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Showing posts from June, 2009

Road, Long And Green

Often, we are at cross-roads We find many ways Many ways to proceed Many ways to get led Some are long and green Some are short and barren We got bemused Which one is my road? To take me to my destination To fulfil all my desire, all my passion Destinations are only a consequence Of your dreams, desires and unfulfilled sense We travel to get destination, It is journey between two stations Former is transient, latter is long session Mortality can kill you, before destination But cannot break the road, which you have chosen Cannot recedes your steps, you have taken Life lives in moment, is a journey without a milestone I believe in seen, more than unseen So, I choose the road, long and green

Mockery Of Religion

Caution: Highly provocative and blasphemous post. So read at your own risk. I am not a religious person, not as religious as, it is being defined by so called sant and Bapus. Now days, the lotus feet of one of Bapu is in Varanasi. I am not excited at all what he delivers in his teachings here but, I have been a reader of their teachings(by monthly magazine issued by their foundation) in my childhood days and fortunately, today Danik Jagran provided me the glimpse of his teachings, the reverence of his followers. He has given statements like “India is a blessed country since it gives so much respect to the saints and Mahatma.” And other was “one who disrespects saints and gives false allegation to them, is destroyed.”For the first statement I can only say, “India is one of the country where people can be duped, can be made blind and dumb in the name of religion, in the name of god, in the name of heaven and hell, in the name of every thing which is unknown because we are the people who …

Desire Of Pinnacle

The voracious desire of pinnacle and tempestuous ambition of power and money, put a man in the labyrinth of distress and agony and when, for the first time, he witness himself in the mirror of consciousness, he feels that the sweat over his eyebrows are now tears of his eyes. The scenery which enchants him with such a luxuriance beauty, exuberant and greenery is dried out to a barren, swarthy and arid atmosphere. He can not distinguish whether his eyes ceases to see or he is facing the fundamental reality of existence. He is known by everyone, but unknown to himself. His accomplishment quenches his mind but, has a drought in his heart. The drop of love vaporizes in the heat of hope. He never realizes that in the race of getting zenith, he is trampling the seeds of those beautiful plants which will one day provides him the zephyr of love, serenity and peace.He runs and runs,and when he stops, he finds himself on the death-bed of his hollow and unfulfilled desires.

Go To Hell, You Fool!

How ridiculous and enigmatic it is, is not it? , when a majority of population is starving to death, hankering for basic amenities like bread, cloth and roof, so called humanitarians and philanthropists are crowning and decorating the stoned sculptures of worth a million rupees to showcase either their reverence or to mark themselves a religious being, which finally step up him to a political or commercial ladder in an orthodox and blind country, like India. They turn up the curtain called ‘preservation of culture and tradition’ with a clandestine desire of selfishness. A foolish man can only misuse the religion. This is what the people are doing, never questions their belief, the tradition and led the mankind to the abyss of religious fanaticisms and chaos. I get bemused when I think about the people (actor, politician, and industrialist) like them, how people of such kind, donate so much amount of money in temples, I find, three types of people1.)First kinds are the sick and worn ou…

Q & A

(1) Do I realize, what makes me heavy?Do I visualize, what restricts me to see?Do I understand, what chokes me to express?Do I feel, what compels me to be in the race?Carrying the past makes me heavy.Old, rotted, orthodox thoughts veils me to seeConditioned, slave, reactive minds stops me to expressFaintness compels me to be in the race (2) Why do I hesitate to see in her twinkling eyes?Why do my words for you, never leave my throat?Yet, why do I feel that you are mine?Yet, why do I dream you at every night?Your resplendent eyes blurred my eyesLove can not be compiled in earthly-sizeBut when I see in a clear, shiny skyI feel you, just near by.

Night Train at Deoli: And Other Stories

How often, you remember the exquisite places, kaleidoscopic images, overwhelming innocence and compassionate love. If you don’t, and you wish, then I will suggest for going through “The Night Train At Deoli :And Other Short Stories”, composed by Padam Shree awarded, Ruskin Bond. His Portrayal of love, beauty, devotion and desperation, let you visualize the unending, incredible imagination of mind. Mostly, stories are composed in autographical sense and how they are woven around the web of writer’s life and places, he has been, is amazing. A descent and innocent romance transports you to your teen ages. ‘A Women At Platform 8’ presents a motherly love of a school boy and an unknown woman. ‘The night train at deoli’ has such a mesmerizing romance that will lift into a space of love. How a school boy fell in love with a basket selling girl in their first meet, how his first meet, hardly-communicated longing turns into a feverish desperation in love. ‘The Eyes have it’ a romantic story mi…

My Village

After three years, I visited my native place, countryside in ballia for three days. It is not a complete and real description of my village but, it is the testimony of my own experiences, a reflection of creation, in which only my beloved ones exist.A small rush of people,And silvery-reddish road,Along with green, dry fields,Awakening noise in an abode of poise.Oh! This is a nostalgic sensation,Yes, I am at my village station.People, of small desires,With childish innocence,Who have only dream for tomorrow,Shares their happiness and sorrow,Whose nights are nights and days are days,Yes, I am at my village.The fields of maze and sunflower,And a palm tree, watching as a guarding tower.Goats, cows, sparrow and dogs,And morning-jog with these folks.Making me again, a child, of small age,Yes, I am at my village.I touched their bare feet,Their eyes moistened.They gave me the ripe mangoes,Curd and most valuable, love.I turned over the most lovable page,No! I was out of my village.