Soldier

Artists generally do not  die on their line of duties but for sure some of them give their lives to Art.

My Understanding Of Hinduism in One Line

One day I realised I am more than one and since that day I am trying to understand we are the same....

Blame

We get paid for being mechanical. When someone tells you to polish your skills; what does he actually mean? Precision, mechanical precision, that’s what he is asking.  I do not have anything against him or the system. I seriously do not mind if it takes all the digits of the key pad to reach the person in the call centre, neither do I mind the call centre person telling me exactly what the pre-recorded voices were telling me to do for last half an hour. It’s just ok, I am alright with all this. If this is what you want, if this is what the world is aspiring to be, I am fine with it. But what about those people who can’t be mechanical, no seriously it is not a joke. I know many who struggle so hard to fit in. So hard ....just be normal, you know.  Far from being mechanical, I can hardly even match my own signature to save my life. I know so many of them and so many of them are good friends of mine. I just want to reach out to them and tell them its okie. You are needed in this world, probably as much as those mechanically precise people if not more. I want to tell them your involuntary originality is lacking in this world. I want to tell them you are wonderful   But I cant...Because I know nobody cares...         

  

The war or the inevitability of the war?

The line it is been drawn, the curse it is been cast. No, there is no denying. We are divided and I wonder who is smiling now. For both sides have heroes, both sides think they are right and other is wrong. Passion is overriding empathy. I wonder what is worse, the war or inevitability of the war. I say they divided us but then it’s I who asks you to choose. Staying away seems wrong participating is gruesome ho, Krishna, you have seen it all. So tell me which is worse the war or the inevitability of the war?

The man who fed the Ants

I saw this man today, throwing flour to the ground. Curious, I went and asked him what exactly is he doing? He said “feeding ants can’t you see? Now move away before you step on few of them. I was about to say, “The ants will survive without your help. They will manage quite well”. Then thought ants will survive without him but would he after knowing that the Ants actually don’t need him?

Conversation with a knife

The kitchen knife begged me “please do not use me as a butter knife”. I replied “fuck you” and used it any ways....
Moral of the story.... There are no morals.... If anyone thinks he/she owns you... He/she will use you any ways he/ she want.

Apart from the fact that I am talking to knives these days it is a pitty boring story...

Friends

sacchai hum aur kabhi
jee lenge kabhi aur sahi
pahar ke ganje shikhron pe
anjaan ladkiyon ke siskiyon se
dhoop se tapte pattaron pe
hum ishque ki chadar...., khair
phir aur kabhi, phir aur sahi.

Jante toh hai hum sab magar,
Chahata hai yeh dil kuch aur dagar
Alas (अलस) bhari angraiyon mein
Dard ki aah pahechanti hai nazar
Karna toh hai bohut kuch..... , kahir
Phir aur kabhi, phir aur sahi.

Charas ke kale dhuyen mei,
Ya need se bhaari palkon ne
Dard se bhara lota daba diya
Abb titliyon ka peecha kare kyon?
Jab kal aur kal ka wasta tut gaya
Par hum sapna dekhna...... khair
Phir aur kabhi, phir aur sahi

Wo dekh kabutar chup gaya
Table ke neeche dubpak gaya
Hum karke bhird (भीड़) chale usko bachane
Jo khud se hi woh dar gaya
sacchai hum aur kabhi
jee lenge kabhi aur sahi

Music

It was not any of these days. Or was it yesterday or is it just a memory of a neverday. I opened my eyes, it was dark inside and outside didn’t exist. The neatly rolled joints were placed on the window. The window led to another dark room where slept a guy whose name I still do not know or rather I should say I know him by many names. It was winters but all I remember now is the warmth. We were atleast five sleeping on the bed with one quilt to share. I didn’t belong there but I guess they knew I do not belong anywhere. Each one of them made sure I was always covered; had my share of the quilt, the share which was not mine.

Then the guy with the car came. He brought bright day light from the open door. We let love birds fly in the room. We left the cage door open. They thought they were free as we think we are free. We drove through the green fields. More smoke came out the windows than the car’s back side. It wasn’t strange because strange was nothing and everything at the same time. We saw black buck, peacocks, a hermit who knew the present he took us to this guy whose car was struck in the field. The poet got mud on his face trying to help. I think people who are good with words and have equally good heart should not get into the ring. Damn we all will be shot indiscriminately.... Now fuck that.

There is music everywhere but only he who is an artist recognises that. We made noise and to some not even in a funny way but then they let us any ways.