My Memoirs of Mesmerizing Memories

Tranquil Time...

2011-11-12T19:41:00.010+05:30

This Blogpost won a 32GB Blackberry Playbook in a contest organized by Indiblogger, HUL and Surf Excel Matic's Get Smart Contest... I have also added a snapshot of a personal letter which I recieved with the award.Click on it to reach Surf Excel Matic's Facebook Album which talks about this post :)

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Letter from Surf Excel Team

Anukriti Sharma Photography

January - Dawn... Clouds of fog and mist surround the windows... Blurred buildings fade into oblivion...

Our cup of tea is still warm with love...Bits of Bourbon biscuit lie scattered on a plate ...

Anukriti Sharma photography

My Kafka touches your novel with playful innocence... reposed on the bed, between the sheets, they wink at us knowingly... Smiles kiss our lips as we hum inaudible songs...

Your name is embossed in my palm... Written with a red pen in your beautiful handwriting...

Silence echoes all around... The smudged kohl in my eyes... speaks a thousand words...

History can boast about the stories of kings and knights... They are too cheaply scattered and known to all...

Anukriti Sharma photography

But our stories...those fragments of stolen seconds spent together are curled in time's box like a precious solitaire... The dust of present cannot tarnish it... It can only add to its brilliance... The stories of those beautiful moments... Only two people know of it... Only two people will ever know of it...

Anukriti Sharma photography

In my stream of consciousness I see and experience various memories... like blotches of light flickering in the distance... Like the tunes of a flute being played in some faraway land... Memories real and unreal flock around me... They sing forgotten verses in my ears. Like poetry in motion they rejuvenate me... inspire me... My will power, the motivation to live is based on these flights of fancy, the world of imagination...I can travel places in my world of thoughts, explore unexplored regions, experience beauty all around... Every moment is precious and if I get two hours to myself... I would spend it on myself... To sit back, relax and think... To plan the day and sway away... in the world of fantasy and tranquil meditation... Spend a little more time with myself... Even two hours would seem like Amaranth - the imaginary flower that never loses its colour... unfading, undying...

Anukriti Sharma photography

Two hours... I would leaf through the pages of a book, write my musings in a little diary.... Have a warm cup of tea, observe people around me... Kiss the flowers that bloom in my garden, smell the intoxicating essence of raindrops on my beautiful motherland... Listen to the melody of birds twittering in the distance, or the tunes of waves splashing against my feet...

Anukriti Sharma photography

Follow my footprints and paint this magically enchanting world in the colours of life... Two hours spent on experiencing the beautiful things in life will bring inner peace and satisfaction... And when a person is at peace with himself he can cause no harm... he can cause no pain, no hurt... he can utilize his time in such a way that he knows and understands the binaries of life... he understands the truths of life and accepts them gracefully.

Anukriti Sharma photography

"...And indeed there will be time...

...There will be time, there will be time...
....Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions..."

- T.S.Eliot, The Love Song of J.Alfred Prufrock

Anukriti Sharma photography

The world around me is constantly changing... Every day I change... I grow older by a few minutes, a few hours... Physically, mentally and spiritually i am changing... With time comes experience... I have traversed from the world of innocence to the world of experience... I cannot change the entire world.... But I have the power within me to change myself... To become a better human being... Who is compassionate and empathetic... who can spare some time to help the man who lost his family in the floods... can bring a smile on the face of little girl who cries herself to sleep every night...Who values people and understands the relationship between God and life...

Anukriti Sharma photography

All around me I see people who have... No time for family, no time for love... no time for friends, no time for happiness... And then there are others who have all the time in the world, but have no clue how to spend it... Idleness is the only key to their locked up minds.

Anukriti Sharma photography

Everyone is born lonely, but nobody is ever alone... One is always immersed in thoughts and reflections... People tend to observe and understand life better when they are alone...

Anukriti Sharma photography

Solitude is accompanied by contemplation and contemplation by thoughts which indeed are the best companion one could ask for... they sparkle in the form of memories, they flicker in the form of dreams and desires. Two hours of contemplation... Twenty four hours of implemenation and bringing about change... Change in oneself, in the lives of people... Being responsible, being earnest... Time for family, time for friends... time for the good things in life... To dissolve sadness in the sea of life, and open the oyester of happiness... If one has time to think and contemplate over things that really matter, wouldn't life become more beautiful? Wouldn't life become worth living?

Anukriti Sharma photography

समय की देहलीज़ पे कई लकीरें खींच आई हूँ...

Samay ki dehleez pe kayi lakeerein kheech aayi hun...

कुछ कल की, कुछ आज की...

Kuch kal ki, kuch aaj ki...

उन्हें समेट के रखना है अपने पास

Unhe samet ke rakhna hai apne paas...

खोने से पहले...

Khone se pehle...

बांटना है...

Baantna hai...

अपने साथ

Apne saath...

तुम्हारे साथ...

Tumhare saath...

~ अनुकृति

Anukriti Sharma photography

Translation:

I have drawn many lines at the doorstep of time...

Of yesterday and today...

I have to gather them and keep them safe with myself...

Before they get lost...

I have to share them...

With myself..

With you...

~Anukriti

Anukriti Sharma photography

"Only through time time is conquered."

- T.S. Eliot, Burnt Norton

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Zahera

2011-11-02T03:40:00.007+05:30

Zahera is a Turkish/Arabic name which has various meanings attached to it. Zahera is radiance, she is a white, blossoming flower, as bright and luminous as dawn... Zahera is you, Zahera is me... She is in each one of us. The little moments of brightness in our lives is what Zahera is...

This is my first attempt at writing a Urdu Short Story. I have presented the first part of the story in this post. The Video or A/V is a vocal rendering to the words written by me. I have attempted to translate my words in English. You can refer to the translation for reference. The ghazal/thumari has been selected from various sources. The voice/narration/composition is my own, and the photographs have been taken from the Internet.

Suggestion: Buffer the entire video and play it on full screen

Original Text:
Zahera - Part One

Unki aab daar aankhon se maano aansu rukte nahin the... Har lamhe ko masroofiyat mein badalne ki hazaaron naakaam koshishon ke baad unhone socha ke ab is bechain ,beqaraar jism ko fursat ke kuch pal de dein. Jism maut ko mujassam hona bhi na chahta tha. Yaadon ke qafas mein naa jaane kitne khwaab batore rakhti thi... 'Khaalah' 'Khaalah' keh ke pukaarte the log unhe... Jab mukhaalif ne bhi yaaron ki tarah dagaa de diya aur apni mehfil se door kar diya to khaalah ko maano aise khaalipann ne gher liya jaise burkhe ke saaye mein chupi timtimaati sard aankhein ho. Puraane postcardon ka ek majmaa banaye rakha tha... Zahera ke bheje postcard the woh.

Zahera... Zahera... Zahera.... yaad karte karte, khaalah ki boodhi aankhon mein aisi saqib nazar aane lagti, maano jaan atki ho unki us ladki mein... Train mein mili thi ek roz... Dilli se Lakhnau jaa rahi thi woh bhi... Saamne waali seat pe baithi thi... Chikan ka kadhaidaar dupatta maano sar pe tik ta hi na ho... halki gulaabi salwaar ke silvatein kaale naqaab ke peeche se jhaank rahe the. Un mein maknoon narm nange paon mein bandhe dhaage jaise do bareek chaandi ke paazaib chipe the. Unki sheereen mauseeqi jab Khaala ke kaanon pe padti to maano raag-e-dil ko qaraar mil jaata.

Khaalah bachpan se hi baatuni qism ki thi. Mauka milte hi logon se humnavaaii kar leti. Zahera se bhi kuch aisi guftagu hui ki rukne ka naam na liya. Do tanha be-kas aurton ko masroor hone ka isse accha kya bahana milta? Zahera ne bataya ke uske shauhar barri fauj mein sipaahi hain. Watan ki khidmat mein Kashmeer ki vaadiyon mein hi unka basera rehta. Do saal ho gaye the nikaah ko gar deedar bas ek baar hi hua tha. Muntazar ke intezaar mein tanha raatein fughaan ke shab mein badal jaati... Har saher , darvaaze pe hasrat-e-deedar hota. Magar unka aana to maano ab khwaab sa lagne laga tha...

‘Nakkhas’ ki un tang galiyon mein ek chote se makaan mein Zahera ne apna aashiyaan banaya tha. Aangan mein jab achaar ke martabaan bhar jaate tab woh unhe sametne jaaya karti thi. Dhoop mein chamakte woh rangeen shishiyan bhi uske tanhaaii ke aage pheeke lagte. Kabhi kabar ek purane se takht par baith woh kuch gungaati nazar aati thi. Maano khud se baatein kar rahi ho. Padosiyon ne bhi kayi majrooh kar dene waali ghazalein suni thi...

Painted by Anukriti Sharma, Nov 1, 2011

Translation:

It seemed that her bright eyes could no longer behold tears. Failing miserably even after innumerable attempts to change every moment into comfort and leisure, she thought, why not give this anxious, restless body a few moments of rest. But her body did not want to embody/embrace death. She kept countless dreams collected and captured in the cage of memories. ‘Khaalah(Aunt) , Khaalah’ that is how she was known to the world... When opponents too betrayed her like her friends, and abandoned her, Khaalah was enveloped in a cloud of emptiness... This emptiness seemed like a woman's cold, twinkling eyes, hidden behind a veil (Burkha). She had stacked a lot of old postcards... All were sent by Zahera...

Zahera....Zahera...Zahera...whenever her thought crossed the mind, Khaalah's old eyes filled with brightness... It seemed that her life depended on the girl... They had met in a train...Zahera too was travelling from Delhi to Lucknow... seated in front of her. A Chikan embroidered stole constantly uncovered her head . The creases of her light pink Salwar(Pyjamas) peeped from the black coloured veil... Hidden within its folds, tied on smooth, nude feet were two thin thread-like anklets. Whenever its sweet melody reached khaalah's ears, the strings of her heart played musical notes.

Khaalah had been talkative since childhood. Given an opportunity, she could befriend any one. Even with Zahera, the kind of interaction she had was so delightful that it continued endlessly. What better way to rejoice/please two helpless, lonely women? Zahera said that her husband was a soldier in Indian Army. Dedicated to the service of the country, he had made the valleys of Kashmir his abode. Even after two years of marriage, she had seen him just once... Waiting for one awaited, lonely evenings turned into nights of lamentation... Every morning she awaited his arrival standing at her doorstep. But now, his homecoming seemed like a faraway dream...

Zahera had created a little home for herself in the congested alleys of Nakkhas (part of Old Lucknow). When her courtyard was filled with pickle pots, she went to assemble them. Even those colourful glass pots, illuminated by sunlight, seemed faded in the face of her loneliness. Sometimes she could be seen seated on an old armchair, humming verses ... as if talking to herself. Even the neighbours had heard many heart-wrenching couplets/ghazals/songs..

Sex, Prostitution and a lie called Love...

2011-10-14T21:00:00.004+05:30

This post has been selected by BlogAdda as one of the top posts or BlogAdda’s Spicy Saturday Picks – Oct. 22, ’11

Dilapidated walls of a brothel - Picture Credit:- Anukriti Sharma

Those dark alleys are smeared with foul smelling blood… filled with gaudy lights radiating from huge, flashy billboards that brighten up the night. Carnal desires are fulfilled… Bodies are sold for a few rupees. Millions of women and men are involved in the trade. Sex is cheap; love comes at a great price. Love is a lie, sex is the only truth.

Way to a brothel - G.B.Road, Delhi - Picture Credit: Anukriti Sharma

G.B. Road Delhi is a place flooded with men in the evening. A brief visit to the place reveals the truth behind those skeletal windows… flashing faces of distorted woman. The smell of rancid body fluids floods the place. Semen and blood mixed with inexpensive perfume wafts through the air… Soiled in mud, used and unused latex can be seen in veiled areas… trying hard to hide in the alley of reality some unknown, unloved faces. Dilapidated walls with naked patchwork of fading paint adorn these brothels… Every window has semi nude women clad in nothing but unabashed melancholy. Brothel, Whore-house – that is what they call this place… The red light district is filled with zombies… emotionless, unthinking, mechanical sex workers confined in a four by six room… the place where all business transactions are held; nights of revelry and days of melancholy fuse into one another day after day without respite; where these women live; where these women die…

Be Warned - Picture Credit: Anukriti Sharma

HIV, Venereal diseases are commonplace. Every woman attends to at least ten to twenty clients a day… More than 20,000 condoms are used every month. These brothels follow a chain of command. The young girls involved in trade are hardly given money. The senior sex worker or the ‘naayika’ works as the head of a brothel… She holds the reins of five or six younger girls who not only work for her but also bring in money. The money thus earned is distributed among pimps, managers, police, ‘naayika’ and various minor characters. An ailing or infected sex worker is left to fend for herself in her small, dingy, claustrophobic room. She might die out of suffering and ignorance but since she becomes an invalid she is hardly cared for or attended to.

A brothel - Picture Credit: Anukriti Sharma

Most of the women who work in these so called ‘house of ill-repute’ do not enter the trade out of choice. They mostly belong to Andhra Pradesh, West Bengal and Nepal and are sold for money. These girls are lured into the grandeur of big cities and brought to places like Delhi, Calcutta, and Mumbai in the name of getting a job. The girls are deceived by their masters who make them work for two or three months as a house maid or manual worker. They then are sold to a ‘naayika’ for a heavy sum of money. As soon as a girl enters this den of vice, the ‘naayika’ levies a loan on her. If a ‘naayika’ buys a girl for say two lakh rupees, the amount thus paid has to be reimbursed by the girl herself… and that is not the end of her woes, an additional 10% tax is levied on a monthly basis in the name of subsistence. If she tries to run away, her parents and society reject her and treat her like an outcaste. The girl is thus trapped in a barbed labyrinth of troubles wherein she has no choice but to give into the demands of her ‘naayika’. She thus becomes permanently ensnared in the house of prostitution. The women who work in brothels have hardly known love, they have hardly been loved. All they have been through is unbearable pain… Each breath they take is another’s…

A former sex worker who now helps spread awareness about HIV-AIDS, Picture Credit:Anukriti Sharma

As dusk dawns upon Gaston Bastion Road, a bizarre heaviness fills my heart. Memories of people known and unknown flash before my eyes… grotesque pictures soak my heart… I see the people involved in nothing but duplicity, deceit, treachery, betrayal and infidelity… All one wants to do is use another… for gratification and pleasure… But what kind of contentment can one get by hurting another? By doing nothing but inflicting pain?

I feel sore, broken… A sense of profound pain fills my eyes with a cascade of tears. I imagine the world… bereft of love, bereft of emotions. Everywhere around me people hurt each other… Lie… Lie about their emotions, lie about their feelings, and lie about love… Sex has become the only means of satisfying a soul. I do not say that sex is not important, but is it the only truth? Is it the only thing that matters? The concept of soul-mates is but a lie!

Love is slowly losing its innocence… It peeps through darkness like a scared, scarred child… apprehensive and timid… afraid to show its face to the world of experience… afraid to be tarnished by the flawed concepts of the world. Isn’t it time we erase the blemishes that scar the face of love?

People are dying all around… Out of hatred, abhorrence, abomination! Isn’t it time we realized the importance of love? Isn’t it time we held that beautiful sensation close to our spirit and tried feeling its life-breath? Love is a lie we tell to console ourselves... but isn't that lie sweeter than the bitter truths of life?

Reflections...

2011-08-03T08:56:00.000+05:30

An obsolete room housed in an antiquated house in the middle of nowhere...

Shadows of the past crystallize into view...

Scraps of nostalgia littered all over the place

A heap of unsent Letters... coated in layers of cobwebs...

Now merely a means of understanding a lost past...

In oblivion exists the reality...

Broken windows, unhinged doors creaking every now and then...
juxtaposed with the mellifluous voice of Begum Akhtar...

The deep scratches on the vinyl record... like scars...

The gramophone keeps repeating the same lines over and over again... “Rona aaya...Rona aaya...Rona aaya...”

A broken cup strained out of tea...Dry leaves jumbled in the cup...a few pigeons copulating... feathers strewn all over the place...

A Yellow dog-eared page written in hand... It reads...

"Us siyaahi ki dibbi se na jane kitne khat likhe the tumhe...
Aaj woh bhi kuch khali khali sa hai mere hi tarah

Us aasmaani chadar ki chhat ke neeche...
Seepiyon se khelti hain lehrein...

Ek ghar mera bhi hai wahin kahin
gar aankhon se lehrein door nahin hui
Thake paaon jahan sone jata hun main
kabhi kabhi...

Ek arsa hua...
Maano samandar behta ho mere andar...

Ummeedon ke saaye shayad nazar nahin aate hain ab...

In Gehraaiyon mein ya to samandar hai ya khaayi,
Magar Intezaar kisko hai rone ka...

Kagaz ke tukdon se banaye the jo phool maine...
Aaj woh bhi murjhaa se gaye hain

Na rang hai na khushboo...
Woh ab kaaf-e-khaak mein badal chuke hain...
Mere Khwaabon ke...
Shaakh pe jo ithlaate the barso pehle"

Next to the document, A rusted metal photo frame... Within the frame...A sepia-tinged boy smiling at the camera...Eyes tightly shut with a smile spread on the face...
A few feet away...some squirrels nibbling...

A withered old man on the floor deep in slumber...

A smile spread across his face...eyes tightly shut...

DEAD!!!

Memoirs of a Gadgeteer

2011-06-26T11:29:00.008+05:30

Since Industrial Revolution the world has seen advancement in the field of science, technology and communication. The mushrooming of easily accessible resources has fulfilled most of our needs. Mechanization and development of scientific temper has led to the ever increasing demand for technologically sound devices and gadgets. Technical know-how was limited to a select few in pre-independent India. Post-freedom, a class of intellectuals who had the potential to create milestones in this field emerged in various parts of the country. Telegraph, Transistor, Telephone - the 3Ts of good old days...have now grown old and weak. The great-grandfathers are slowly being replaced by an ever increasing population of new generation kids like-X-box, I-pad, Android, and PlayBook.

There was a time when only the aristocratic were endowed with advanced devices. In the present world gadgets denote necessity. There is hardly any person who is not aware of it. Every gizmo and gadget epitomizes the generation to which its user belongs. It reflects the personality of its user in some way or the other. For some a Camera may simply be a device to click pictures, and for others it may serve as an object for experimentation. A laptop may be a portal to play games for some while it may be an addiction for others. Every individual is unique and a gadget represents his/her lifestyle and personality.

Gadgets have been a part of my life since a very long time. They not only reflect my personality but also throw light on my journey from childhood to maturity. The first gadget I was introduced to was gramophone record player that formed, and still is an essential part of my household. The melodious sound-tracks kept me at the threshold of modernity and tradition. Then came in the transistor and radio wherein Vividhbharati was the only channel. An important source of information... it served as a means to knowledge and my interaction with the world. Radio City and other such channels became a part of my life when I was in high school. Music soothed my soul and helped me understand the various dimensions associated with life. I still possess a red coloured Radio and Audio Cassette Player that my mother brought for my sister's birthday.

TV (with cable) and VCR player formed the core of 1990s. Old serials and advertisements on Doordarshan formed a memorable part of every Indian's mind born before 1995. From 'Mile Sur Mera Tumhara' to 'Mowgli' of Jungle Book, TV as a gadget proved to be a source of abundant wisdom and entertainment. Land-line phone came into existence for me when I was in primary school in Calcutta. My urge to socialize and talk found wings with the advent of this wonderful invention! I still remember how I used to tell my family to dial random numbers so that I could talk to my friends. Once I had found myself in a hilarious situation when I had urged them to dial "1234567". My parents still make fun of me when they remember the incident. Mobile phones were extremely expensive and my first cell phone was a Reliance LG CDMA way back in 2001.My first GSM was a Nokia 1100 with a blinding white torch light and achromatic screen display.

Our first PC was bought in 1998-99 when we used to stay in Kandla. I still remember the green lettered "Datamini" inscribed on the CPU. With the arrival of Personal Computer, the need to have an Internet connection also became a necessity. Long wires were attached to the PC and hence I was introduced to the 'World Wide Web'. My venture into the reality of virtual world became a part of life and I got the opportunity to interact with people all over the globe. I remember my first friend was a girl from Hong-Kong who loved Indian culture and tradition. The first person I ever chatted with from India was 'Bhaskar Bhaiya' from Vizag who even after 11 years is in touch with me. My first email-id (which still exists) became a part of my past and present. Even now when I look at some old mails I wonder how far I have actually traversed...from a schoolgirl to a twenty-four year old!

Preserving memories forms an essential part of my life. Nostalgia brims in every little corner and emanates through everything I use. My gadgets too represent the person in me, my inner personality. My Dell Inspiron 1545, Sony Cyber Shot DSCW350/p; Nokia C5 and I-Pod Nano are four gadgets that I use presently and which reflect my personality.

My Sony Cyber shot is the second camera I am using. My first one too was a Sony. My inclination towards Sony surely says something about my life and choices. I am a person who loves photography. My camera has some features that define my personality. First of all, it is small, inexpensive, compact and easy to use. I personally do not like complications. An expensive camera might click beautiful images but is too complicated for a beginner like me. Secondly the lens is a Carl Zeiss; it has 4X optical zoom and is a 14.1 mega pixels camera. These features enhance its perspective. The picture quality is enhanced and I am able to click the kind of pictures I want to. I find happiness in simple things of life and my camera sufficiently offers me that...

My first and only laptop is my Dell Inspiron 1545. It was gifted to me by my cousin and has a beautiful dark blue cover. Though it has become worn out due to excessive use...I still love it because it is hardy and durable. Like me it easily adjusts in any environment, whether it the scorching heat of Delhi summer or wet monsoons of Mumbai... My Dell has travelled extensively with me and adjusted everywhere. It is portable and handy. My laptop has long battery back-up and is quite durable. Unlike other laptops it does not heat up easily and is quite user-friendly. I keep customizing and changing its desktop background to suit my mood...and every day begins with a different and enriching experience. Memories are an essential part of my life and I love thinking and contemplating. Access to high storage capacity retains all my photographs and important documents and helps me revive and relive those moments. Dell service centres are easily accessible and hence quite beneficial. For me my laptop is not just a gadget it is my alter-ego. My life, things that matter to me are all stored in my Dell.

I have been using Nokia C5 for a month now. The best thing about it is that it is sleek, light and easy to handle. I have the option to change its theme and I keep downloading beautiful themes to suit my mobile phone. Different, colourful, cute icons appeal me. With features like 3.2MP camera, Bluetooth, Radio, Music Player, GPS, Voice Recorder and Internet, it is a basic gadget filled with useful features. Unnecessary and cluttered mobile phones with overflowing information simply do not appeal my tastes. The memory card slot is located outside which makes it convenient to use. Nokia phones are user friendly which is an added bonus. I do not prefer a QWERTY keypad and a simple and unornamental phone like C5 is what defines me.

My Apple I-Pod Nano represents my choices. I believe the kind of music one listens to can say a lot about the kind of person one is. It was a gift given to me by my brother-in-law. It is beautiful and very light and easy to handle. I can easily delete and add new songs, change the folders, and also edit my playlist.A small yet powerful gadget,its 16GB storage space makes it a wonderful instrument wherein I can store a lot of songs, videos and audio books.

Gadgets indeed have a great influence on the lives of people. They not only have the power to metamorphose our lifestyle but also to change the way we think. Had it not been for technological advancement and introduction of new devices, our world would have remained stagnant and devoid of growth. New inventions and discoveries occur every day. A few decades back we were unaware of many gadgets that exist now. The disparity between generations is increasing day by day. What is in fashion and popular right now may lose its strong-hold in the days to come. The need of the hour is to adapt and move on. So as to change ourselves with the ever-changing world... Because change indeed is easy!

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Please Note - Source of all the photographs on this post: Internet

Imbuing India - Painting our Historical Homeland

2011-06-25T15:19:00.008+05:30

This post won The first runner-up Prize - HP Laserjet Printer worth 15000/- INR in the HP contest

Miranda House, Delhi University; Picture Clicked by: Anukriti Sharma

On a sunny day when the blistering summer heat diffuses into the air and torments the soul, a breath of cool air, sprinkle of fresh dew drops, and the first showers purge the heart with joy. I wish those raindrops were infused with multi-hued pigments... so that each coloured drop had a special meaning. I wish it had the power to paint our souls with happiness...Had life been more colourful, wouldn't our perspective about it change?

Noida-GIP Mall; Picture Clicked by: Anukriti Sharma

The world is like a naked canvas wherein each individual paints his/her inner vivacity. The chromatic confluence represents not only the choices we make but also the kind of life we want to lead.

Malabar Hills, Mumbai; Picture Clicked by:Anukriti Sharma

Memories embellish and enamel our essence and everyone has his/her own special meaning attached to it. Every passing second, every moment gone by, stacks itself on the shelf of past and builds up a library of memories. Whatever exists today is a reflection of that which once existed in an era gone-by. Like a mirror it reflects life... Old photographs, musty books, dilapidated monuments, ancient civilizations...each one of these remind us of the bygone days. Human beings have always been allured by memories...

Faculty of Arts, Delhi University; Picture Clicked by: Anukriti Sharma

Memories of what once existed as reality form motley of images in the mind. But when we take a sojourn down memory lane, why is it that our mind is filled with monochromatic images? The present surely does build itself upon the relics of the past... But why must past always be an amalgam of black and white images juxtaposed against the polychromatic present?

Lucknow, 1863; Source- www.oldindianphotos.in

When photography was introduced in India in 1840s, it wasn't that life was bland and colourless. Life was as picturesque as it is now but since technological development was less advanced, images were usually 'black and white'. With the advent of cinematics, an era of looking at reality in motion came into prominence. But, sadly that too remained monochromatic.When we look at old relics of India's beautiful culture and tradition: A woman dressed up in a gorgeous red sari appears clothed in dull grey; a lush green field in Kolkata in the 1870s appears to be dabbed in a morose background. Life then may seem insipid to us though it was as lively as it is now.

Bombay - The gateway to India - Source: Youtube

If I had an opportunity to see anything in colour, it would definitely be India of the past painted in the colours of present.

1920s-Indian Upper Class Couple; Source- www.oldindianphotos.in


Darjeeling Hill Train 1930s; Source- www.oldindianphotos.in

Imagine ancient Maharajas and Rajahs clad in jewels and finery; Rabindranath Tagore reclining on his Diwan; Indian revolutionaries and leaders like Shaheed Bhagat Singh, B.R.Ambedkar, Subhash Chandra Bose, Lal Bahadur Shastri, Mahatma Gandhi and Jawaharlal Nehru; the old newspapers, magazines and novels; men and women in traditional attires in 1900s; means of transport used during 1800s; people celebrating various festivals; monumnets and cities basking in the glory of past; or a rare video taken during India's Independence. Now imagine these images in colour. Doesn't it produce a spectacular effect in your mind?


Temple architecture -Trichy 1880s; Source- www.oldindianphotos.in

India is a country which exhibits a distinctive past. As Mark Twain described, “This is indeed India; the land of dreams and romance, of fabulous wealth and fabulous poverty--the country of a thousand nations and a hundred tongues, of a thousand religions and two million gods, cradle of the human race, birthplace of human speech, mother of history, grandmother of legend, great-grandmother of tradition, whose yesterdays bear date with the mouldering antiquities of the rest of the nations—the one sole country under the sun that is endowed with an imperishable interest for alien prince and alien peasant, for lettered and ignorant, wise and fool, rich and poor, bond and free, the one land that all men desire to see, and having seen once, by even a glimpse, would not give that glimpse for the shows of all the rest of the globe combined.”— Following the Equator, 1897

Shimla - 1868; Source- www.oldindianphotos.in


Rabindranath Tagore; Source- www.oldindianphotos.in

Mark Twain's words are forever etched on the minds and hearts of people throughout the world. It is indeed 'The one land that all men desire to see'. It would indeed be unfortunate if we Indians remain paralyzed and cannot imagine our history flourish into colours...


Portrait of Dancing Girl; Source- www.oldindianphotos.in

Truly, the memories of past bring us closer to the realities of present. If I would like to see anything in colour it would definitely be India's past blossoming into multifarious colours. Black and white has its own appeal but colours bring us one step closer to the reality.


Mughals of Delhi ; Source- www.oldindianphotos.in

When I imagine India, the birthplace of different religions and cultures, the motherland of many different tribes and traditions, all I wish is to see it in colour. From the past to present I wish to see my country in its true essence. I know past cannot be recreated nor can it be felt or experienced. But it can surely be rejuvenated... rejuvenated through pictures, through videos and paintings.

Indian Independence - Rare Video; Source - Youtube

Woh kaale-safed rangon mein chipe chehre...
Maano koi daastaan sunaate hain.
Beete lamhon ki sej se utar kar humein,
Apni yaadein yaad dilaate hain...

India - Durga Puja celebrations in 1900s; Source- www.oldindianphotos.in

Rang-heen chehron mein qaid,
Kayi puraane khwaab chupe hain...
Inhe Zindagi ke rangon se bhar kar,
Aao chand lamhe aaj phir se jee lete hain...

Mahatma Gandhi and his followers; Source- www.oldindianphotos.in

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Beauty Unveiled

2011-05-21T13:02:00.048+05:30

This post Won 3000/- INR in the
'Indiblogger.com, Yahoo! India and Dove What is real beauty?'
Contest

What does real beauty mean to me?
"Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in a mirror. '' ~ Khalil Gibran
Beauty is ambrosia, the elixir of our essence... It is the palette of colors through which an artist paints the canvas of memories, the lyrical pen of a poet through which he perceives the world, the instrument of perennial notes strung into harmony by a musician. It encompasses the myriad hues of urban as well as pastoral lifestyles... From the cobbled boulevards of metropolitan cities to the dusty roads of rustic countryside... beauty has traversed each alley and touched every heart...
"Wisdom is the abstract of the past, but beauty is the promise of the future." ~ Oliver Wendell Holmes
Since the inception of universe, life has metamorphosed tremendously... civilizations have been buried in the sands of time so as to find itself re-erected and rebuilt on the rubble of antiquity. Changes have drastically transformed the face of earth... mysteriously what still remains intact is the presence of beauty... It is something that is immortal and cannot be confined to one person or thing... it is a universal reality. A child's laughter, raindrops on a sunny day, simplicity, mountains and hills wrapped in a blanket of snow, eyes that speak a thousand words, lovers engrossed in conversation near the sea-shore, a mother’s gentle touch, petals and lush foliage moist with dew, the tenderness of a loving embrace, all of these in some way or the other are beautiful. I believe these experiences are awe-inspiring not just for me but for most of the people who find beauty in life's little blessings ...For me, it is all encompassing...not just does it bespeak human language, it also speaks about the excellence of God...Through it we can comprehend our own Utopia, where God exists and reveals himself... It is not just aesthetic and should not be tarnished with vanity. Nor should it be artificial or superficial... It is abstract yet full of vitality...
"Beauty... is the shadow of God on the universe." ~ Gabriela Mistral
Real beauty is not biased; it does not pertain to a person, place or thing. It does not distinguish on the basis of caste, class, gender, colour, genes or race... Even a blind person can see it, a mute person can speak about it and a deaf person can feel it... It is our sensitivity to animate as well as inanimate objects. Physical attributes are after all only attributes, they do not define me, they do not define you. What defines me, you and all of us is beauty that lies within us... It is eternal... like an archaeological artifact, it lies hidden within each one of our souls... ready to be explored, and ready to be excavated... it is the hidden magnetism of mundane things... the extraordinary in the ordinary, defining the personality, perception and perspective of different people...
"Everything has beauty, but not everyone sees it." ~ Confucius
Of all aspects of life it is the only aspect which can be termed as 'sublime'. It is truth, the reality of life... One need not look for it and follow the path of disillusionment...it is in the offing of realization; of being touched, felt and experienced. To me, it is the symbol of love, alter-ego of self, mother of art, offspring of happiness, and the beloved of life itself...
"Never lose an opportunity of seeing anything beautiful, for beauty is God's handwriting. '' - Ralph Waldo Emerson

A few lines on Beauty by me:

Ehsaas-e-jamaal ~ Feeling of Beauty

Ek maa ke sparsh se khoobsurat kya ehsaas hoga?

Jo ek shayar ke kalam ko chuu sake...

Ek bacche ke kilkaari se haaseen kya cheez hogi?

Jo sirf ek fankaar ke kaanon mein goonj sake...

Baarish ki pehli boondon ka ehsaas tab tak na hoga...

Jab tak koi gulzaar, gul-e-tar na ho...

Chaadar-e-mehtaab ka ehsaas tab tak na hoga...

Jab tak vasl-e-yaar na ho...

Ehsaas-e-jamaal to khuda ki ni'amat hai

Yeh barkat to aakheeran sab par hi hogi

- Anukriti

Translation:

What could be more beautiful than the warmth of a mother?

Which can touch the pen of a poet...

What could be more beautiful than the laughter of a child?

Which can only be heard by a musician...

The first drops of rain will not be experienced...

Until a flower bed/garden is not freshly drenched in dew...

The sheet of moonlight will not not be experienced...

Until the lovers do not meet...

Feeling of beauty is but a blessing of God...

This benediction will eventually befall upon everyone...

- Anukriti

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Reminiscence

2011-03-05T00:16:00.006+05:30

Hundreds of faces jostle towards Sone. The river embraces them as they immerse themselves navel-deep into its cool waters...

Women clad in multihued saris offer Aragh (offerings) to the Sun God...

The river has seen this place metamorphose from a tiny village to a beautiful town... She has seen the rise of schools, hospitals and theatres... Like a mother she has compassionately encompassed the faces of thousands of men and women... She has seen them grow from boys to men, from girls to women... The people might forget her but the river remembers each and every face...Every face that ever bathed here on her banks...

In fact she remembers...she vividly remembers... the face of Dr. Awadhesh Prasad and his wife Kusum Rani. They came to her banks to offer prayers during Chhath Puja - the festival of six days of austerity... They came here with their children to see and rejoice the sun setting over the horizon. They came here when this town was a village... in the era of independent India, a newly wedded couple came here... dependent on nobody but one another for love, happiness and life.

An ENT specialist with a degree from Bombay (Mumbai) and qualification of a revolutionary during the freedom struggle...He came back to his motherland leaving behind the ‘Mayanagri’. A small clinic for the patients of the town was opened at the back of his ancestral home. His wife, two sons, six daughters and an extended family of hundreds of patients were all that comprised his world. Cough and Cold were common in those days... fever was a fatal disease. As schools, theatres and means of transport mushroomed in the town so did the problems related to eyes, nose and throat.

At a time when even dispensaries were a luxury Dr.Prasad’s clinic served as a boon to the people. He was not just a doctor for the people... he was family for them. He was like a friend, philosopher and guide to them. People treated him as God. He treated the poor for free, not just in Dehri but also in the nearby villages... His smile greeted his patients who increased day by day. He encouraged those who took proper care and medication, and at times even scolded those who did not. He took to the teachings of Arya Samaj and promoted a vegetarian lifestyle.He attended conferences all over the country and helped and healed hundreds and thousands of people. A man whose name is imprinted in Who’s Who list of WHO (World Health Organization), he refused to go to Mauritius to settle there as a doctor. Deeply rooted in the love for one’s country he stayed in Dehri-on-Sone, Bihar till he retired. He practiced medicine even post-retirement.

His nimble hands were ready to heal everyone who wanted help, his everlasting smile welcomed young and old alike... his ears were ready to hear out everybody’s problem and his deep loving eyes looked upon everyone with compassion and tenderness. On 15 November 2005, his gentle eyes closed forever...Thousands were rendered fatherless. His death tormented the people’s hearts like an incurable disease. The entire town lamented this irremediable loss. A doctor is not just a part of his family but also an integral part of the society. His body was burned and his ashes were scattered in the holy river. A part of those ashes slowly permeated in the womb of Sone...

The river still flows in Dehri, only Dr. Awadhesh Prasad no longer lives there...
Maybe he still lives there... Maybe...in that little clinic behind that big house...Maybe on the banks of the river where he sat in the evenings...

I know he is no longer physically present with us... but my grandfather will live with me forever... Not only me, but he will live forever in the hearts of all his children... all those thousands of people who loved him and will remember him forever...

Get your story published in The Chicken Soup for the Indian Soul – Indian Doctors at BlogAdda

Voyage with God

2011-02-20T18:57:00.011+05:30

Selected for BlogAdda’s Spicy Saturday Picks – Feb. 26, ‘11

Here's the Link - http://adda.at/Spicy39

Winter wants to say goodbye...

The clouds have come back home...

Embarrassed in their muddy socks...

Rain drops paint the canvas dull gray...
A drenched pigeon sits outside the window...

Looking at itself in dismay...

Hollow red eyes filled with sorrow...

As we look towards the orange gray sky...

We find each other together even in our loneliness...

(Om Bhur Bhuvah Swaha

Tat Savitur Varenyam

Bhargo Devasya

Dheemahi

Dhiyo Yona

Prachodayat)

O God we meditate on your divine light

Bestow your blessings on us

So that our intellect maybe enlightened

So that we may rise higher and higher

To the highest consciousness

Enable us to meditate

To be successful in all affairs of life

And to realize God...

...

Winter wants to say good bye...

Through the pages of these books...

I travel across continents and countries...

Crossing great oceans and seas...

I feast upon the thoughts of great philosophers...

And relish the discoveries of geographers...

Now I am in the dense undergrowth of Africa...

Now, in the vast and lonely Antarctica...

Now atop the great Himalayas...

Now in the depths of Mariana Trench!

I ramble across the blue continent...

I dance to the tunes of folk songs

I sing the tales of forgotten people

I delve into the abysmal Amazon...

And slide upon the Niagara Falls!

(Loka Samasta Sukino Bhavantu

Om Shanti Shanti Shanti Om)

May all beings be happy and free

Om Peace Peace Peace Om

Like Gulliver I am set on my voyage...

My flight is inspired by love;

Only God is my companion...

Imagination feeds my thoughts...

And dreams intoxicate me...

Winter wants to say goodbye...

But I want to stay here all day long...

Even if winter abandons me... ....

Because,

I know

God is my companion...

(Asato Ma Sadgamaya

Tamso Ma Jyotirgamaya

Mrityor Ma Amritamgamaya

Om Shanti Shanti Shanti)

Lead me from the unreal to the real

Lead me from darkness to light

From Mortality to Immortal

Om Peace Peace Peace

Like Rust Soaked in the 'Iron'ies of Life...

2010-12-26T01:32:00.009+05:30

Geography changes...
History doesn't
History remains buried like a corpse in the graveyard of time...
Waiting for reawakening...
Waiting for rejuvenation...

History breathes through recollections...
The Past is an old friend...
Decomposing like rust...
Soaked in the 'iron'ies of life...

Talking about the past...
An old woman used to sit along the sidewalk selling red roses...
now only withered flowers is what one finds there...
Abandoned hospitals, abandoned asylums, abandoned cities, abandoned people, abandoned memories...

A place which once existed as reality now lies on the fringes of decay...

A celebrated actress fettered in the shackles of her own image and consciousness gives in to abnormality and finally invites her death...

A hospital which once served as the birthplace of some... now celebrates its doomsday

An asylum where mentally unstable people found stability in one another... no longer exists...
Decaying floor, the ceiling falls apart...
just like the minds of those that once inhabited the place...

A whore-house once celebrated for its revelries... now stinks of rotten semen slithering through its polychromatic chambers

A city once flourishing with music and dance... now lies in the ruins of memories and the dearth of unfulfilled desire...

Hostels, hotel rooms, restaurants, movie theaters, trains...
every bit of this earth we dwell upon...
has been traversed sometime or another by another person...
every place you might stay in might have been infested with the soul of another...
a part of us remains in the depths of places...in the depths of time...

Cities have mushroomed over the debris of the dead
Monuments have been erected on time's ashes...

History remains unfettered...
People die...
Past lives on...
Camouflaged in the history of time...
Time...
That can never be relived...

Shiuli - कलकत्ता २०१०

2010-09-04T00:03:00.014+05:30

कलकत्ता , २०१०...
... ...
Aaj almaari se kuch purani yaadein samet laya hun apne mej pe...
ek kaagaz ke panne pe kuch siyaahi ke nishaan nazar aaye...
...To socha, padhne ki koshish karun... Shayad kuch accha ho...
Tumhari likhi kuch adhuri panktiyaan mili hain...
Sunogi nahin?
...hmmm
......Suno phir
"Chalo aaj in boondon se dosti kar lein...
Yahan rimjhim barasti hain jo, wahan bhi barasti hogi...
Is sheher ki rozana daudti zindagi se
Chalo aaj dillagi kar lein...
Saansein yahan chalti hain jo, wahan bhi chalti hongi...
Chalo aaj in phoolon se mohabbat kar lein
Mere aangan mein khilti hain jo... Wahan bhi khilti hongi"
...
......

Picture Credit: Internet

Khidki khola to dekha...
Aangan mein phool bikhre hue hain...
Ghar ke us paar kuch bacche baarish mein naach rahe hain...
Dekho humari Putoo aangan mein kaagaz ki naav liye khadi hai...

Kitne jaldi paanch saal ki ho gayi naa...
Dekho kitni pyaari lag rahi hai phoolon ke beech...
Shiuli ke phool...
Bilkul tumhari jaisi hai, hai na?
Tumhari jaisi aankhein... wahi muskuraahat... hai na Shiuli?
Aaj bhi yaad hai mujhe jab tum Benaras gayi thi...
Kabhi socha nahin tha Shiuli...
...ki tum Ganga ji mein chadhaye phoolon ki tarah kahin aise beh jaogi ki kabhi nazar nahin aaogi... hamesha ke liye kho jaogi...
Baarish tez ho gayi hai... haath mein sametna chahta hun in boondon ko...
Magar na jaane kyun aaj baadalon se zyaada... aankhon se baras rahi hain boondein...
Batao na Shiuli aaj tumhare jaane ke 3 saal baad bhi...
Yahan rimjhim barasti hain jo boondein,
Wahan bhi barasti hain, hai na?

You and I...

2010-07-06T05:06:00.002+05:30

Marine Drive's boulevard is dotted with rain-soaked people...
The endless emerald-sapphire sea is all that can be seen
Sitting cross legged, drenched in the shadows of a life gone by...
I think about Delhi, I think about you...
Memories paint beautiful pictures in my mind...
Post-graduation has ended... a lot has changed...
No classroom, no professors...
Won't I miss it?
Won't you?...

Picture Credit:Internet

A cup of tea... dipped not with tea-bags but tiny drops of rain... a handful of maize kernels moist with heavenly dew...
...a blur of all cherished moments zoom into view...
The waves splash and sing forgotten verses in my ears...
An orphaned boats drifts across the sea...

Doesn't it remind you of our childhood days...?
when we used to make paper boats...
and let them float across little streams...

I think my boat is still scuttling across the seas like an abandoned child...
Perhaps, Looking for me...
Perhaps, Looking for You...

Picture Credit: Internet

Eventful Events

2010-06-29T11:27:00.012+05:30

Event 1: Bloggers Symposium organized by Scratchmysoul.com
Date: Sunday, December 12, 2009
Place: Jacaranda Hall, India Habitat Centre, New Delhi

After getting the first prize for my blog

Remembering the Martyrs...Mumbai Terror Attack 26/11

With noted lyricist Javed Akhtar and my friends

With Sports Journalist Ayaz Memon and my friends

A chat with Javed Akhtar

Event 2: Amitav: Between the Lines, Amitav Ghosh interviewed by Barkha Dutt
Organized by: NDTV

Date: 17 June, 2008 ; Telecast: 22 June, 2008

Link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c5psahIrO3w

Madness...

2010-06-23T12:29:00.011+05:30

[Picture by: Anukriti Sharma]

Visions of yesterday burn the horizon of today...

Will you sleep by my side and sing to me ?

Will I ever smile with tears in my eyes?

What is it that inspired you... that made you cherish those blotted dreams?

The blood splashed waves I see in the distance cry out...

solitude flies in search of a new confinement...

The orange phosphorescence dissolves into the sea... rejuvenated into a dreamy purple...

like purple pieces of a jig-saw puzzle... it lasts for a flickering moment...

and then... it dissolves...the purple sky blurs into a grotesque gray...

[Picture Credit: Internet]

It was beautiful when it flowered into life...it was close to my heart... it was mine...

Smiles have slowly brushed it away... only tears will nourish it now... my laughter will breathe through it suffocated sobs...

The mist has blinded my sight... the silence has deadened my ability to hear... I cannot recall reality as it was... I have lost consciousness...
Your voice has faded away... in the depths of time
Time has changed...
Now, only the clouds weep incessantly...

I shall not...
I do not...
I cannot...
Why??

It has ended...

Love will now peep through dead alleys.

[Picture Credit: Internet]

Will you ever look back and smile?

Perhaps you too...will laugh at me...

You too will call this madness...

Remembering the Martyrs...Mumbai Terror Attack 26/11

2009-11-26T12:06:00.019+05:30

[Hotel Taj Mahal, Mumbai; Picture Credit:Internet, Edited by Anukriti Sharma]

Yellowed pages of a book...
Hatred lies in every nook.
Like petals of withered flowers;
Darkness envelopes Mumbai for 59 hours.
Tears devoid of all pain...
These clouds refuse to rain!
Beautiful eyes veiled in hate...
Love that can only suffocate!

[Hotel Taj Mahal; Picture clicked by Anukriti Sharma]

The flames are silent...

Peace is violent...

The tears are frozen....
Death instead is chosen...

[Kasab; Picture Credit:Internet; Edited by Anukriti Sharma]

Terrorists attack Oberoi Trident and Taj Mahal Hotel,
Helpless people lifelessly bid the world farewell!
Nariman House, Vile Parle, Napean Sea Road...
Under the sieges of bombings explode...
Cama Hospital, Leopold Cafe, Mazgaon, CST...
Broken walls and struggling lives form a deadened debris!

[Cafe Leopold, Colaba; Clicked by Anukriti Sharma]

Thousands injured, hundreds dead...
Dead bodies form a human pyramid!
The innocent have died...

Leaving their shadows behind!

[Nariman House after the attack; Picture Credit: Internet]

The bodies need a place to bury...
Bullets and bombings consumes them in fury!
Their ashes are gathered and collected...
Though their souls are eternally rejected!
Hatred, anger, greed and desire...
Ignites in terrorists a corrupt fire!

[Martyrs of the Attack; Picture Credit: Internet; Edited by Anukriti Sharma]

Karkare, Kamte, Salaskar...martyrs of the attack...
Can anything ever bring their lives back?
Uniformed men, civilians and hotel staff fight,
Against the hatred that these terrorists ignite...
NSG commandos, ATS officials and policemen,
Fight for our lives against those ''Ten''!

[The Ten Terrorists; Picture Credit: Internet]

Terrorists, LeT and Kasab still live on...

Though Unnikrishnan is dead and gone!

No place to love, no place to live in,

Life itself has become a sin!

Death instead finds solace...

Defaced forever is our face!

[CST devastated after the attack, Picture Credit: Internet]

Faces splattered with blood...

War has found a New World!

Shards of old glass bangles,

This world lies in tangles!

Abandoned streets, Stinking little alleys...

Terrorism now lies beyond the valleys!

[Bullet Shot, Leopold Cafe, Clicked by Anukriti Sharma]

Chaos, crime and confusion...

Lack of cultural diffusion!

The sea has turned eternally red!

Every God is lost and dead.

Na Jaane Kyun...?

2009-11-07T22:14:00.008+05:30

Raah-e-dahar par masarrat dhoondhte ho, apna muqaddar dhoondhte ho...
(On the path of life,you look for happiness, you look for your fate/destiny...)
Hasraton ke qafas mein na jaane kyun aaj bhi tum humdard dhoondhte ho?
(I don't know why you look for sympathizers even in the prison of regrets/intense sorrow?)
Fasaana-e-shab-e-gham hai peeche; Zulmat hai tumhare aage...
(The story of a night of sorrows lies behind you, darkness lies before you...)
Aisi fizaaon mein bhi na jaane kyun aaj bhi tum saher dhoondhte ho?
(I don't know why you are in the pursuit of the morning even in such an environment?) Manzilein khud bana kar bhi to raahon mein gum-raah ho jaate ho...
(Even after creating the destinations yourself, you get lost in the paths you created...)
Haram ki raah par phir bhi na jaane kyun nahin chalte ho?
(I don't know why then do you not travel on the path of God's House?) Gam-e-hayaat ki bekasi mein jab itne tanhaa reh jaate ho,
(When you are helplessly stricken with life's grief into the realm of loneliness)
Tab kabhi jazbaa-e-imaan ki rehguzar par na jaane kyun nahin chalte ho?
(Why then don't you ever travel on the path of abiding faith?)

Dislocated Locations

2009-10-28T12:51:00.017+05:30

“What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.” - Ralph Waldo Emerson

Delhi lies behind me, Mumbai lies before me... These places lie within me. A sense of detachment embellished with the enamel of attachment is what I find in my experiences...the experience of living in both these places. I am dislocated in every location. Shadows form silhouettes of the past...enchanting, entrancing, engrossing past... a memoir of memories, a diary of dreams... some met with, some that flowed away with time.

I can see the sea from my window... a cool breeze camouflages me...transporting me to a sublime world... I wonder how wonderful would Delhi be had it been an assortment of tiny islands surrounded by the sea?...just like Mumbai...

This world is a not a universe but a multi-verse...peopled with people everywhere...with regions of illumination and regions of darkness. To me people seem omnipresent...People walking on the streets, travelling in the bus, rushing across the metro stations and local train platforms... hundreds, thousands, millions of people. We know some, we are ignorant of others. We share similar dreams, different lives; Similar lives, different dreams...As I try to imagine these people a blurred image appears before me... it appears like blotches of different paints merging into one another on a naked canvas...

Where is my home then, I ask? Mumbai or Delhi? Both I believe... They both lie within me...I have a soulful bond with these places... even in my dislocation these places are firmly located within me...in my happiness, sorrows, my life... I belong here, I belong there...

Mumbai is mesmerizing, miraculous, magical; and Delhi is dynamic, delightful, dream-like.

Timeless Time

2009-09-15T14:53:00.006+05:30

Sand-scape...In its depth is buried untouched, unredeemable time. The ocean that once existed now exists simply as the exuberant sand. T.S.Eliot was right when he said, "...that which is only living Can only die"...for me that which is dead can only relive. Don't dead poets relive in our imagination, hearts, mind and soul? Eliot himself is an example. Levi-Strauss talks about the existence of binaries...love/hate, male/female, life/death... The sea and the desert too are binaries...The deep blue kingdom has been overtaken by the regime of pale yellowness. Human life is lost in the sands of time... Coming back to the sand-scape...In the far distance lies an oasis...Proof of life's existence??Perhaps yes...For me it is a distorted past present in the present...Deep within the deep seas dwell magical creatures...Who knows, if we dig deep into the deserts, we might discover a sea of undiscovered life...

Why are tears salty? Is it because of the sea we imbibe within our souls? Everything which once was, is and will be is an ocean dissolving eternally into infinite sands of time.

Zombie

2009-07-12T00:18:00.003+05:30

Yesterday he murdered her, Today she killed herself... He exists in her dreams...She exists in his nightmares...They no longer know each other; They no longer pretend to be in love...They aren't happy, they aren't sad...they have drifted apart and so has time...

I think she is dying, I know she is...I think I know her, I know her very well...She does not feel anything anymore.She is numb to all endearments...She died the day they raped her...She can see them everywhere...They are hollow men, faceless and empty...They have a body but possess no soul...Her body is ragged, her mind weary, but yes she still possesses what they do not...She has a soul...They are blind to folly, deaf to justice, mute to goodness...They made a zombie out of her and yet, she gets up each time they try vanquishing her...

The silver lining, yes all her life she looked for it...Perhaps she found it...Yes she found it...but she found it that midnight when it rained so heavily that it drenched all her desires...That night the whole world slept in peace...Yet, she did not sleep...She tried crying with happiness but she could not, she tried crying with sorrow and again she failed...In him she found the silver lining but even he murdered her, brutally, mercilessly...She keeps failing and yet she has faith...Faith in her dreams, even though she does not sleep...

Pretentious Reality Realizes Pretense

2009-06-20T21:57:00.013+05:30

And then, you realize nothing is worth it after all... people are pretentious and life itself a pretense...

When you wake up in the morning and look at yourself in the mirror... what does it reflect? It is simply an image of yourself, that image which you want to show to the world, the image that suits your needs, the one which is nothing but a facade, a phantasm of what you pretend to be...
A few days back, I entered a restroom wherein I encountered a distorted face staring hard at me... as I moved closer the face grew more and more malformed...Sullen, Smudged, Scratched, and Scarred... that face was my own...When I looked at myself in the broken shards of the mirror...it was only then that I really found myself, my identity, my true self, my reality.

Who am I in reality? The society categorizes me in the shackles of different tags... but I do not want such designations and identifications... I am what I believe I am... and unless and until I do not accept the fact that life is like the broken shards of a mirror, I can do nothing but lie to myself... Pretense has to be identified,realized and replaced with reality...the reality which is difficult to accept gets transformed into pretense and then erupts the vicious circle of a never ending masquerade...

The purpose of life is not just the pursuit of happiness but its fulfillment... Every little thing in life has its essence, its inner beauty which illumines the outer... all we need to do is realize its importance and start valuing it... the garb of pretense needs to be discarded completely to renew our lives with reality... A reality which breathes fresh air even in the environment of polluted pretense!

The Realm of Innocence

2009-06-09T03:08:00.033+05:30

In the depths of this virgin forest germinates the embryo of human existence. Raped and molested is the soil, soiled over and over again through its copulation with man. I recline in tranquility, unaccompanied and unperturbed, under the thick shade of deodar tress. The last rays of daylight flitting through the leaves form psychedelic patterns on my hands. I look at the crimson sun fading behind the lofty Dhauladhar mountain range and close my eyes.

In idle thoughtlessness I carelessly brush my fingers against a pile of mossy stones - as smooth as velvet,as green as emerald...I inhale the musty, dank smell of the surroundings and slowly open my eyes. A few feet away I spot two little kids walking hand in hand. As they toddle towards me, I notice that they are no more than five years old. The little girl leads the boy towards a mound of soil a few feet away from where I am seated. Their pale white skin and skinny bodies seem to be juxtaposed with their rosy pink cheeks. The girl is wearing a floral print red dress, and the boy is attired in a blue shirt tucked in under his breeches. I muse over their ethnicity and decide that they must surely be British.

I look at them for a while...they seem to be waiting for someone. I slowly get up and walk towards them greeting them with a ''Hello''. They instantly look at me and smile but say nothing. I sit down beside them and ask, ''Hello, What are your names?'' The little boy, as if overjoyed at being questioned, perches himself upon my lap and without even facing me replies coyly, ''My name is Charles and she's my sister Annie''. I ask Annie, ''Where are your parents?'', to which I get no reply. She seems very reserved and shy. I notice her playing with a beautiful red flower in her hand. I try drawing her attention,but she seems completely lost in her flower. Charles gives me a smile as he hops down from my lap and squats beside his sister. They both settle down together and keep staring at the tall trees.
I decide to look for their parents. As I stand up, they both hold my hand and smile...Their hands are extremely cold...A shiver runs down my spine at the touch.I notice their transparent, blue-grey eyes which I find quite intense and intriguing. I smile back and tell them that I'll be back in a moment. I look around the place but do not find anyone. I go inside the Church to look for them but find nobody there except a caretaker dusting the floor. The Church is about to close I realize... I ask the man if he has seen an English couple anywhere... He nods his head and says he hasn't.
As I move towards the doorway, a chipping and fractured white marble tablet catches my eye. I move towards it and read, ''To the memory of Annie Elizabeth who died at Dhurmsala, on the 24th of September 1863, Aged 5 Years and 9 Months and Charles McLeod who died at the same place on the 27th of September 1863, Aged 4 Years and 7 Months. The beloved children...''
Flabbergasted, I rush outside the Church and run towards the place where I was seated before... The children are gone... The red flower lies there, fresh and fragrant...as if kept there just a moment ago...The mound I realize is not just a dune of earth but indeed a grave...I feel dazed...In the distance, birds keep twittering. I run towards the Church and ask the caretaker, ''Does this graveyard, behind this Church have the dead bodies of two little children Charles and Annie?'' He looks at me and replies as if amused, ''Two children? Madamji, don't you know this graveyard is filled with the dead bodies of babies and children?...Hundreds of them were killed in a disastrous plague which occured decades back...''After that I couldn't comprehend anything he said...I simply stood there...benumbed, dumbstruck and stoned to the ground!

[Part fiction/part reality... Story based in Mcleodganj, Himachal Pradesh, India]

Blue,Red and Black-A Dream of Despair, Desire and Death

2009-06-07T17:30:00.008+05:30

Blue, Red and Black...
Melancholy spreads itself upon my back.
Travelling to hell, I've lost my track.
Hopeless hope isn't the only setback.
Sinister sins are now ready for attack.

I see two slabs of walls inclined perpendicular to each other, suspended in space. No ceiling, no floor; no light no darkness; nothing below, nothing beyond - just this piece of existence in the depths of my vision. The wall is monochromatic - an evenly painted - dark as well as luminous, stark as well as gloomy - shimmering as the ultramarine sea, secluded as the azure sky, pure as sapphire - The brightest, deepest, most prominent shade of Cobalt Blue. At the centre where the two walls meet to form the corner I see your tall form...you are seated hugging your knees. Your face is buried in the shadows of abysmal desolateness. Your eyes are resplendent with tears... the lovely brown decaffeinated into a translucent hazel... You are wearing a pair of blue jeans and a plain, white un-tucked shirt. Your frizzy hair is tousled and your glasses lie off-centre... I emerge from the depths of nothingness... My eyes meet yours and you smile faintly...I feel pained and anguished to see you in loneliness... Feeling the desire to hold and comfort you, I move towards you...
Red, Black and Blue...
Sex and desire of every hue.
Buried lovers emerge anew.
Dark passions blur my view.
Where should I hide?I've no clue!

You and I are together...The walls are slowly stained with blood... like paint, the red blood of my body covers the walls...As we come closer to each other the colour deepens...from its rosy hue to flaming ruby! I slip my fingers into yours and hold you close to me. You run your fingers on my back and embrace me tightly...We feel each other's warmth for what seems like eternity! I caress your hair and you hold my face in your hands... I look deep into your eyes and we come so close that all we can feel is each other's breath. You feel the desire to kiss me,so you slightly brush your lips against mine...Exactly at that moment, even before we are fully aware of what we are doing, a flash of liquid light, white and blinding, interrupts us and we are detatched eternally!
Black, Blue and Red...
I hear desperate wails in my head.
Distorted dreams blot my bed.
Frozen tears I incessantly shed.
Woe! I'm perpetually dead...

I see myself... I am sitting huddled in the corner... exactly at the place where you were seated. The walls are now charred Black...it appears like burnt wood-dilapidated and ruined to the core! I see absurd, frenzied shadows of unidentifiable forms on the walls... these shadows are desperately trying to run away...from what?I am unaware of! They all are lamenting, wailing in agony and pain... they all seem restless, frantic and absorbed in a stupor of frenzy. Their cacphony is tormenting! Agitated, I try looking down and see mutilated hands of different men pointing their fingers at me. I hear sounds of laughter, ridicule and insults; people mocking fun at me! I cover my ears with the palm of my hands but as I do so, the noise grows louder! I look at the hands and try recognizing them...Among these hands I am horrified to find yours! I can even hear your voice along with the others! Harrassed and in utter disbelief, I tear off my clothes. A glass coffin emerges from oblivion and encloses me within itself... In complete brutality and heartlessness, I rip open my breast... I take out my bleeding heart and hold it in my hands. My heart is nothing but a grotesque, malformed amalgation of blood and flesh... shapeless and broken like a mirror into a thousand shards! The noises and shadows fade from the walls and is replaced by my own shadow... The bizarre semblance of hands disappear as well... All that is visible now, is my shadow on the wall, content and happy...I can also see my bloodied dead body, with its heart ripped apart. I hear a calm voice from afar...it sounds like a hymn, a chant, a prayer, a blessing! It says, ''I'll always be there for you, Don't worry Anukriti''...I recognize it...it seems like a lullaby soothing me into an endless sleep... At last I am happy and satisfied...for I am dead!A smile lingers over my face, and my body remains entombed in the glass coffin forever!

Black Blood

2009-05-16T05:09:00.008+05:30

[Photograph taken by Anukriti(Me)...highlights a shadowy blood stained hand(my own) seeking justice in its blurred reality.]
The abyss of my melancholic mind,
Has eyes created to be perpetually blind!
Festered in this is, an inconsolable individual's soul.
That breaks and beholds the blurred vision of a goal!

The body is molested by Desire;raped by Hope...

Its essence is intoxicated by an incurable dope!

And thus,the forces of Repose,Anger,Greed and Sin are...

RAGS of beggary that appear anesthetizing from afar!

We desire Pretense, Artifice, Invention, and Disgusie;

The Tempest proclaims,"all debt is PAID of he that dies!"

PAID imprudently at the showroom of this world...

So that the manikins of pestilence, at our faces are hurled!

They isolate my identity, they deface my face!
And yet am I supposed to belong to this place?
My language is lost, my happiness is entombed as dead!
The colour of my blood is indeed black!It can never be red!

Israar-e-hayaat ~ The Secret of Life

2009-04-05T16:21:00.008+05:30

[Translation in brackets... for people who have problems understanding urdu... ]

Israar-e-hayaat ki nahakat hoon main,

(I am the fragrance of the secret of life)

Aagosh-e-tassavur ki taabeer hoon main,

(I am the realization of imagination)

Qissa-e-ulfat se bahot parey hoon main,

(I am detached from the story of love)

Kabhi Zaakir hoon, kabhi kaafir hoon main,

(At times I am a believer, at times a non-believer)

Ehsaas hoon, aab-e-chashm hoon main,

(I am emotions, I am tears)

Bejaan zeest hoon, bechain wajood hoon main,

(I am a lifeless life, I am an impateint existence)

Benaam, bezabaan, beparwah tanhayi hoon main,

(I am a nameless, speechless, indifferent lonliness)

Muqaddar se aagaah, ek zinda mazaar hoon main.

(Aware of my fate, I am a living grave).

North Campus Nostalgia

2009-02-01T10:33:00.007+05:30

"Here on this seat my body may shrivel up, my skin, my bones, my flesh may dissolve, but my body will not move from this seat until I have attained Enlightenment." - Gautam Buddha
I yearn to be there...the need to have Chai, converse, express, understand and feel is overpowering...J.P. Tea Stall... D-School... The ledge under the tree...F.R.I.E.N.D.S. - Our immortal symposium... Discussions and confessions - family, classes, books, friends, food, teachers, poetry, depression, love, feelings, music, frustrations, dance, movies, home, life... every little thing!
Faculty of Arts... those foggy mornings, beautiful evenings, bright faces, warm smiles... Our classroom... musty with some disarrayed broken benches... large windows overlooking the faculty below... chalk-less classes juxtaposed with the duster-less ones... the microphone...sometimes in a lullaby mood in the most important classes; and at times partially deafening us with its howls and screeches.

The Central Library... dusty, mouldy, moth-eaten books stacked in innumerable shelves... as we open them the sepia tinged pages blotched with ink fall apart... smell intoxicating! Chaucer, Milton, Aristotle, Woolf, Bronte, Eliot, Shelley, Homer, Naipaul, Neruda, Tagore, Conrad, Osborne, Genet,Sappho and others recline together in their timeless, perpetual, phoenix like discourse...

I wish I had time... time to be there forever. Thank you Drishashitesh (Drishti, Shashi and Hitesh - my friends for life) for painting my memories with the polychromatic shades of sublime exuberance.

Inaayat

2008-12-27T10:35:00.009+05:30

Andekhe khwaabon ko tumhari nazar ki zaroorat hai,

Zindagi ke rooh ko mohabbat ki zaroorat hai.

Khwaab toot jaate hain kaanch ke tukdon ki tarah,

Jazbaaton ke sailaab mein sookhe aansuon ki tarah.

Armaanon ke bhawar mein kyun kho gaye jazbaat mere?

Khuda ke azaanon mein bhi dabe hain kahin aansu mere.

Be-panah mohabbat se fakat alehda hai zindagi tumhari,
Gar surkh phoolon mein zinda hai aaj bhi khushboo tumhari...

Mumbai Terror Attack - Allegory of Abhorrence and Annihilation

2008-11-30T16:24:00.012+05:30

As I close my eyes to sleep flashes of gory blood, dark fire, parched tears and malformed bodies oscillate in my mind and forces me to wake up... The cacophony of relentless bombardments hammers in my head! 59 hours of cruel, compassionless, callous killings... hatred, anger and pain transfused with detestation and death! 1407 kms away, I as an Indian and an individual feel vulnerably infirm, devastated, disabled and enraged! 15 hours in front of the television and newspapers made me realize just one thing-the horror of terrorism has left all of us completely insecure and wobbly! All of us have become insignificantly anonymous - yes, I am talking about you and me! Politicians blabber about taking action! What sort of action are these people talking about? Pronouncing a few verbs and adjectives and doing nothing about terrorism will not help anymore! Its time we as Indians ally against terrorism, since we are the sole victims!How many more innocent lives will be lost? For how long can we tolerate such injustice and infringement?

My heartfelt condolence to all the martyrs and heroes and my sincere tribute to all the people who went through this traumatic attack...

Mumbai 26/11/08 - 29/11/08 is the wake up call for us!

Metamorphosed Existence

2008-11-09T16:48:00.006+05:30

Waqt ki rooh kuch is tarah azaad hai

Ki qaid karna bhi isse gair-zaruri hai

Ret ke zarron ki tarah haathon se ruksat ho jaati hai

Is maazi ki pakeezgi mein bhi Khuda ki manzuri hai...

I vividly remember a quotation in one of my school textbooks I read more than ten years back:"Wasted moments and wasted hours get woven into wasted lives... You just can't sleepwalk through life thinking that one day you will realize your dreams... Living always has to start now!"

Life...What is it? An everchanging metamorphosis of existence?Even my alter-ego has betrayed me... how will dreams be of any help?

I believe in the Existentailism philosophy - I am responsible for what I have made myself...yet I doubt myself... Do I know myself completely? Do you know me? Does anyone know who they really are?

My life is on the verge of completing 22 years... 22 years of happiness, sorrows, goals, faithlessness, ambitions, heartbreaks, relationships, pain, afflictions, love, hatred, death, romance, paradoxes and dissatisfaction.

The horizon of dreams is distant but in focus...perhaps my life is too blurred to realize them... maybe I am too ignorant... probably I don't even want to realize those dreams... Indeed!I'm not even trying to change with the change... but everything around me is undergoing metamorphosis.

Dying To Live... Living to Die

2008-10-21T23:36:00.008+05:30

Inu's eyes twinkled with exuberance as she fed the one-year old. The day she had been intently anticipating had finally breezed in. As she dotingly fondled the baby's forehead she was awe-struck to see the contrariety of the white skin vibrant under her own sooty flesh. She gazed outside the window... it was same through which Puchki had informed her about the gratifying news some two hours ago. She was now desperate to get back home. She knew it would have to be today...Granny had been home for more than a week. Puchki entered the room as the sky turned into a brilliant blue bespeckled with black and purple. Inu smiled at her friend as she prepared to leave. The baby had dozed off in her lap. She carefully tiptoed out of the room after transferring the sleeping infant in Puchki's arms. Her heart fluttered as she rushed towards her home. Even the five minutes walk seemed like hours to her in her elation...She finally reached home, a dilapidated hut made up of thatched roof and mud walls. She had expected the door to be open but it was tightly shut. She knocked frantically until her father opened the door, his eyes expressionless at her arrival. Granny was nowhere to be seen and her mother lay scrambled on the cot, her clothes in disarray,her hair tussled and her face concealed in the darkness of the room. Inu looked around for a flicker of joy in her parents' eyes but all she could do was stare into blank faces. She slowly brought out an object wrapped in a filthy glittery paper from the left pocket of her frock. She then questioned her mother who did not utter a word... She implored her father who was carrying a pitcher filled with boiling water outside the door... he too didn't reciprocate. As soon as her father came back inside, she ran outside unwrapping the little object she had in her hand. It was a plastic milk bottle she had brought out of her year long earnings for her darling new-born sister 'Chiku'. She had decided the name the day she got the news of her mother's pregnancy. She had lived alone for seven long years! A sister would surely have filled the vacuum in her little heart. Her apprehensions and anticipations evaporated and dwindled as she looked down at the pitcher kept at the doorstep...She stood benumbed at the sight...the blood bismirched pulp of a baby's carcass... her face smudged... limbs barely visible...A deafening scream reverberated as the bottle dropped down from Inu's hand, welling her eyes for eternity!

This Delhi Life... Waiting for Anonymous...

2008-10-08T23:26:00.020+05:30

South Delhi, Outside your home

Beginning of September, 5:30 P.M.

I put down the box of your favourite pastries at the doorstep. The door is bolted...I SMS you but your reply is the same as usual. I call you... once, twice, thrice... 'The Airtel number you are trying to call is on another call, please stay on line or call again later'... Finally successive rings...then...' The number you have called is busy'... then again successive rings... nobody answers... I give a last try...'The number you have called is switched off...'Dejected I write a note on a piece of paper and leave.In the University, Faculty of Arts, North Campus
August,11:25 A.M.

I walk down to the Canteen to have a glass of Banana Shake... the thought of itself is refreshing after two long lectures... As I walk unaware of myself I see girls and boys immersed in discussions and animated conversations.... I see a group of people are seated near the Central Library engrossed in a heated debate surrounding the host of a TV show. I stop for a few minutes meditating what to do... then I look closely at everyone present in the periphery of the library... A flicker of ignited hope...dampens gradually.
Another Wednesday Morning At Home
October, 11:55 A.M.
I sit glued in front of the TV set watching my favourite channel... Another wonderful episode of 'U Special' comes to an end...A gush of adrenaline with tints of anticipation transcends upon me as the closing credits flash on the screen. My eyes linger on the screen till I find your name... A blossoming of happiness, a burst of satisfaction and then a deteriorating decline into actuality...
Cafe Coffee Day, Tolstoy Marg, Connaught Place

End of September, 1:00 P.M.

With a glass of Kaapi Nirvana in one hand and a pen in another I am copying down some important excerpts in a notebook...from...a British Council Library book on Ben Jonson. The jukebox is playing some songs but I don't really like them... I turn on the radio on my mobile phone and plug in the earphones... 94.3 F.M. playing the end notes of some latest song... The next song... Euphoria's 'Ab na jaa'... Memories flash back... All I can think of is you. I sit totally benumbed with my gaze affixed on the empty chairs near me.

At Home

Yesterday, 3:30 A.M.

Drowsy with fatigue... I give you a call...'The number you have called is on another call, please stay on line or call again later'. I switch off my mobile feeling a desperate urge to sleep, not realizing that this night is going to be another sleepless one.

In the car...Thinking while travelling through the roads of Delhi...

Today Evening.

With each passing day seconds have turned into minutes, minutes into hours, hours into days and days into months...More than three months have passed since I last saw you... Is this city too big to stifle my emotions? Out of the hundreds and thousands of people I meet and see in the city each day why do I never chance upon seeing you somewhere? I hope to but does it even matter to you. Is misunderstanding such a vibrant and remorseful force that it wipes down the tiniest ability of understanding? Perhaps it is! That is what you have made me realize with each passing day. Life is not a board of chess... you just can't keep on starting afresh every time you lose the game. I never wanted to be your handicap... I just wanted you to know what I really feel and get an answer to why you suddenly changed this way... Perhaps you will never know what I really feel... You yourself have knowingly estranged yourself from everything that was, that is and that could ever be...

Essence of Reminiscence - Part 2

2008-09-07T11:01:00.002+05:30

...I shifted my gaze towards it and what I saw benumbed me. It was an unquestionably beautiful notes holder - white in colour bespeckled with ashy sepia stains. A picture of an infant draped in Easter Bunny clothes peering through a bunch of pink and peach coloured tulips quilted it. Wrapped in the holder was a hand-painted card. It was a birthday card with a painted tree and mickey mouse stickers given to me on my 12th biryhday. I opened the card and looked inside. Words like "Dear Anukriti", "Happy Birthday", "Live, long, life" and "With love - your friend Rituraj" written with red and blue sketchpen flashed before me. I felt my throat choke and a drop of tear besmeared the card. I rolled back the card in the holder and kept it aside while my mind fluttered back to December, 1998 and then to the April,5 years later. I met Rituraj last in 2001 when my father's transfer to Lucknow made us leave Gandhidham. On 22nd April,2003,my friend, brother, and the most talented boy of my class met with an accident. Later he succumbed to his injuries and breathed his last at the age of 15. His memories, little objects of affection, paintings, sketches, words are still etched in my mind and he will remain alive for me forever.

Essence of Reminiscence - Part 1

2008-07-09T20:48:00.004+05:30

While rummaging through some old files and other multifarious objects kept locked my armoire, a plethora of knickknacks and documents flooded before me. The first object that caught my eye was a dilapidated, musty piece of paper which read, 'Anukriti...Assembly of God Church School(Tolly), Unit II K.G. 21.4.93'... A timeworn examination paper with spellings, dictation, a number of colouring activities, some add and subtract sums and several questions like why do we need water, write the name of two wild animals, four flowers and whatnot. I read my answers and smiled at my handwriting which has changed a lot over the years. A 15 year old piece of paper...seasoned with the essence of my childhood! It may seem insignificant for some to attach so much importance to a trivial fragment of paper but for me its a storehouse of memories, a repository of my life. With my mind lost in juvenile thoughts my hand unawares brushed against a charming object.
.........
.............
............... To be continued .................

Tales of the Open Road - Book Review

2008-06-13T20:35:00.002+05:30

Author - Ruskin Bond

Publisher - Penguin Books India, 2006

Genre - Anthology

Price - Rs 200/-

Ruskin Bond's entrancing travelogue Tales of the Open Road captures the reader in a magical trance taking him to small, undiscovered and unexplored places with their dusty roads or rain-washed streets, the mountain streams and hidden waterfalls as well as to well known places like Delhi, Jamnagar and Mussoorie. A person may not have travelled in a tonga or experienced the 'gulabi thand' in Bhaironghati but through the pages of this enriching book, the reader can enjoy all the joys of travelling.

Untouched places like Chuttmalpur and Najibabad, alienated from the bigger cities like Dehradun and Meerut have been beautifully penned by Ruskin Bond. This anthology is divided into four sections - The Open Road, Plain Tales, At Home in the Hills and Into the Mountains. It gives a glimpse of each landscape acquainting us with the most common locals of the place and at the same time describing the enthralling environment that envelops them. This anthology consists of the author's travel writing of over fifty years amalgamated with beautiful photographs taken by him during his travels.

"Ruskin Bond writes about the uncomplicated things in life, and raises the experience to the sublime" - Deccan Herald. Truly, Bond with his simple and lucid writing captures the reader and takes him to faraway, deserted lands. He travels in all forms of transportation, be it a rickshaw or a huge truck and enjoys the journey to the fullest. He pays attention to minute details like the "OK TATA" sign on lorries as well as the aroma of milk-less tea sold at local 'dhabas'. The essence of a place is in its flora and fauna that do not change with time and are always as they have been decades back. In the words of the author himself, "The world keeps changing, but there is always something, somewhere, that remains the same."

Baarish~Bheegi Palkein,Sard Mausam aur Ek Tanha Dil

2008-05-26T23:21:00.003+05:30

Aaj kuch khwabon ka qatl kar diya, kuch khwahishon ko viraan kar diya maine...

Baarish ki rimjhim sunna, Maa ke haath ki garma-garam chai peena, ghanto baith ke mausam ka luft uthana, tumhe har pal yaad karna, baarish ki boondon ko chehre pe mehsus karna, woh tumhare saath bheegna aur saath saath chalna. Manzilon ko raahon se milana aur raahon ko khwaabon se jodna. Mujhe saari baatein aaj bhi yaad aati hain. Boondon ki tarah unhe haathon ki lakiron mein basana chahti hun, un haseen lamhon ko haqiqat banana chahti hun par khud ko majboor mehsus karti hu .Kal aankhon mein aazaad khwaab the, aaj qaid umeedein hain...Bheegi palkein hain, baarish ki boondon mein jinhe panah mili hai. Sard mausam ki thandak se kaap uthti hun... Sochti hun ke kaash tum paas hote... magar tum paas hokar bhi kitne door ho mujhse... Aaj ek tanha dil hai mere paas aur kuch tanha yaadein.

Mirror of Molestation

2008-05-11T22:28:00.006+05:30

Shadows sparkle and shimmer. The surrounding materializes into surreal, superficial, supernatural surroundings. I look at myself full in front of the mirror. As I undress, realization comes upon me and I abhor every part of my body. I touch the nape of my neck and a shiver runs down my spine. I eye myself incessantly, sometimes with confidence and then losing it completely. The mirror reflects my naked body and I have a strange feeling that there is someone around me even though I am all alone. My muse that inspired me to live is dead. I feel my breasts as I close my eyes and sense an abominable hand groping them. I give a choked cry of despair and open my eyes brimming with tears. My individuality is lost; my life has evaporated in the crowd of selfish attitudes. I rethink about what has happened with me... I am scared to even think of what has happened. Nostalgia is always painful. A vivid image of crimson blood stains on the skirt of my stained life and the grotesqueness of my decaying body zooms into perspective. I am bound in the shackles of self-hatred and self-love. I move my hand over my virgin body, no longer virgin but ravaged by my own relative! My cousin! I hate to call him my brother! He is not responsible for the loss of my virginity or my rape but yes I have been molested! I feel filthy from within... Molested! Molested and yet again molested! Bloodshot eyes, blood stained clothes; blood gorged wounded dreams, all pile up stack by stack and hungrily gnaw at me. Red merges with black and black with eternal darkness... darkness which has the strength to suffocate and strangle my soul illuminates the mirror as I lament and cry in pain.

Train of Thoughts - Goa Express - 8th October,2007

2008-04-04T20:58:00.003+05:30

In the abyss of darkness I see blotches of light flickering in the distance. A melancholy of the silence outside fuses with the rattling of wheels of the train passing through tracks of places unknown, unfamiliar, unheard of. At places there is absolute blackness. I see a solitary star twinkling by itself in the limitless sky - secluded, speechless! Is it trying to prove its essence in this ethereal world? But it cannot articulate or express its thoughts like us. Its sheer presence itself is its expression. Whereas we can express but we don't use our faculties when we really should. A station is approaching. I see a train passing by on the parallel track in full speed; I see a grotesque semblance of people, compartments, lights, blue-grey berths crystallizing into view which slowly fade away. The train decelerates and comes to a halt. People in polychromatic attires enter and exit through the compartment doors. I see a world of people in the train irrespective of their age, gender, colour, caste, creed and community; all together as one big family. At each station people disembark leaving behind memories. I do not care whether the person sitting near me is a male or a female, a Hindu or a Muslim, a Brahmin or a person from a lower caste. All that matters to me is that irrespective of difference we all are human beings, we all are travellers. Our destinations may differ but our co-existence is the proof of our unanimity in this mutual anonymity.

The Death of Life

2008-03-29T01:09:00.004+05:30

Every single day I hope you will love me and every single second you slip away from me like time. Time is flying but I have no wings to fly. I cannot blame you, nor God because I broke my wings myself. I want to capture moments with you. I want to share my life with you but all you have is time for yourself. I wish I could hold onto life forever but then I also wish I could die eternally. Ah! My wishes are so gratifying. I keep the razor close to me and gaze at it with love. I am doing nothing but molesting myself. But why? Why don't you understand? It agonizes me, tortures me. But I will never say how much it hurts me to be so misunderstood! I cry in pain. The razor end touches my vein and all I do is bleed within.

Chasm of Caliginosity

2008-02-24T14:28:00.006+05:30

Today I want to formulate my feelings into words but my heart betrays me. I cannot compose, construct or create the canvas of my consciousness. I break down into a sensibility of nonsense. My fingers are numb, my eyes moist with warm tears and my essence anesthetized.

Does he love me? No he does not. But I believe, or rather I think...no...I feel...maybe...maybe not...I trust...I hope...Oh! Help me! I have lost faith in myself, in him I haven't. This fragmented, frozen and frigid faith is a fire that flares fanatically and will last within me forever. What is this? I ask why? Nobody answers. Noisy noiselessness and a chasm of caliginosity make me purblind perpetually.

Superficial Symbol of a satisfied soul...

2008-02-19T17:23:00.004+05:30

He looks at me and asks me to smile. I smile faintly focusing only on the camera, trying to escape his gaze. He clicks…once, twice, thrice… my heart feels fraught with feelings unknown. My eyes heavy with insomnia blink insignificantly. My face betrays my emotions. The camera captures those unseen, unobserved emotions. He paints me into life through the pictures he takes yet I feel forlorn. How much I love him even I cannot say. How much he loves me, I am totally unaware of. He knows everything. I know everything yet we are together. He knows I love him truly. He loads the photographs on his computer and smiles as he holds my hand. I hug him tightly and cry over his shoulder. He runs his fingers through my hair and caresses me gently. He holds me by the shoulders and looks at my face smothered with tears. I look at him, his eyes enigmatic and full of questions. I fail to understand him yet again! Shadows overshadow my thoughts as I close my eyes. The saturation freezes into stubborn sorrow. I ask him, “Do I have to leave now?” He turns away and says nothing. He sits down and shows me my photographs. I scan through them and appreciate his ability to transform me completely. He kisses me on my forehead. I ask him, “Will you never love me… just because… we can never …” my voice breaks and I sob silently. He says nothing. I feel hurt and want to leave immediately. I get up and turn to go. I go towards the door; he holds me by my hand, stops me and says “Don’t go. Please.” We hug each other and cry silently in each other’s arms. I wish we could always be together.
Why is he a Muslim and me a Hindu? Why am I not some Shazia and he some Aditya? Why is the society so superficial? We all are the superficial symbols of a satisfied soul. Are we really satisfied? Are we happy? The society builds laws and ideals for everyone and discriminates one religion from another just because maybe I don’t wear a burkha and some other person does not worship idols. God is universal. I say Shiva is my God, because Jesus and Allah are your Gods, isn’t it? How is it possible? Only because cultures differ how one religion can be deemed as superior to another? This is an abyss of faithlessness and can lead only to misery and hatred. And we are the victims, the ones who love are looked upon as vermin; the one who create hatred are considered powerful and God-like. This is the society we are a part of… created by us as our utopia.

Cafe Coffee Day ~ A Romantic Date with Myself

2007-09-25T19:31:00.001+05:30

Today while sitting in Cafe Coffee Day all by myself I read the caption written below the red and white logo of CCD on the menu card - A lot can happen over coffee. I see crowds of people entering this place filled with the intoxicating aroma of coffee beans - couples both old and young, mostly people of my age, teenagers and college students. But I am all alone sipping my triple sec mocha, enjoying its fruity yet strong flavour. I have been to this place quite often and love it but there are a few instances when i have felt so isolated in this crowd of so many people.

Today i have chosen to sit on a single seater instead of my personal favourite...the couch with red and purple cushions.I have finished my coffee. I ask the waiter for the menu card again. This time I want to order something different. I cough a couple of times. A few people look at me with a mixed sort of expression. Are they irritated? Oh! They are least bothered about my coughing! Its just that an alien sound distracted them from the "Ek Din" song playing on the jukebox. Am i thinking too much?! I am behaving like Prufrock!-me and my fragmented self.

As I flip through the pages of the menu card, a cute looking waitress Ramya, adds another chair to my table as if trying to fill up my emptiness. I smile at her and she smiles back. This momentary eye-contact makes me feel happy for a while. Life is so full of titbits. Bits of emotions can lighten or darken one's day. Suddenly I am jolted back to reality when the waiter comes to my seat and places another mug of triple sec mocha on my table. I look puzzled and say "This is not what i want." He says but you said "once again please." Oh! I said I want the menu card once again please. He must not have heard what i said. Not his fault really. I speak too softly at times. He looks at me dejected and i ask him - "Will cancelling the order cause you trouble?" the answer is but obvious. I tell him that I want to have the coffee. He thanks me and smiles.

Again I feel happier. Its good that I have this hot coffee - as it is I am shivering because the air conditioner is on full. I am feeling nostalgic - don't know why? I flip my mobile and see the time... its 13:54. My cabmates will be here in half an hour's time and then I'll go back home. Home is it? Memories Ah! So many things going on in my mind! I am brimming with thoughts! A lot can really happen over coffee! Even when you are all alone! I see the empty chair in front of my seat. I feel single life can be so boring yet one gets so much time for oneself! Self-denial is one thing that is impossible when you are single. I look at my mug of coffee. Its half empty and half full. I feel the same. I am so full of feelings yet so bereft of companionship.

I wish I had people around me. Well I do have so many people around me - but all of them are unknown, strangers - people I have never met before, people I don't know! But the beauty of life is that I can see them, observe them, hear them speak, understand their emotions. A couple is snuggled on the couch right in front of me. They are young, happy and seem satisfied with life. The girl is having an electric blue drink. She is constantly talking to her boyfriend who is in a typical Delhi University attire, white lucknowi kurta and blue jeans. They are a cute couple and compliment each other

Coming back to myself my coffee is finished. I am full of it now. I stroke my hair with my fingers. I wish someone could do that for me! Well I am a dreamer and have full faith in the fact that dreams do come true. I ask for the bill, call my friends and ask them when they will reach Tolstoy Marg? I pay the bill, smile at myself and leave the coffee shop with dreams and emotions brewing in my mind just like a hot cup of Grande Mug!

Igniting Nirvana and Illuminating Moksha

2007-08-24T18:47:00.000+05:30

The spirit or the aatma connects us to God or parmaatma. This nexus of "aatma" and "parmaatma" leads to the realization of the self. The self once realized makes an individual go beyond religious beliefs and hence leads to spirituality. Spirituality is not a religion, thought, state of mind, idea or belief... it is enlightenment, a spark, infact not just a spark but the fire aflame in our souls. Once ignited a person's spirit is impregnated with an influx of nascent ideas, devoid of negative thoughts and mentality.Through spirituality we can create our own nirvaana, our own paradise, our own Shangri-la and ultimately find moksha.

Tanhai...

2007-08-13T23:09:00.000+05:30

Har mod pe viraaniyan, har safar mein akelapan...

akele rahon pe jab chalte chalte beetein palon ko yaad karti hun...tab mehsoos hota hai ki shayad koi kabhi tanha hi nahin hota...

yaadein peecha nahin chodti...saanse dam nahin todti...aankhein jab banjar ho jaati hain...aansoo jab tham jaate hain tab ehsas hota hai akelepan ka, pyaar ki kami ka, dard ka, tanhai ka...

Kis tarah zindagi basar ho? kya pyaar sach mein hota hai?...agar hota hai to meri zindagi se hi khafa kyun hai?... aabaad kyun nahin hai meri bhi zindagi pyaar se... un lamho se jinhe log khoobsoorat kehte hain...

Woh pal kahan kho gaye hain...andhere mein chupe kyun hai...tanha dil ko sukoon kyun nahin dete...

Sochte sochte aankhein fir bhar aayi hain...

yeh aankhein bhi aadmi ki tarah hai...kabhi tanha nahin hoti... aadmi yaadon ke sahare jeeta hai aur aankhein ashkon ke sahare roti hain.

Stream of Consciousness

2007-08-06T01:48:00.001+05:30

Life...
where are we heading to?
To what purpose are we living it?
Are we really living it whole heartedly?
Too many questions...Few answers...Abundant thoughts...not at all reasonable...not logical...not rational!
Trust is juxtaposed with mistrust and Love with hatred...
Amalgamating these binary opposites together gives life to nascent thoughts...again innumerable questions and insignificant answers!
Life is complicated!
So are We!

Love is in the Air

2007-08-06T01:26:00.000+05:30

The day i met u, my fantasies changed into reality
The dysphoria of my life suddenly neutralized into ecstasy
Your smile captivates me in a timeless trance
And i feel benumbed as my heart n soul begin2dance
Love is in the air i can feel u everywhere
Your touch is like a zephyr full of warmth n tenderness
Your love has overpowered me into a zone of ceaseless happiness
I feel undying love for u, i feel elevated,
For me u r the most precious gift, the almighty created
Love is in the air i can feel you everywhere
Now to my life each dawn has something new to bring
You have permeated in my soul n changed evrything
An ocean of love is wat i see in ur resplendent eyes
Our love is pulchritudinous, a love that never dies
Love is in the air i can feel you everywhere.

Aankhon Mein...

2007-08-06T01:21:00.000+05:30

In aankhon mein khaab hain...

kuch sadiyon se soye nahin...

kisike khayalon mein khoye hain...

simat ke bhi bikhre se hain yeh khaab

aankhon mein dard chipaye rakha hai...

fir bhi yeh aankhein roye nahin

Quotes

2007-08-06T00:58:00.001+05:30

God and Satan both reside within each one of us.The odyssey of our lives depends on the choice(s) we make.We can choose to be either of the two.

Life may languish, but memories always remain multihued

Indifference is worse than Hatred

Hatred involves emotions, Indifference none.

Yaadein

2007-08-06T00:57:00.001+05:30

Yaadein hoti hain os ki boondon ki tarah,
kitaabon mein qaid sookhe phoolon ki tarah,
chattaanon se takraati saagar ki lehron ki tarah.
yeh yaadein humein hasaati hain,rulaati hain.
aur yahi hain jo humein zindagi jeena sikhaati hain

Andekhe Khwaab

2007-08-06T00:54:00.000+05:30

Aankhon mein andekhe khwaab hain
aur hothon pe kayi ankahi baatein
Baaton mein ansuni khwahishein hain
Aur khwahishon mein andheri si raatein
Andhere mein tanhai nazar aati hain
Saath deti hain sirf tumhari yaadein
Yaadon mein bhi aankhein roti hain
kyunki bikhar gaye hain saare naatein