Mind Frame

The massacre of innocent lives in Mumbai had millions of stories. Fortunately, most of those killed were not children. Unfortunately, several of those orphaned still. The following lines are dedicated to all the children who shall have a void in their life forever. Those who lost their dad, mom or even both. These lines are also written for the wives who shall never see their husbands again, for husbands who shall never see their wives. In short, to all those who lost a loved one. For those who lost years in those hours, as well as to those who gained some, only to realise the vagaries of life. (Above) The tall and mighty Taj a while after the incident... Took it from my cell camera on a bike ride with a friend... With eyes so blue in a face so grim, Songs of sorrow stored deep within, Her heart growing weaker with growing pain, Heart break as cold as winter rain. She stalk midnight like shadows at noon, And waits but knows he won’t be here soon, Lights shine out at a distant scene, He...

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...

Its funny at a media institute people tell one to be care full with what he or she writes or speaks, especially when its the truth and a glaring one at that. So this next piece of writing is dedicated to those -who wish they were mute when questions are asked, blind when events unfold, to those who fold their hands and pray that they are deaf when the truth is told. When god gave me hands to write on what i could not see. He gave me ears, so i could hear,what was not meant to be. So when i was asked to be aware of what i speak and write , I told that voice in my head, i wont go down without fight. What do they know, who do advise of how things are meant to be, for all they do is close their eyes and wish they can not see. So forgive me those who in my words do not and will not trust, for this is the way i live my life and my mind i must. My pen will move powered on by valiant might and skill, Indomitable is my spirit, unquestionable will be my will.

Its quite often that we ignore the plight of those who taught us how to think. Quite easily we tend to forget the sacrifices they made for us, the nights they were awake and they were there with those warm comforting hands. Quite easily, their inocent ways of looking at life and concern that can be seen in their eyes when all's not well. The fact that they dont sleep well,when miles away we (or atleast i) are not at rest. Some of us do realise their worth but those who dont do so end up rendering them in the twilight of their life to sad avenues like old age homes. So, i for a change put myself in the shoes of those who are less fortunate and came up with the following lines. Its a small attempt to look at the misery and pain that might be felt by them. I know I am going to be alone now, Coz no ones going to be home now, But then this is how always, my daily story ends. Bills adorn my walls now, But surprisingly somehow, Busy in all my ways I am-is how I pretend. Walls around me sm...

This piece of writing happened to come to mind when I was reading about the prisoners of war and how they suffer well after the war is over and forgotten. To be more precise the fact when Sarabjit Sings mercy petition was being played around with (it still is) and the media had no other issue to focus on. The thoughts in my mind were what if the man is innocent (I gave it an unbiased approach) would it not be a sheer waste of life. The loss of a man who might have had amazing calibre. This piece of writing is a tribute of thoughts to those who still lie behind enemy lines forgotten by the majority but revered and remembered by those who know the price of freedom. Silence cuts him like a knife, Pity follows like dusk after a moonless night, Segregated, confiscated an unwanted end to a spotless life. Days mark the hours on his prison walls, Age clings on like rust. Deep inside the dungeon he lies like a dagger in the dust.

The following thoughts of mine found their way to form a prose when I happened to witness the courage of a soldier’s family on national television in the advent of his martyrdom. Soldiers who die an unsung death don’t really do so as long as the select few such as me and may be you continue to acknowledge the spirit, commitment, and dedication shown by them every moment, everyday. Rising white moonlight had their backs outlined, A thousand miles away an old wrinkled face smiled, Pacified by glory, armed by spirit in strife, She stood at her doorway counting shreds of life, A million stars dismembered the pattern of the sky, As thunder split the heavens and fire came alive. Tears wet her veil, hope shielded her eyes, From promises unkempt, hollow truths and lies, Powder filled the winter air and time came to a hold, Metal shred the hillside, a young life moaned. Stretched by valour, tested by vagaries of time, Hope became glimmer and faded away the shine. Down came the colours, guns ran...