Skip to main content

शोर

जब शोर में बातोँ कि आदत हो,
तो ख़ामोशी को ज़ुबाँ क्यों दे।  

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Women

Contrary to the undercurrents prevailing in the present state of our hallowed nation, I for one have always been grateful to women who are and always will be the better of the two sexes. Here are some who made 2012 an absolute rocker. Their mentions are in the order of how I met them or how they have always been around me. Sisters Neha & Aarti (Indescribable) Renu a.k.a Renuka (Temperamental, Mental, Temperate zone dweller - mood defined) PC a.k.a Priyam 'LongBongSurname' Mood capturer, Part British, Exotic Indian living in the land of the long sword (Oman) Chetasi, Neha, Vigya a.k.a Chittu, Chotu & Vigsy (Green card holder, Fashionista, Dreamer - respectively) Arunima a.k.a Shorty (Lights up your Dey, thinks in technicolour & conveys in Dolby) Deb a.k.a Debby (Thinks Dolby, talks Dolby & lives Dolby) Shilpa (She sings, strums,serenades & is one hot Tam babe) Praachi Kapse a.k.a Ponchy (PR Prof/pract
I often wonder what drives young men to take to arms. I realise they are driven towards a wrong cause by some men who were misled too. In the following lines I try to depict the scene of terrorist who is embarking on his task, in the hope that men do not take recourse by such measures for there are people as well as a power that awaits to make amends. Cowed down by ways of his life in a corner he sits scared, With folded hands and open palms, head bowed down in prayer, Misled by his virtues, his future on the floor, A voice inside that’s telling him, to settle all his scores. For tragedies yet to happen, all miseries he must stall, Rise for the common cause, answer Allah’s call, What he won’t know is that his heart is cold and still, And all that he plans about, is against Allah’s will. Misery in his bloodshot eyes, his lips spell out a curse, Misunderstood, oft repeated a common holy verse, Deep in prayer with beads of sweat upon his brow, he summons his men miss bred, Heaven has been

Warmth

As a child and even in days older, my mornings would be shrouded in the slight mumble of my grandmother reading verses from her prayer book and the fragrance of incense that covered the room like a shroud. I don't remember clearly if I looked at her through the covers of my bed or was the room really distilled by the fragrant light or was it the quick strokes of sunlight that the drapes allowed to sneak in; like juveniles bribing the doorkeeper at a film screening that made the room appear that way. Then, of course, the sight of burning incense sticks and her voice colliding with each other to become one. The melody of her voice and the wafting of fine grey smoke, she paused to catch her breath. The fragrance emerging just like her voice would. Step for step. Like a dancer. Sometimes out of sync, like curtains against the wind.   (Caught this in the holidays this December while she talked to my sister, similar settings) Slumber would come easy. My eyes would fi