wondering how other different forms of art and sycophancy converges together. Look, as an escape from the rigorous demands of life to secure a job or to get a job done, sycophancy provides a subtle avenue that facilitates the process of a work.

Sycophancy has been practiced by human beings since eons and has been developed through ages to adapt to the changing times.

But alas! Despite all credentials to qualify as a stream of art, it is yet to be recognized as an art form. In India, it has flourished since the time of kings and queens and mainly sycophancy has been attached to the corridors of power.     

Sycophancy in India enjoys its place in esteemed quarters of politics, business, education, and sports. Despite enjoying the proximity to such distinguished sections of the society, I fail to understand that why it is still out of course curricula in India? The institute based on this subject should be floated. On the lines of IITs and IIMs, Indian Institute of Sycophancy (IIS) should get approval from our HRD ministry.

 This way the progress of the sycophancy as an art can be documented and the coming    generations can benefit a lot from past experiences. The preserved documents can reduce the amount of mental exercise to a great deal for future wannabe sycophants.

They will just have to apply the theories to derive a desired result for a given situation. And sycophancy as a stream will also flourish like other fields of academics. And equipped with scientific training in sycophancy, India will produce world class sycophants who will be unmatchable in their skills.

In the beginning any attempt to organize the valuable knowledge of sycophancy, in terms of an educational tool, will face opposition as other revolutionary doctrines of the world had to face. But a resolute stand on the part of the practicing sycophants of India can ensure that a strong educational citadel is built through legal ways and the IIS sees the light of the day as a proof of indelible existence of sycophants in this world.

Long live sycophancy!

Namaste Sir … Madam

When we enter the swanky malls and supermarkets, we get smitten by the razzmatazz of the environment. We splurge, we dine, and we have all sorts of fun that the money can buy and these malls can offer. We return with all material happiness bought by monetary elements.

When we return home, we indulge ourselves in the colors and odors of products bought. But not even by mistake we tend to indulge in thinking about the person who had greeted us by saying: Namaste Sir/Madam at the mall while we were entering.

( You might argue, is it necessary to think about that person? Well, I am not here to preach anything as to what is right or wrong, I am here just explaining how I feel.)

Greeting is an essential part of services marketing and this way customers feel more valued than without it. But often I have felt that when they greet us they lack the real essence of greeting a guest, which is greeting with happiness. And why is it?

I feel that they don’t feel connected to the materialistic opulence that the malls represent. Despite being an integral part of retail sector, they seem aloof from the prosperity that the sector churns out.

They seem completely unaffected by the retail boom in the country. And perhaps this is the reason that when they greet the customers they feel their lips strained to smile freely. And when they smile after an effort, it is bereft of warmth of a smile.

I don’t know, but I feel pain in their smile for being left behind in the race of the economy and for being only a sightseer of the progress of the country.

I understand everything is not possible for everybody to get, but I also understand how it feels to be so close to the prosperity but at the same time to be so far from it.  There should be efforts, on the part of the economy, to give a slice of economic happiness (that is balanced and reasonable in terms of social framework) to these greeters as well. So that when they greet they feel the warmth of greeting themselves as well.

P.S: This is entirely how I have felt about the situation, you might have experienced exact opposite situations with janitors of malls. And the article is restricted to and based only on my observation about the situation.

Feeling lonely lonely!

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Missing those days when I was with you, missing those moments that I spent with you. Without you there is very few that interests me, there is hardly any hue that attracts me.

I feel my heart ruffled and eyes stifled. When I want to feel something, I find my heart- throb has gone numb and when I want to speak something, I find my eyes have gone dumb.

My mornings are eclipsed with the absence of yours and evenings are bereft of fragrance of yours. I feel as if marooned on an island where my only accompany is the distant hope of meeting with you again.

Today, when I had been to the garden, the flowers that once used to seem luscious, seemed languishing and the drops of dew that used to seem the drops of diamonds, seemed drops of tears -- shed from my heart.

The chirping of birds that once used to seem melody, seemed maddening with surly din. Looking at the moon, which used to seem fun, seemed utter sin.

Since when you have left, the sky is blanketed with cloud and the Sun is coiled in the gloom of it. Suddenly, the drops lurking in the lap of clouds started saying adieu and the existence of clouds were nowhere. When drops and clouds parted ways the Sun smiled with a villainous grin. I don’t know but I felt bad that clouds and drops had to part their ways.

I had never felt this way before!

Everything passes by in this world and these moments shall also, but will I meet you again? I want to keep my hopes alive so that I can live to meet you again!

Different Shades of Colors!

Colors are feast for eyes and fire for soul. They are blessings of nature and source for rapture. God sprinkled color on every part of the Universe: be it earth or sky; be it leaf or reef. God created life out of this universe and painted it with different emotions.  But, despite the artistic endeavors of God, there are some aspects of life that still need gallons of colors to look colorful.

I will dwell upon those ‘some’ aspects that still need to be colored.

His parents got charred in the fire that broke out in the slums due to electrical short circuit 6 months ago. Now he is literally on roads, he has been rendered orphan due to that incident. He had wanted to become an army-man and wanted to serve the country, but today he is an almsman. He feels humiliated. He feels rejected. Sometimes, snatching and pick pocketing also flit through his mind.   The colors of sanity have deserted him. The prosperity around him makes him frantic and insane. He misses his share of color of prosperity, his share of color of justice that is not there for him. I want his dreams to take flight of colors. I want his life to take flights of colors.

She resides in the backwaters of India and is away from the cries of Reservation for Women in Capital.  She was 10 when she became widow and 14 when she was smuggled to one of the metro cities of India. Her father was given the greed that she will get good food, shelter, and education in the city and in turn she will have to do some small domestic works.  The shelter she got was of a brothel and in the name of education and food she received abuses. One NGO with the help of city police rescued her and other girls like her. She was deported to her parents safely. But now she lives in incessant fear of the face of cities. Her heart and mind bears scars of that noxious experience -- even today when she is eighteen.  Another marriage seems impossible and white Saari seems to have become her skin. I want that Saari to have colors of rainbow. I want her life to have colors of flowers.

He toils hard in his fields to decorate the exorbitant Chinese plates with stark white grains of rice. Right from five star hotels to palatial resorts, everywhere the droplets of a peasant’s sweat is devoured in the form of rice, bread and vegetable, but hardly the squeaky clean plates of these places care about the plight of the farmer who is creator of these marvelous things that douse fire of  hunger . It is an irony that the person who colors others’ dream by helping them provide strength for body, dies strength-less and almost in the form of a skeleton. His harvests bring moolah in galore to others but he dies under the burden of unpaid loans and utter penury. I want to see color of opulence in his life, so that he also enjoys his hard work that brings happiness to the lives of millions.

Even after so many years of civilization, we as humans have not been able to give them their due. They born genderless and we become heartless. We call them Eunuchs or Hijras. They become part of our joy and we become part of their derision. They bless us and we make fun of them. Where is the color of respect in our civilization that can give them equal opportunity in a society? After all how long will they keep on suffering for a reason that is entirely not in their control? And after all how long will we keep belittling humanity by being happy in their distress? I want color of equality for them that make the word humanity more complete and full of heart.

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Being Ordinary!

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Is it necessary for everyone to be famous? Is it necessary for everyone to be adored by a frantic legion of fans? Is it necessary for everyone to be a face in the crowd?

To be a part of the crowd also has its virtues. No one might recognize you as an Amithabh Bachchan or a Sachin Tendulkar but still the life of an ordinary man is worth living.

The happiness is not slave of imposing mansions or lengthy limousines. Innumerable hearts, every moment, aspire to become a star of their dreams and the same numbers of hearts get broken every moment as well.

The rejection and dejection seep in every pore of mind and soul in such situations that make a person frail and feeble. In moments of despair some take extreme steps.

The education system, that induces the madness for being a topper in the tender minds, makes a grave mistake by avoiding the average and ordinary minds that have tremendous spark smoldering in them.

When we avoid ordinary minds, we get devoid of extraordinary feats that the world could have witnessed.

Being ordinary has its charm. When the ordinary laughs it resonates life, when ordinary sobs it reflects concern. The ordinary is not cosmetic in its approach to the lives around it, its approach is genuine.

The ordinary is sensitive, the ordinary is emotional. The ordinary wipes tears and allays fear. The ordinary is always there, always near.

The slurping of tea at a roadside hotel (read shanty), the fragrance of perspiration in a stuffed compartment of a train, the din of haggling in a vegetable mart are part and parcel of an ordinary life, but these experiences create extra-ordinary moments.

And, it is moments that make a life more enjoyable and livable? So, be ordinary and enjoy extraordinary moments.

Being a Father!

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The moment a bundle of joy is entrusted to a man by a nurse; an utter transformation of personality takes place in his life. The feel of soft body and warmth of innocent eyes, cast a spell on a person with its enchanting enigma forever.

The cry of baby is a clarion call for a battle of responsibilities ahead. Being a father is about playing multiple roles under one name. Parent, friend, teacher, guide, mentor are names of some characters that dwell in the personality of a father.

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But at the same time being father is fun as well. Being father is about being a child again. Babbling with the baby to make her happy as if you really understand what she is saying is an exhilarating experience. Even if, age has taken its toll and you pant hugely after a short run, you keep running behind the bicycle of your daughter to save her from falling off when she is learning to run and ride it.

And, when your child doodles some unintelligible lines for the first time, you become his first fan and praise him as if he has displayed the skills of a Picasso or a Michael Angelo. And your praise gives him the very first taste of being recognized.

Be it losing in fake boxing or feigning that your son bowled a marvelous spell to bamboozle you are some small but sweet aspects of being a father.

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It is not that being a father is always about being nice. Sometimes a scold, a thrash, and a stare are needed as therapeutic measures to reform the anomalies of children’s behavior. True, it is tough to be a father because you need to know the art of balancing love and lessons.

Gradually, children grow and a father grows with them as well. He shares their anxiety for exams, anticipation for results and decisions for a career.

But the role refuses to end here.

The important day of an important aspect of life comes in the life of his children: the marriage day. On this day, he has a mixed feeling of happiness and sadness. It seems that he fulfilled the responsibility of being a father. He takes a sigh of relief.

But the sigh is cut short in a year or two when he is informed that he has become a grand- father and his expertise are needed. Again, he starts being a child with the prattle of his grand -child. So, being a father is a continuous experience without a period inserted.

Happy father’s day!!!!

A walk with you!





                                                        Image Courtesy: fotolia.com

I want to enjoy a walk with you.

Just one walk!

For this walk, I want all the fortitude of a tree and all the attitude of a sea. I want to remain as inseparable to you in this journey as rays are to the sun. I want to share with you every frustration and every fun.

I want to share with you valleys full of flowers and alleys full of thorns. I want to be with you in moments full of frolics and minutes full of concerns.

 I want to be with your every yard that is silent but strong; every pace that is right or wrong.

I want to be the sweat on your forehead and pant in your lungs. I want to be your silhouette on the earth head and strength for your rungs.

 I want to be the thirst of your soul and mirth of your goal. I want to be with your every part and every whole.

I want to be the mist of your eyes and grist of your whys. I want to be with you in your every reason and every season.

I want to walk along with you when it is sweet sun or hot moon, be they times of sheer bane or pure boon.



Image Courtesy: telegraph.co.uk



I want to walk with you even when you have sagging cheeks and oblivious mind; tottering limbs and trembling lips.

I want a walk with you that is as surreal as a dream, as real as a stream, and as leal as a gleam.

Won’t you allow me this one walk with you?

Just one walk!

I Still Meet a Child in You!

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You might have grown up to become more intelligent and more refined in your thought process, but still I succeed to meet a child in you. Even if you understand the ways of the world better than before and the world treats you with more attention than before, still, I hear the noise of a child in your voice.

You have changed in some aspects and have remained unchanged in some. But you never changed to an extent where you became unreachable or went aloof.

Your care for everyone was always available even after the change had engulfed you. You still stopped by to listen, if somebody had something to say and you still stopped by to give attention, if somebody was unable to match up your pace.  With the change in your life, you tried to change the world of others.

Your smile was still as lucid as the shadow of moon on the water of a river. The scars of hubris and arrogance had failed to malign the emotions of your giggle. It was as balmy and beatific as ever.  

You were still attached to the life around you as the silhouette against the light. You refused to go away and clanged to everyone’s heart like a child clings to her mother’s arms. 

You moved ahead in life in a sense that you achieved a milestone; still you cared to come back the road and encouraged others to reach for their goals. The sincerity of your care had semblance of a child caring for her distressed sibling over a broken doll.

I know with the passage of time you will get busier and I will become more blurry for you, but still I will be able to imagine a child that you have been with me all along. A child that was there to wipe tears with her baby-soft fingers while still shedding tiny drops of diamonds from her own eyes.

I will always cherish childhood of your personality, even if I develop wrinkles on my face and crinkles in my bones.

They Sing & They Dance!

They adorn the night with the rhythms, notes, moves, and music. They are quintessential part of any wedding ceremony in India and they weave an enchanting mist that enwraps the whole of the evening. They sing, they dance, and they intoxicate the air with mirth. People sway to their tunes and get engrossed in the magic of moments.

They are not the part of the family, but you can hardly tell them apart from the family. Their zeal and energy is at par with the others closely associated with the marriage.  The whole night of a wedding function remains awake to the rhythm and ragas of these people.

They are no Kishore Kumars or Kareena Kapoors of Bollywood, but the charm that they conjure up in no less than them. Their movements of body and voice cast a spell on the audiences and they remain glued to their performances.

The exuberant smile and unremitting energy oozing out of them, compels even a devout pessimist to visit hope in life. How is it possible to be so happy and enthusiastic without any valid reason? You might argue that they get money for what they are doing and money is the ultimate inspirational source in the world. It can have any one sing or dance.

But I would like to differ here. I guess that it is their love for life that gets reflected in their performances. They could also have indulged themselves in the complaining that why didn’t life give them destiny of movie stars when they have more or less the same qualities. They are happy for what they have and who they are.

And they celebrate every moment of their existence with ecstasy and style. The fountainhead of their happiness lies in their heart, which doesn’t reason or argue about the quality of happiness. It treats happiness as only happiness sans any yardsticks of low quality of happiness or high quality of happiness.

Isn’t there a lesson hidden in their behavior for all of us, who are searching for happiness frantically, without, instead of within?

Scattered Death!

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Warning: This write up might leave you depressed!

Life has a clandestine relationship with death. Life has promised death to give space in its bag. Death is draconian, devastating, and drastic. The world seems to have a view that life is an antagonist of death but reticently life underpins the efforts of death to vanquish it. Death is scattered in every iota of life.

Why can’t life be an eternal process? The poignancy of death, however inevitable it may be, is heart –rending and outright ugly. Death dooms hope and shatters dreams.

Strangely, the very things that we rely on to germinate and sustain life play their part in snatching it. Air, Water, Earth, Sky, Fire: every part of essential energy is essentially responsible for termination of a life. Tornados, floods, earthquakes, cloudbursts, infernos have been devouring life for eons.

Whenever we move ahead in life we move ahead with death in terms of meeting newer styles of death. When we didn’t have electricity, we were not dying of it, when we didn’t have airplanes we were not dying of it. Sure, we have enjoyed the effects of inventions but we have died of them too. I wish we could only live of the inventions.

Death enters life surreptitiously. You never know when it has tightened its noose around you. And suddenly one day you get a call from death that it is coming for an appointment. What wrong did you do in choosing to live? You wonder!

If life was not there, death would not have an existence. Because we choose to live, we are destined to die. Going through bereavement of a loving mother, caring father, affectionate brothers and sisters, and darling sons and daughters is inhuman and ruthless. Why is it that a chirpy childhood or a bubbly adulthood has to become mute before a reasonable time? We don’t have any answer for any unreasonable and insensitive betrayal of life, despite that we continue to be enamored by life. I wonder how?

We choose life, we become sensitive and one day suddenly our sensitivity is tested by brutal aspect of life—death. We feel cheated to have chosen life. The pain of death seems multiple times more than the happiness of life we have had.

Though we feel deceived by life, yet we are helpless to live on…

P.S: I know this is no suitable end of this article but I don’t wish any death err… end for it either be it suitable or otherwise.

Yes, I can revolt!

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I might be tiny sand and you can blow me away with the full force of your lungs, but remember that if I fall in your eyes, I can bring cataclysm to your sight-power. So, never consider me trivial, for I can revolt.

I might be a fragile glass and you can break me with your minimum of efforts, but remember that when I am forced to turn into smithereens, I can lacerate body more easily and can make your life miserable. So, never consider me frail, for I can revolt.

I might be tranquil and translucent water and you can bind me in dams with your brain, but remember when you try to strangulate me, I can decimate you beyond recognition. So, never disrespect me, for I can revolt.

I might appear brittle soil that you can till and douse your hunger, but remember that when you dig my bosom beyond tolerance, I can spit venom and devour you all. So, never try my patience, for I can revolt.

I might be a serene sky for most of the times smiling with sparkles of the Sun and the Stars, but remember that if you try to make me angry, I can become livid! My wrath can raze you. So, never instigate me, for I can revolt.

I might appear a luscious flower with fragrance, but remember that if you want to trample me, then I have got a team of thorns as well that can prick you to death. So never consider me only delicate, for I can revolt.

I might appear life giving, innocuous air, but remember that if you try to play smart with me, I can devastate you by building up or shrinking up my strength. So, never underestimate me, for I can revolt.

Sometimes, I see a semblance of these elements in Indian population as well. Yes, Indian population can revolt!

The Waiting Game!

Waiting is integral part of our life.  We hardly find any aspect of life that is sans waiting. The human life in itself is the upshot of a patient waiting of 9 months. Waiting has different aspect -- sometimes lovely, sometimes lousy.

When a mother waits for her child to meet the world, the whole waiting process is adorned with expectations of how she will raise her, how she will call her, which school she will go, what kind of person she will marry and etc…

When the child is born, the waiting game starts again for her to take the first step, utter the first word, draw the first letter and etc…

Waiting has enigmatic charm. When a peasant waits for rain and when it waits for the time to reap harvest, the waiting period is rife with emotions of hope and a better future.

When we face calamity we wait for it to get over. And wait for good times to take over.

Waiting refuses to leave us. When we study, we take exams, we wait for results; when we get job offer, we wait for joining day; when we find love of life, we wait for him/her to come on time at a restaurant and etc…

Waiting is like a canvas of a painter, which we paint with our thoughts, aspirations, and expectations.

But, waiting is not always beautiful. A convict who waits to be executed, a terminally ill patient who waits to meet end of life can experience the worst attributes of waiting. Apprehension and dejection enwrap the psyche and soul.

Warts and all, waiting is inseparable facet of our way of life. We wait to be happy, we wait to cry, we wait to live, and we wait to die.