Bidding adieu to the master 🙁
Author: Piyush Kaushal
Naive and Untamed!
A Loner
In eclipse of rage
Behind this social cage
I am a loner….
For the parched sunshines
And for the raven whines
I am a loner….
I bicker for the gratitude
to live with an attitude
I am a loner….
With the perks of fear
There is a happiness I smear
I am a loner….
For the shrinking seas
And the expanding desires
I am a loner….
The sane and sanity goes for a ride
For there’s no rule which I abide
I am a loner….
Like a droplet in the sea bowl
I am a free soul
I am a loner….
To a place called home
I wonder where I roam
I am a loner
Refuge
Is this about the refuge life,
Leaking the essentials of being submissive…
Or shall the death defy your conscience
In being a human
Imagine the world without eyes
That sans a tiger, a cuckoo, and humanity
Kill the trees, dethrone the kings of jungle
For it seems the idea of thy existence
And now shall thou laugh,
Splintering the grins of progress
A time shall come
even thy smile will be pungent
“I wish” reiterates itself
In an infinite loop
To the screams and knuckles
Of a blemished self-indulgence
Your sanity goes beneath the surface
So does thy shelter
Thy mother nature you seek’d to conform,
To captivate and disassemble
The one that thou sought as a humble alimony
Comes back to seek the answers of questions that were long forlorn
And you’re numb for thy dumbness
so hapless you are
Here goes the world in tatters of pride
and you wait for thy death
lips closed and eyes open wide….
A house across that lane
Walking through the boulevard
like a burdened beetle
I move through the bylanes
of hopes and dreams
I see a house across the lane,
the lane that bypasses the memory
Walking through the doors,
I feel my existence
The existence of a world that was,
and of people who were a part of me
I stood there looking at the window,
A ray peeping through the crack,
The dust settling its remorse
Where a cup of tea
Used to accompany rain
The rickety stairs
make way for the childhood plays,
I see myself juggling the toys
I find my mirror,
A half-battered commando
A dungeon gate flayed by time,
seems a swag of webbed spiders
Where grandpa used to wait,
with open yearning arms
The arms, a haven of love and
the solicitor of my mischief…
A vacuum has replaced this love
I am yet to find any intruders
In this home, at this place
I find myself,
and question my identity
the world seems to shudder
and the mind revolves
I see the stairs, the door,
the lane and the window
I see the toys, my grandpa
the commando and the rain
A thud wakes me up,
A photo frame falls down
I see grandpa amidst the shattered pieces
I see a house across that lane…
Constipation of a writer
Well…ummm…dunno…where to start with!
Of late, some colleagues have realized that I am a writer!
While people doubt my competency over words saying “Exams mein toh hum bhi writer ban jaate hai, nayi baat bata” (During exams even we become imaginatively advanced writers, what good are you for! 🙂 😛
Exams! How imaginative those three hours used to be for me, especially in the case of social studies….what long stories!
Some of my constipated writings, which strived hard to make the impact 😉
Question 1: In which year did Columbus discovered America, illustrate the discovery!
Answer: Columbus discovered America somewhere between the years 1620 – 1630…. The fact that America’s too vast to be discovered in a year, historians have suggested a liberative estimate. Columbus started his voyage from southern Greece, which at that time was known as ancient Mesopotamia! Since his birth he had this urge to discover things, at the age of 3 he discovered his name was Columbus! Subsequently, he also discovered that 9 came after 8 and that sky is blue and roses are red.
My teacher thrashed me and called me a HISTORY SHEATER… 🙂
Question 2: Describe the advantages and relevance of Steppes Farming.
Answer: Steppes is one of the more popular farming across southern Asia as they follow a step-by-step policy towards the “Developed Countries Group”. Another reason is that people are health conscious and want to exercise while farming collectively. This is also one reason that China and Japan lead the Olympic medal race almost constantly. Steppes is also known as TERRACE FARMING, and therefore people is the southern Asian region water the terraces with harvested rain water. Terrace farming is also known as terror farming in certain regions (Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iraq etc.).
Note for Examiner: While I know that my knowledge of the subject is deep, I expect at least a 9/10 for this answer.
When this answer was disclosed to my principal, she was instinctively determined to throw me off her bungalow’s terrace. 😛
While I still live to tell the story, I will continue back to the topic “Constipation of a writer”!
I’ve seen many people associate writers in their back of their mind as “a puffy eyed nerd, ideally wearing specs, somewhat poor earning fella whose diet comprises of cigarettes, tea/ coffee, or both, a mild alcoholic maybe….and as lost as a sand grain in the Pacific Ocean!
Interestingly people associate similar things (cigarette, coffee and tea) to a constipate who fails to flush down plum desires… More interestingly there are similar things for a writer, but the other way round!
A writer needs to flush his thoughts out of his mind for maybe some creative purpose (for a moment, please forget that I am a writer 😀 )!
I’ve seen managers gathering for a 5 minute “Sutta break” (sutta = cigarette) to discuss an issue that is bothering their obedient lives and sledging the boardroom knives. What do I see? A creepy issue that had the usually sophisticated managers pulling their hair apart in the long MEETING hours, does a juggle through the smoke rings, and bang comes the solution!
Similarly, it’s a cup of tea or coffee that works for the people whose teeth titter by a fortune forecast image on the cigarette packs. Or may be their family doctors suggest that the body seems unfamiliar with lungs…
For some, it’s the conscience of salvaging the best of both worlds! 🙂 Coffee n cigarette…hallelujah!
I think the concept is, it’s just not the WRITER, the STRATEGIST or the THINKER, it is anybody and everybody who thinks a cup of coffee or tobacco incense is the solution.
That is it; it’s just a herd of constipated thinkers, and not just the constipation of a writer!
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What!
It’s over buddy… (Seems, my writing is addictive, and you just can’t stop banging your head over empty space) 🙂
TADAH!!
आरज़ू
मैं उठा सुबह तो दस्तक पे थी एक आरज़ू
सांस लेती मुस्कुराती कुछ ज़रा बेशर्म सी
ख़्वाबों के बीच कुछ गिरता हुआ पकड़ा गए
पलकों के परदे से जो दो नयन खुले
देख सपनो को हकीकत में निखरता वो नयन
कुछ ज़रा घबरा गए, कुछ ज़रा भरमा गए
ख्वाब देखा था यूँ कहकर दिल को समझाया ज़रा
आँख मूंदी, नींद थामी और ज़रा अंगड़ाई ली
मंज़िलों से रूबरू हो कर भी में न हुआ
आदतों ने इस कदर कुछ बुन लिए थे फासले
नींद की आगोश में देखा फिर से उस ख्वाब को
सिलसिले फिर से वही कश्मकश के आ गए
मैं
तस्वीरों से पूछता हूँ बोलती तुम क्यों नहीं
बेखुदी में लफ़्ज़ों को इंकार कर देता हूँ मैं
खूबसूरती से पूछता हूँ एहतराम -ऐ-शाम क्यों
बेशक्लि में कुछ ज़रा श्रृंगार कर लेता हूँ मैं
सागरों से पूछता हूँ लहरों का है साथ क्यों
रिश्तों को तो अब यूँ ही बदनाम कर देता हूँ मैं
ख़्वाबों से मैं पूछता हूँ है तेरा रहबर क कहाँ
आँखों के इस शौक को बेज़ार कर देता हूँ मैं
आंसुओं से पूछता हूँ मायने मैं जश्न के
काफिरों को मंज़िल से आज़ाद कर देता हूँ मैं
मौत से मैं पूछता हूँ जीने का है खौफ क्यों
एक क़त्ल से खुद को यूँ ही आज़ाद कर लेता हूँ मैं
तेरे फ़िराक़-ऐ-इश्क़ में ऐ ज़िन्दगी
एहसास के एहसास को वीरान कर देता हूँ मैं
I ask, MAY I!
I ask if I should ignore my existence
Like I do everyday, everywhere
Should I breath incessantly
The hopes of a commune
My life being the sarcasm of
A dismantled, lifeless mirror
Should I collect the morsels
of a scattered self
Wonder if I have the courage
of being an indigenous spirit
My distilled dreams limp to caress
the wounded aspirations of SELF
The aspirations of a boundless sea
A sea of words and of thoughts
Of a world that I do not entertain often
Of an enigma I am too busy to be certain of
The strings of my name,
Strangle “me” till my poise succumbs
I ask, MAY I!
Piyush Kaushal
(Sa)n(ch)ur(i)a(n)
Bow your heads low
And stir your souls high
Beneath that cranium,
And above all the repercussions
Is a human, a superhuman…
For centuries may come,
And they may fall like rain
But never will you fathom this genius again
You call him a master, do you
You call him a blaster, do you
You call him a miracle
and a thunder, and a fire do you
A demon to the bowler down the wicket he is
A god in this cricket frenzy nation he is
The hope of a thousands of millions disciple
And the agony of a few disheartened atheists he is
He’s faced the torpedoes and the fireballs
And the swingers and the yorkers
He’s smashed them, he’s thrashed them
He’s sent them to the Pluto
and the Mars and the Saturn
He’s an era himself,
In this gentleman’s game
For thou shall ne’er see, this humility
In such extravagance of fame
May we keep alive Sachinism,
a proud Sachinist I am
I’ve seen the Master play,
That’s how lucky I am!
P.S: This poem is dedicated to Sachin’s 100th century. Special thanks to my friend Abhishek Nagaraja who motivated me to write this. 🙂
