DABBLER SCRIBBLES

“This is the report on the sculptures we have excavated at the Mayan excavation site”, Stanius drew the little blue file, from his bag that he packed for the flight at the moment he got a call for the sudden meeting at the departmental office at an hour ago, and handed it over to Mrs. Herlet.

                    A 25 year old workaholic, Stanius was one of the few on the excavation team who have earned their degrees in Archeology. Not sparing a moment for life he has managed to earn a lot of money and a huge team for the Mayan excavation.

         “Ma’am these are the 2 drawings of the sculptures we have managed to excavate so far. They seem to be related to the CHICHEN ITZA, the flying serpent”, Stanius beamed as he told about the drawings. Mrs. Herlet opened the file and glanced through the paper. She flipped the file close and signed Stanius to take it from her and read the content in it. Stanius reached to grab the file but was hesitant as the look on her face was not pleasant at the moment. He opened it and gasped to fall silent. Mrs. Herlet urged him commandingly to read out to her, adeptly hiding a smile on her stern face. Stanius took a deep breath and pitched his voice loud enough for her to hear it. He read”, Dear Jane, of all the people in this world you have understood me the best. I am a workaholic and I also screw up things very often but falling in love with you was the sanest things I have ever done and before I screw this up too I want to ask you….. Will you marry me? PS. this is the gift I promised you for the New Year “He whispered the last three words”, I love you”. Stanius sunk his head into the file and blushed.

            “Stanius you screwed up again”, Mrs.Herlet bursted into a laugh while he wondered about the Mayan papers he mistakenly left wrapped for Jane by the Christmas tree. He blushed and whispered with a smile " yes ma'am i screwed up again".

Never had she wept like she now weeps,

To see their child go to endless sleeps,

The thirsty bullets that spilled the blood,

The walls that saw the red turned mud,

The books that mumble their names still,

The empty benches at the school to fill,

What about the mother that awaits,

To feed her hungry child few sweetened dates,

What about the father who sung them lullaby,

The last one at the grave-yard was his heart's cry,

Which country can earn power by burning innocents?

And see a hundred broken weeping parents,

What human were they if they were any?

To kill a nation’s soul with their bullets raining.

 (May the soul of the innocent kids who were massacred in Pakistan on 16-December-2014, rest in peace and we are always with you) 

“You get the documents and I will wait here”, Arnav urged Faizaan to get the college documents while he waited for him in the dim light of the mosque near his house. The mosque that seemed calm suddenly broke its silence by the “Adhan- prayer calls”. The little steps that walked the muezzin to the Minaret top was beautified by the green flags. The little boy who was reading the Quran Suras just peeped once to glance at the calm and dim aisle. Arnav looked at the Mosque’s entrance which beamed with the lamp at its foot. He played with the pack of sweet and rice that he got from the temple few minutes back.  It was Saturday and Arnav was agnostic enough to offer his prayers at the temple and the pundit often gave him a pack of sweet and rice after offering it to the gods. He was still humming the chants from the temple and the clanks of the bells ringing in rhythm with the prayers in his head.

                           “Excuse me sir, can I have something to eat?” A woman scooted out from the dim aisle of the mosque, covered in her dowdy Burqa, the black cloth that covered the Muslim women from the unworthy eyes of the world. The small patches of green cloth pieces on her Burqa screamed her poverty. The faded mud lines on her face told about her tears that flows more often than she can wipe. She now slithered coping up with her old age and reached closer to Arnav! “Please sir give me something to eat, I am very hungry”, she pointed at the rice pack with Arnav. Arnav looked at the pack of rice and pitched his voice with compassion to speak, “I could give you this pack of rice but this was an offering made to the god at the temple and I was told that Muslims don’t accept the offering from the temples…. Aren’t you a Muslim?

              “I am sir, but before that I am a poor helpless woman who is hungry. What lines of code from religious book can satisfy my hunger except for a pack of food?  Sir my hunger does not see if the food is coming from the temple or the mosque or from the church or a Gurudwara. It is hunger sir, what religion does it have?”

Glow with me through this lucent night,

Amidst the dark in the city lights,

Like the hundred blazing suns,

Splendid, nocturnal, selfless burns,

Street lamps like the glowing stars,

Dazzling city at these late hours,

What you see is not farfetched now,

Step along I will show you how,

Décor night with these luminous dots,

Never more pretty and ever will be not,

Come along, just aglow tonight,

And be lost forever in these city lights.

“Pay for the ticket or get down from the bus”, the ticket collector was aggressive now. “Are you going to pay?” he exclaimed at the old man who was all dressed up in his dowdy clothes, with a series of stitches on his shirt screaming out his poverty. “Sir, please… I do not have enough for the fair but I need to go to my daughter’s place. She is ill, please allow me to travel”, he pleaded his best with wet eyes. “Pay or get down”, decreed the collector.   

              “Ridiculous, why do people travel when they cannot afford to”, Arnav looked more judgmental than concerned. “Such dowdy poor people reduce the standards of our city, they should not be allowed here in the first place”, Arnav muttered loud enough for me to listen while fidgeting with his watch he bought from USA on his last trip. He took a glance at the old man again and drew into his seat, staring out of the window with no signs of compassion.

             Monday morning and we were travelling in the state bus to the city Museum for a documentation of our history project. The populated roads and the nooks, the series of little native shops at the either sides of the road with human voices of all ages screaming an invitation to visit them, the old, partially fallen buildings still holding the flag of “old city”, were all to be taken into account for the culture study project and nothing better than a ride via state bus could have been possible.

      “Ok driver, stop the bus now”, the collector made up his mind to have the man out of the bus. The old man threw a glance at the passengers but none seem to feel his plight. Arnav witnessed everything but choose to submerge himself in his IPad. “Get down”, he screamed his best, “If you don’t have the money don’t board the bus”. I swiftly got up to the conductor and drew a sum of 100 and smuggled it to him. “Let him travel, he is poor but still a human…. Show a little compassion”, I proclaimed and started walking towards my seat. The old man nodded his head in gratitude and wiped his tear off. I drew back into my seat, gazing back at the wonderful city. 

What a shame! Our culture has gone down the drain. Look at the way she is dressed! Mr. Dutta was all over the case of “diluting Indian culture” again. Sipping a cup of Assam handpicked tea with ½ spoon sugar owning to the fact that he was diabetic and munching on his favorite Osman biscuits that I got him over my last visit to Hyderabad, looked troubled again over the exposure of oneself through the decreasing dress lengths which was rampant now among the colony girls.

                                  I sat with him in his balcony, a projected space on the third floor of the apartment, secured by the iron railing which were adeptly decorated by the creepers planted by Mrs. Dutta when they moved in five years ago.

                           Mr. Dutta was a bank employee, a man from old school and an orthodox to a large extent with a little flexibility to allow his daughter, Aakruti, to go to Hyderabad to pursue her engineering from a reputed college.

                 “Do you think our Indian culture has really lost its roots? With all the westernization and adulterating of morals, Nudity in the first place, I am more than worried about the course of our culture in the country”, he picked up the last biscuit from the plate and stared in the open space over his balcony, expecting an answer.

                   “Nudity is in the thinking”, I pitched my voice loud enough to smuggle these words clearly in his ears while placing back the cup of Assam tea. “It has always been a part of our culture since long but we seem to have adulterated our thinking over it”, I continued. “What are you talking about… been a part of our culture? What do you mean by that?” Mr. Dutta was demanding a justification of my words now.

         I pointed at the replica of a sculpture of nude pairs from Ajanta and Ellora caves that hung elegantly in his hall. “India is the mother of art that celebrates the beauty of nudity and freedom of expressions. Kaamasutra, the compilation of urging desires between two bodies and souls, the sculptures of Ajanta and Ellora, the elaborated depictions of nude divine figures at Khajuraho, few of the paintings of Raja Ravi Verma, have been the pride of our culture. People then did not adulterated their thinking but rather celebrated the creation of beauty and appreciated it. Doctors do not see the patient’s exposure as nudity and forsake treatment. Children are never ashamed to expose themselves infront of their mothers. Nudity is in the thinking Mr. Dutta and it has been a part of our culture but what was not is the fact that we adulterated our thinking over it”, I proclaimed clearly.

Like the verse that long freed men,

So break down the art of thinking,

Rebuild, rethink, rehearse, reborn,

And be the one, not sinking,

Do not despair, agonize, halt or rest,

Embrace the core, let go off your crest,

So bring all that you can,

From the little shelves of your heart,

The nooks of your brain,

The marrows of your life

From the gutters of your vein,

 And weave them all up to fabricate,

To pull it over world, the vicious crate,

With the words clearly knitted,

Carpe-Diem! Seize the day!

So I ask, celebrating your soul,

What will be your verse, today?

       Essence:

            This poem urges a writer to encourage himself into creating wonders by having a whole new perspective towards life exemplifying the fact that he is the one who can have a different thinking, ability to judge things and who can eventually create some marvelous verses to contribute in the legacy of literature!! 

* Carpe-Diem means "Seize the day" and is an inspiration from the movie "Dead Poets Society"* 

Hatred forged, disaster stricken,

Murderous souls no mercy reckoned,

The least beauty in the fabric of time,

A weave, god said was not mine,

Heliographies of the wasted emotion,

A heart, amidst the chaotic nation,

When cupid was flying back to Olympus,

With his arrows, looking less pompous,

What shall the fate here be?

He stood there for once to see,

The little world beside the ocean,

Washed of peace, hatred swallowed potion,

Ruins of the broken wall,

Rammed like it was hell’s call,

A man with a lady in sight,

The only two against the hideous fight,

While all others summoned death,

They smuggled themselves into forest wealth,

Neutral hearts, clear as crystal shinning,

No hatred, cupid went deep mining,

And then he knew he had a shot now,

The two were to fall in love, but how?

He pulled an arrow, rested on his bow,

Only to have the hatred show,

Launched it right to the chest of man,

Where the seed of love can,

Grow and bloom like pretty orchid,

Everlasting and placid,

And then an arrow at the woman’s heart,

Love planted by the cupid smart,

They succumbed to love in each other,

Like two bodies but a soul in together,

Cupid smiled and finally whispered the word,

Spread love and make this place a better world!!!

ESSENCE:

“A city where the feeling of hatred has forged a disaster and made all the people murderous, conspiring deaths and killing each other it was hard for cupid, the roman god of love to go back to mount Olympus, the gods land in roman mythology, ignoring the chaos. He stood there to see the destruction and was worried about the diminishing love. Amidst the chaos and hatred a man and a lady, who did not have any malice or hatred at heart decided to run away from the destruction. Cupid felt their pure hearts and decided to invoke love among them. He shoots an arrow at the man and then the second one at the lady and they fall in love. Cupid then whispers softly to them that they have to protect their love and eventually spread amidst the people who are caught in claws of hatred!!! “

It was Rudra’s 5^th gaze at the building today. He comes every day to the park with his umbrella and gaze at the 7^th floor of the Mortan Apartments at least once, but today he was all stuck there.

                                  Handling the company’s marketing, he earned great and had all the luxuries one can mention. He had no regrets but a pile of flashing memories and now that his friends moved to other state except him, he craved for those days more…and today he stood there wishing for the old days to return.

        5 years ago while studying in the state engineering college Rudra managed to make few acquaintances and eventually friends for life time. Arnav, Neel and Alok shifted with him to the 7^th floor of the Mortan Apartments and lived there for the rest of the college years.

      It was already drizzling now and Rudra drew his umbrella out while still staring at the balcony of his room on the 7^th floor. A tear fell from his eyes and soon disappeared in the rain.

                    5^th of July, the same day as today when he heard few noises of people talking in his locked room while he was trying to open the door. Arnav, Neel and Alok have all suddenly gone out for various reasons and Rudra had none to share the bliss of his birthday, his 19^th birthday.

                                      He never celebrated his birthday, neither at the orphanage nor at the community school. It was his scholarship that allowed him a study at the state college and he was always more reserved than rest. But today he craved for a companion… he swiftly inserted the key in the door lock and twisted once, the noises calmed, and he twisted twice. He grabbed the door knob and opened the door.

             “I wish they were here”, he muttered while turning the lights on………

                               Happy Birthday to you,

                               Happy Birthday to you,

                               Happy Birthday dear Rudra,

                              Happy Birthday to you!!!!

                                   Arnav, Neel and Alok sang their lungs out with a little cake in their hands. 

                    A tear rolled down his cheeks and he hugged them with a smile and all the bliss he can.!!!!

 He snapped out of his memories.  “Miss you guys”, he whispered while still staring at the building!! Miss you! 

“Look at the man out there, I am sure he must be low born”. Friday evening and Utkarsh and Tavish were on their way back from office. Bound in their formals, though the perfectness has worn out by the day’s work, they were still logically well dressed. 7 pm it was and their office cab broke down compelling them to take the bus. Packed with passengers from all walk of life they could secure a little space to stand near the back seats ensuring a seat away from Mrudhan, a dowdy dressed middle aged guy who has rightfully settled himself on the seats reserved for the low born.

                            Utkarsh was high born and had his ideals shaped to meet his reputation. He often avoided contact with the low born(s).

                                       More than a century has passed since the walls of castes have fallen but Utkarsh was still holding the pillars strong in spite of his magnificent education and equality speeches that Tavish offers him every now and then.

      The bus jerked to stop and Utkarsh was sucked to the front along with the rest but he managed to avoid a physical contact with Mrudhan.

                                          The bus moved and Utkarsh sprung back to his little space feeling victorious of his avoidance. 8:30 pm and the city looked as pretty as the newly wed bride with the lightings. With a rush of vehicles on road the city looked alive and the delicious aroma from “Karachi Bakery” reminded Utkarsh of his hunger.

                             “Tavish have you still got the bar? I am hungry”, Utkarsh urged while still having a last peep at the Bakery which now was left behind. Tavish drew the bar and Utkarsh adeptly tore the cover and smuggled a piece into his mouth.

                                         Before he could realize, he seemed to have already taken in a big piece and was already coughing his lungs out. He needed water and none seem to have. He was coughing hard now holding the iron bars of seats with Tavish beside him standing helpless. A hand with a bottle made its way from the little mob of the passengers and urged Tavish to take it. Utkarsh peeped up and saw Mrudhan extending his bottle to him. Utkarsh couldn’t forgo the pressing urge for water that he seemed to have finally left the pillars of difference and grabbed the bottle, drank to finally cool his lungs.

                       Yes the pillar of difference has finally fallen and Utkarsh stood there holding the bottle not trying to match his embarrassed eyes with the low born.!!!

      

9 feet tall, spreading its beautiful arms to embrace everyone it stood amidst the little creepers and a few concrete boulders of a broken wall fence. It stood rather strong now, today, it stood like never before, that little tree.

                                3 years back when Mr. Singh decided to plant it in the open courtyard, he was very skeptic of its survival. A thin helpless sapling bending by the stroke of a little breeze, how it would survive the constant patrolling of herbivores? Indeed the chances were low. But he decided to plant it fending by a circular wall of bricks around it like a little cage of protection.

                             2 years after the fencing and its root were pouring themselves deeper and deeper into the womb of the soil, it was more than ready to withstand anything. Mr. Singh on the other was still cynic of its healthy growth and the day when few of the cattle in his open courtyard breached the brick wall, he decided to cement the fence.

                                                                               A cemented fencing!! Why? It felt like being caged, like not being given freedom to bloom and spread. Traumatized, but it could never say a thing to Mr. Singh about its lonely pacific nights, about the little chat people have under it when Mr. Singh gets busy inside, nor about the poor burglar who broke into the house only to be scared away by Rox, Mr. Singh’s dog. Never had it spoken a thing to him about the ruthless hindrance that cemented fencing was causing it, simply because it cannot……

                       A year past since then and it tried to box itself within the fence as much as possible, but it was just not enough. Like the little bird that needs to fly off the nest, like the last strong hit on the boulder in the stream’s path only to make a way, it’s root broke the fence, emerging out of it to spread to huge extents……. Like the era of anarchy finally ended by the thoughts of freedom…. Like the final breaking by roots!!!

                               

(Thanks for reading, hope you liked it. Stay tuned in to read more posts to co me)

“Miss Neer you look as pretty as ever”. Arnav blushed as he saw Miss Neer. It was the seventh floor of the company and Arnav has his desk in the rightmost corner of the floor, desk number 26. Arnav had a liking for Miss Neer. He loved the smell of her perfume, the sweet cardilac, the little pearl necklace around her neck, her wonderful smile and her pink dress that she wore every day!  Same pink skirt with that pretty pearl necklace …. Every day! She looked charming and Arnav never asked a reason for her monotonous attire.

                  3 months ago on 14 July, 2014, Arnav was hired as an accountant in the company. He has been a rather confined to work guys since then, except for his little chats to Miss Neer, whose desk was beside his…the last in the row…desk number 27! Miss Neer was shy too, she never spoke to anyone else, never left her desk even for coffee. People in the company giggled whenever Arnav speaks with her. Arnav never mentioned about his liking or never spoke of her with his colleagues. He got her coffee in the breaks, but Miss Neer never drank one. Every time he offered, she whispered “coffee kills” and chuckles refusing it. It all seemed like Arnav was her only friend in company and none bothered heeding her presence either.

                                 Saturday night and Arnav had to take an extra shift to complete his target. Miss Neer was at her desk too, and nobody else was on the floor. Arnav had to get a file to complete his documentation from the store room, the attender was already gone for the day and he left store keys with him. He smiled at Miss Neer and moved towards the store room. Third room from the lift, he walked amidst the silence of the floor and the dim light that shone only near his desk. Miss Neer was still at her desk, watching him, smiling. He opened the door and turned on the light. Pile of dowdy files covered by a sheet of dust filled the room. He kept searching with his eyes transfixed on the racks and files. He tumbled over a box and fell down and in his attempt to hold a rack, few files fell on the floor.                                                      

                                                                    Pink file, with blots of ink on it with a similar smell of cardilac fell near him and a paper peeped out of it. It was Miss Neer’s record. He got up and picked the file. A chill flowed through his spine when he read a news report amidst the documents…..

                            14 July, 2013

                                                  Neer, an employee in a reputed company, died an un-natural death yesterday when a coffee machine exploded at her house after she returned from her office…………………

        He caught his breathe to peep out. There was no body on the floor now!!!!

(sorry it took me long to come up with a new post!!! hope you guys like this one :)....... share and comment on this story and stay tuned to read more posts to come !! )

          

Anybody can answer this? The professor cleared his throat only to scream again….. Anyone? I knew what he was asking for, what he expects as an answer but I chose not to raise a voice or my hand. Saturday afternoon cradling in the soft breezes which sneaked in through the window, accompanied by the euphoria of the new blossoms touched by their aroma, swept through the aisle between the desks and finally hit me on my face. It was the best season of the year, spring, and I was stuck in the monotonous loop of lectures. No one knows? The professor deeply craved for an answer now. But I did not raise my arm.

     Why be the first one to be telling, first one to raise a voice even if I am capable of? I drew back on my bench among the little whispers.

                100 decades back when the human race was on a merge of being a better civilization, a better society which encompassed the mark of beginning of kingship by what law was the first king chosen? I was struck by a random thought. The first one? Who would enjoy decades of dictatorship, years of royalty, and eras of unquestionable powers? Was it not someone who chose to be the first among the rest of equals………the equals who did not have the guts to raise a voice or be the first one? Over 60 eminent civilizations which have shaped the modern world came into existence only because someone from the mob decided to be the first one to start, the first to raise a thought…….Yes… indeed the first one!!

                                 I chuckled at my thoughts and raised my hand. Sir I do!!!!!  

“Click a pic!” Arnav threw his camera at me while he got himself busy appreciating the beauty of place. 9 am in the morning and we were at the fort palace of Nizams, rulers of Hyderabad and nothing got better than peeping over the city from the fort top. More than 5 decades since the abdication and the essence of strength has not abandon the fort yet. Beautiful gardens, like a speaking art of a connoisseur. Each boulders that measured half my height, piled up to make that place an everlasting fort. “Pic!” Arnav screamed from far, “use panorama mode”, he added while I was still busy exploring the fort. Panorama mode! I haven’t acquainted myself with it before. I surfed through his options of modes, 30 plus in number, before I slipped on panorama mode. I selected it.  A green bordered rectangle urged me to move the screen to right after I began clicking a shot. Move right! The voiceless arrow along the border was screaming. I did that without questioning. It stuck for a second on the screen and again urged me to move right. Right!!! Why go right when I have a better view downwards? I tried to fool it by sliding the screen down. The piece of wires breathing on software with the grace of few electrons giving it its life, was not ready to be fooled. The arrow pointed up. Why click a shot of a scene when I have a better view here?  

                         It was 7 years ago that Arnav decided to take up science even after having a love for literature. Science! Why not literature, I seemed to have asked him all these years only to never get an answer. Sheets of scores from his childhood bragging about his excellence in sciences fooled him into tacking sciences, but his heart still beats for literature, craving for a chance. But what now? The arrow now pointed towards right, move right, urging voicelessly. He has come too far to make a choice now. He didn't choose the right grounds to start the panorama mode of his life and now he can just only follow the arrow, his decision, the ever urging one, yes……..his only panorama of life!!!

“Excuse me, which way is to the bus station?” I asked a heavy built man who was all dressed up in the south Indian attire.” Which way…..to the bus station?” I asked him again. 12 pm in the noon and I was all lost in the streets of an old city of Madras. Old city, I guessed, going by the houses and their architecture. Sweating in the heat, breathing hard and all tired of the futile walk to get to bus station, I had a little luggage that I dragged with myself. No other means of transport made itself available and the people at the center couldn't understand my say. The sign boards that read the address, name of shops, were all in the local language and I stood staring at them like a non-literate. Non literate! Like a guy who cannot map himself to any of the gibberish that was written. Trying hard to make sense out of them but failing all the time. Like a mouse trapped in a cheese trap. The words on the sign board were laughing at me! Scared and distorted, I drew myself to the shade of a shop. The words still dancing in my head, screaming, making me all helpless. Helpless! Yes… the most helpless of all creations ever. Helpless because I couldn't fathom the script, couldn't understand them…. Helpless because I couldn't contemplate anything for myself at the moment. Helpless because I felt helpless. I closed my eyes and took a deep breathe.

                                    7 billion people in the word and almost 1 billion of them stand non-literate, I remembered an article on” ILLITERACY RATE”! Whoa, 1 billion, that’s 26% of world’s population, I was amazed by the memory of the facts. 1 billion people who feel helpless every day, every moment, who feel like they are living in the trap, not trying to escape it anymore…. Not trying to free themselves anymore….. Simply because they cannot. 1 billion people who stare at every sign board waiting for it to speak for itself. 1 billion people who feel lost at every step of their life, 1 billion people who are helpless forever and I was worried at my little helplessness? I chuckled at my thoughts! 

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It was not before the fall of spring that he realized what he was getting into. Why his nights go insomniac, why he feels a rush of blood every time now, why he fumbles or at times end up eating all the words, why he plays that song again and again, why he couldn't get his classes right anymore. So many whys and he has already waited over a year to understand the feeling.

      The little green plant, the 5 pebbles on his table, his books, the box of his favorite pens and his beautiful diary, everything lay untouched for over a week now. He doesn't sit at his table anymore, he doesn't write a new verse or even utter a word. Calm and drenched in his thoughts.

                 Staring out of his room’s window, letting the breeze feel his breathe, gazing at the stars at night, watching the leaves of his orange blossom tree dance, counting her only picture in his phone over and over again. 1248 times … 1249 times now and it was not before the fall of spring, when the orange blossom tree decided to bloom for him, not before the fireflies decided to glow for him on that moonless night, not before the picture in his phone smiled back at him, not before he played her favorite song over a million times and not before he closed his eyes over a shooting star and whispered to himself, “I love her, damn I do”, that he knew that he was in love.

Down at soul where I breathe my dreams,

The voice of my heart screams,

I have fumbled, fallen million times,

Hold my hand and show what love means,

I have burnt myself in the rains,

Felt it deep till my veins,

For this life and all the ones to come,

With you in it now, is all which means,

Down at soul where I breathe my dreams

Can’t breathe without you anymore,

My love, the heart screams.

    

Long, long ago. Wait!! Not very long before WhatsApp came into picture, a great user whom all the rest called “THE CREATOR”, created a group, “THE KINGDOM” and added all the contacts of the world. He subsequently passed the group Adminship to his users era after era and the present admin was Prince Of Verona. Years of chat were carried with all the love and affection before two contacts by name Montagues and Capulets, due to personal conflicts, finally left the group. Prince of Verona, mad at this, decreed that anyone else who created a problem will have their accounts deleted, and he meant it this time. On the other side the Montagues and the Capulets made their own personal groups and never chatted again with each other.

Years later, Romeo Montague, who was friend of Rosaline and Juliet Capulet, who was a friend of Paris got accidentally added to a group called “Masquerade Ball”. Not knowing each other’s family groups, Romeo and Juliet chatted and eventually fell in love. Later they realized that they were from a rival group and cannot be together. Knowing of the apocalypse, Romeo asked Friar Laurence, a friend of Romeo, to create a group with his and Juliet’s alternate numbers. Romeo gave his new number and Juliet asked her nurse to give her number to Friar Laurence. Her nurse met Mercutio, another friend of Romeo and gave him Juliet’s number to give it to Friar.

Friar created a new group and after joining Romeo and Juliet, quitted the group and made Romeo the group admin. He also changed their location status on Google.

         A little later Tybalt Capulet of the Capulets forcibly deleted the account of Benvolio Montague. Mad at this Romeo deleted the account of Tybalt Capulet.

         The PRINCE OF VERONA, admin of the great group “THE KINGDOM”, decided to punish Romeo by deleting his account. Romeo scared of it hid his online status for some time.

         Juliet came to know about all this when her nurse messaged her. Meanwhile the lord Capulet decided that Juliet should change her number and join a group with Paris within 2 days. Paris forcefully tried to change her number but could not succeed.

     A little later, amidst the chaos, Friar Laurence hatched a plan to avoid the number exchange by asking Juliet to uninstall her Whatsapp for 42 hours. She agrees to do so but could not inform Romeo because of bad network signals.

    Romeo got a notification, a rumor, that Juliet has deleted her account. Taken back by the tragedy he deletes his account himself. Just then Juliet re installs her Whatsapp and re activates her account. Shell shocked by the incident she mourns about her loss. Meanwhile Paris tries to send angry emoticon to her. 

 Broken into tears she finally deletes her account and goes offline forever with her Romeo.

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Listen, look at the man over there, “He is mad”, my friend chuckled as he pointed at an old man ,at the steps of a closed shop. Bedraggled clothes, dowdy hair having all the twists and turns that a river would have running down a mountain, overgrown beard  almost hiding his face, bluntly showing his desire to disguise himself, nails grown enough to cut through anything but not his madness. A pack of newspapers, few empty cans, a half squeezed bottle and a totally different world was all that he had.  A world which dates back to his past, back to his family, back to the time when he was sane businessman who lost everything to a disaster, an apocalypse of his life.  He sat at the steps mumbling numbers to himself as he rustled through the newspaper, numbers that made no sense to me.
       My friend was more amused than concerned. He muttered, “Mad man”, and started giggling. Mad man! That was a strong word and I grew curious about his judgment. What allowed him to decide that he was lunatic and to be disgusted? May be  his half torn clothes and his constant mumbling of numbers, but then what would the saints of this country be called, who spend years meditating and mumbling over millions of god’s name not bothered about their attire or even their existence…….. Are they mad too? Or maybe it was his different world that he lived in….!! A world that does not even exist!! But then what about the writers and poets and the scientists, who see what does not even exist but still believe in it. What about the sages of our country who foretell the future…. A future that they believe they can see… isn't the future a different world too. Can we call them lunatic? Definitely not! But that one.. near the steps, lost in his thoughts was surely a mad man.

I drew closer and sat nearer to him, listening to what this mad man has got to tell about his world… a world that might have existed. .... Yes a world in the MAD MAN’S TALK, who can never be sane again.



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10 am in the morning and I swayed in the streets along the countryside gandering at everything. Two streets off and I was stuck at the courtyard of a hut. Covered in hay stack it had walls of brick that held it. The wall owned many cracks that smuggled light into and eventually opened in an entrance covered by rugged sheet of cloth. None of these caught my sight but the spinning wheel at the wall’s feet. Covered in layers of indistinct mud, it spun endlessly. It splashed drops of muddied water at the wall and the potter, who himself looked nothing less than a statue of mud unless he decided to draw his stick to spin the wheel. I stood there with my eyes transfixed on the transition that was going to impose a question on mankind.

     The potter drew his stick to spin the wheel, this time more vigorously. He bestowed a block of clay to the wheel which curiously spun aping the nature of time…it spun like the never stopping time and with it spun the clay too. The potter drew his hands closer to the clay and touched it. Like a sorcerer’s touch to a lifeless body, the clay started to take shape. Molding itself!! The wheel spun with vigorous enthusiasm as if it was curious about the consequences of the touch… as if it was curious about the clay’s fate. The clay continued to mold itself but the potter’s touch has decided its fate already. The touch has defined its existence already like the million years of humankind which has endlessly spun on the wheels of time molding itself by the touch of his society, by the touch of his thoughts, by the touch of his experiences….and like the one which will continue to spin for a million years to come seeking for a touch that would better his existence, justify his eras of evolution and a touch that would define him finally. He spins like the clay on the wheel…. Waiting for the touch of his soul!! He spins!!! I chuckled.


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                                               (Does the pic say nothing or something!)

Nothing!! That’s a strange word. 4 pm at the coffee shop on a Sunday evening, I asked her,” What’s between us?” Nothing”, she whispered while texting to her friend. Nothing!!” How could there be nothing?” I thought to myself. I drew back on my chair and felt the breeze hit the chimes at the shop’s door. The chimes were singing now and the air glided from the door and slithered between our coffee mugs. Between the gap where there was “nothing”!! Nothing!! I was still whispering it to myself … softly! A series of thoughts stroked my thinking and I went from air to molecules to atoms to electrons to quartz trying to find her “nothing”.

                                                   Nothing!! Having my eyes still fixed at the gaps, I thought  if air existed between everything, what existed between the air molecules?? Nothing!? I put my palm between the gaps to feel the air again! Vacuum, a voice screamed in my head and my thoughts rolled on an article over vacuum and space, does nothing mean vacuum? Does vacuum mean not having anything? Then how does our universe have vacuum and still have something? A bunch of lilies, set of tissue papers, 2 spoons, knitted cloth covering, I saw nothing of them but just the two coffee mugs. Sweet coffee aroma mixed in the fragrance of the raspberries from the pie, I felt nothing of them but just the air gliding through the gap, still wondering what nothing is? Does nothing mean having something so minute that it could adeptly hid itself? Does nothing mean having something and not reckoning its presence? Does nothing mean not meaning nothing at all? May be yes…yes!! So there is always a minute something in every nothing!

                             I looked at her, chuckled and whispered, yeah nothing…… may be “nothing”!!!

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“Filthy! Do you even read your work?? What gives the clue that you could be a writer?? “, the publisher threw the paper on my face as he chewed on a few more beetle nut bits.” Next time if you go to a publisher, make sure you have read your filth first”. Filthy work? He calls my work filthy!! “If people like him were to publish works, Shakespeare would have never dared writing one”, I thought to self while picking up the papers. “Get out!” he screamed again. I slithered out of his cabin, dodged his employee who was haunted by his deadlines, missed his mail boy by inches who rushed in like a marathon winner, glided down his 58 steps to reach the ground, muttering to self, “Is my work really filthy?, why don’t they get the zeal of it?”. A flash of light followed by a honk of a car horn made me realize that I was on the road already. Four lane wide road divided by a pair of street lights, nothing brighter than the road itself with a fleet of over powered lifeless metal bodies carrying even lifeless human beings from their offices, screaming their presence in the lot!! It was dark and I tried to smuggle myself to the other side of the road amidst the ragging flash lights. Hard! Every time I moved an inch a gang of them rushed to throw me off the road. I slithered first and rushed through the rest. Relieved!! Alive!! Cursing the lot.

       Wet green grass, lavender flowers in the company of sleepy trees, cradling branches in the lullabies of the fragrant breeze followed by a rhythm of songs by toads and hoppers….Can a place be so placid amidst the chaotic human lives??, I chose not to  answer that but settled myself on the sloppy meadows near the lavenders, still thinking,” filthy! 72 publishers by now and all they have to say is filthy? Is there anyone who would want to read my work!! “I chuckled sarcastically. I smuggled the papers out of my bag and gander at them, but chose not to read them now. 432 times I have already read my work and I still didn't find it filthy. I breathed deep. Slipping the papers back into the bag I gazed up!!Dark blue cover with diamonds sparkling like they were embroidered by a connoisseur of art. Beautiful! I whispered to self. 1…2…3… that makes the Orion’s belt, I figured out Sagittarius too! I had already started counting the star,” 88 constellations and I managed to spot a few of them!” The article on “universe and stars” that accidentally reached my desk two weeks back declared that we have around 176 billion galaxies, each having a god damn 100 million stars!! Whoa! 100 million stars and 176 billion galaxies, that’s a huge number, I chuckled at the fact thinking that if even 0.1% of the 100 million stars in every galaxy had a solar system like ours, then there would be 10 million solar systems. 10 million! I screamed only to realize that there were none listening. 10 million earths, 10 million trillion people! Gosh, I don’t even know so many numbers, I stood amazed by the counts…..its huge!! And in this 10 million trillion people there would be a bunch of them who would not consider my work filthy!! A bunch at least! Yes…. A bunch at least, I whispered to self, chuckled and smuggled a piece of paper out of my bag. The next publisher's address…the 73^rd one! Out of the millions to come just the 73^rd one. 

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Caramel jeans torn and bedraggled, his favorite books are half swallowed by mud ants. The bulb that glowed brighter whenever she came was now soiled. The picture frame, brown borders with metallic finish is all rusted and muddied. His desk is now a never ending feast to termites, slowly dying in the darkness. Curtains are stuck to their places. No window has been opened again after that day. Jammed now!! Glass panes have drops of water still racing to reach the bottom…. Moving, running, crawling but the life inside was immobile. His desk has a little lamp, an oil lamp crafted in 'BIDRI' art from India….the only possession that mattered now….yes..her gift to him!! Wind screamed again and shook the dowdy picture frame, the frame in which the picture has already faded away by a layer of dust and mist that often paid him visits… visitors? He has none others. No one paid him a visit any more…but one...yes the one that no one else could see!!

A breeze sneaked in from the broken panes and the frame danced to its rhythm….but did not fall down….of course she had it hanged there!!! Long blue gown, raven hair, scarlet lipstick, the mark on the cheek, a heart shaped pendant, the ribbon around her wrist…, the picture didn't show any of them… but he remembers!! He remembers the day the picture was taken, he remembers her plea for a re-click, he remembers the smell of her Latin perfume….he remembers the day she died in the car crash while coming to meet him. He remembers he could do nothing but weep… and now he reckons that he sees her every day …dreams?? No…not dreams…but he sees her, feels her, believes her, and breathes her again!! Yes….he does.

His last phrases scribbled on the paper lie half dead on the desk, with the ink from the pot spilled over the floor… tear stains have managed to rub nothing but just a layer of dust!! The paper that is a proof that she is there, that he sees her, that he feels her!! The paper that says……..

“Wolves howled when the leaves rustled,

Retiring to their barns in hustle,

Dark night filled with mist,

Broken cage by a strong twist,

The world is calm in fear too,

For what it was they knew,

Footsteps breaking the twigs,

Eyes open I didn't squeak,

Dumbstruck, ready to be possessed,

I stood in front of you obsessed,

Holding your hands hidden in your gloves,

Paranormal as you are my love!!!!”

                                                                       

                                                      “I feel her!! Do you???”

                                      

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Paper boats, are you crazy? We are no more kids! Move now……. But I stood at the stream wearing my office suit  holding the half folded paper, creased on the side, torn from the book…..the book which fell off my working desk by the thrust of the last tear!! Hurt? Can lifeless things be hurt, no…yes…..don’t know!!! That book was the records of my thoughts, my emotions and my secret keeper!! Did I hurt the one which has managed to pile up so many emotions…. I guess!!

         Wind screamed, thunder rumbled and I snapped out of my thoughts, the half folded paper still in my hands, wet on corners by the drizzle… let’s go! A voice screamed again but I stood there having an astonishing vision in the waters….surprised!! Yes …surprised!! I saw a kid of age 7, the same innocence, and the same desire to explore, sparkling in the eyes holding the paper boat…. A drop from the leaf overhead fell in the waters and in the ripples I lost the vision!!

Wait!!! Age 7, how? It was me in the waters? Could I be a kid again, can I have my innocence back?

Hey! Are you coming?.... I heard the voice again but choose to ignore it and searched for myself! I lost myself as the water got blurrier by the ripple…. A voice now whispered in my mind…. Yes you can be a kid again!! Yes you can!! Pacific now I  stared back at the stream, holding the half folded, creased, torn, wet paper…yes…..my half built paper boat !! A tire screeched on the road side…..breeze shook the branches mildly and   I slipped the paper into my pockets and walked to my office… slow as I didn't want to rush through this ,still dreaming of the vision…I reached my desk!! Picked up my book which lied in solace on the floor proving its lifelessness!! Another memory…. Another thought….. I chuckled and slipped the paper in the book along with the other half built paper boats…. Yes….37 paper boats…. 37 times of childhood…37 times of peace!! 38 now…. And the count doesn't stop here…. Many paper boats to come from my book of emotions to make me a kid again…..yes billions may be!!