Fear. Faith. Choice.

“Are you not weary of ardent ways, Lure of the fallen seraphim? Tell no more of enchanted days ” – James Joyce I kept listening to the Piper’s dream. In the gliding whistles of Northerly winds, over the foamy white crests of swelling waves, within the metamorphosis of every note and beyond with the endless beyond of silvery glitters from above and from endless above of the blushing moon. The veil of dark clouds running towards some unknown edge, now here, now there, now gone, now here again. Silvery tears trickled down and tickled the waters ahead. Gone now! She runs away! The temper accelerates, the tempo rises, waves fall! Are you not weary of ardent ways? There I saw magnanimous unearthly forms! Ah! Fascinating heads rising ahead! The silvery crests of those mighty unicorns! Driven by fury and yet such grace in their flight! Oh Laocoon, here comes the last judgment; the voluptuous rider will terminate the days of the priests! Run Laocoon! Run! Run for your li

The voices rise and fall. The contemplating soul tunes into the subtle rhythm of those flapping angel wings. They say, "Lend me your ears and know the secrets of the beauty your heart longs for!" Looking out seeking something to quench the same old thirst? Not really. Just a little of something to keep the longing going. Not looking for contentment. Not fulfilment. Not peace. Grasping onto the fangs of longing to keep it pierced within the moving passions that colour my momentary breath. Oh Grace, may I have just a little of something to keep the day going? To bath in miraculous showers of sunrise and sunset, to listen to those breaking waves against the island rocks...? Something to hold on to the bitter sweet bondage of longing? Oh Grace! Keep your glory concealed. Do not uplift that veil completely to blind my sight, let those dark clouds cover that enchanting smile and whisper to me just few letter of those profound secrets. Imprison me with the shackles o

A side glance at my Hamlet hat Breathing still, stillness in movement Beating still, movement in stillness. In a moment it is known How the gardener had sown; And all at once I am a thought Born from heart. Letters fall in place Knotting the beautiful shoe lace.

Knock on the door. "Can I come in?", she asked. He replied in a deep stern voice, "Of course, not." She laughed, "You are so cheeky!" Pushed him aside. Made her way in. Sunlight always has her ways. 

Up and down To and Fro Swinging then Swinging now. Dusting off. Picking up. Dusting off again. Knock on the door. Postman: "A letter for you." Signed. Delivered. Tore Envelope. Sloppy letters. Read. Up and down To and Fro Swinging then Swinging now. 

Dark stormy night. I felt my own presence most powerfully as my existence was echoed back by the mountains sketching the peirar in the  apeiron. Thunderous ominous clouds gathered around the sky, waiting for every opportunity to collide with one another. It was then that frequent flashes of lightning made worlds collide.  "I am more of a mountain person. For me, it's home here. I don't like the sea. I have never seen the sea in real actually. Never left the mountains. For me, its only about going higher up during trekking times. Ah! I love it here. I think I feel foreign to the sea.", he said in a thoughtful manner, with one palm resting on his right cheek and the other hand left carelessly aloof.  "I am more of a sea person. I love the mountains also. In my world, when the mountains call, the sea responds. They may have different voices or opinions, but they do seem to compliment each other. Sometimes, I hear them resonate too, when agreed on a  single

A certain amount waits to be transferred to an international account for confirmation of university course acceptance. Apparently crucial for career pursuits. Alarming urgency demanding immediate completion. The student goes to the bank. Fills up all required application forms and provides all documents needed. Two hours gone. Bank officer: The system is not initiating the transfer. Student: Why so? I have done the same thing before and it happened successfully. Bank officer: The system is a little inconsistent, I think. Since today morning, it is not accepting special characters. Student: What do you mean? Which special character is creating such a trouble? Bank officer: The '/' in your home address. Student: It was always there. The system accepted it previously. How is it that since today morning, the particular '/' is getting rejected? Bank officer: I don't know, the system gets moody, I guess. Since today morning, it dec

Look! There is a feather on the edge of your window! Where? I can’t see any feather there! Shut your eyes. Try to remember. Take a moment more. Open your eyes. Can you see now?  No. I can’t. I wish I could, but I can’t.  Oh! You used to be a bird. You were flying past this window that is decorated by forget-me-not flowers, when you dreamt of becoming a beautiful woman. You dreamt of days when you could sit by the desk facing the window, look at things and people outside and write about all the magical ways of time.  Every single day, you wished the same as you passed by this window. One day, you whispered to yourself the same dream and left a feather of yours by the edge of this window, saying to yourself ‘May you use this feather as your quill the day your dream comes true’.  Now, you can’t remember. Your dreams disappeared with your memories. You can’t even see. You don’t even write. What have you become?  I want to be a bird again. I am sick of staying insi

The deep slumber caught his eye, The magnificent dream singing its lullaby, Endless harmonies ornamented light,  Casting a spell on his sight. Visions born from the flames of the dove, Carried forth the longing of love, Looking beyond, he could see the sun, Looking behind, he could listen to the heartbeat of his son.        

Men say, “Women are complicated. Life is simpler than even attempting to understand them.” However, on the contrary I believe there is a possible solution to this generalised conceived notion.  Maybe, it involves the art of observing little details, particularly tiny simple objects towards which they get inevitably attached to. The source of this belief lies in an old memory of mine.  I have a memory from approximately 12 years back, when I was around 12 years old. This memory is about a family trip around the Himalayan beauties of North Bengal, India. Although the memory of the entire trip is vague, the details are particularly attached to one night during the journey from one hill station to another. The  mountainous roads used to be narrower and less developed, leaving almost 5 inch gap between the wheels of the car and the edge of the road. If not for skilled Nepali drivers, one could almost consider a trip like that as a grand suicide mission. I was too young to hold any c