Chronicle of Boy A , Boney M & Bajaj Super

Its been quite a while since i have tried to write or matter of fact tried to even think about writing a blog , honestly over the period of time my mind has been squashed or overwhelmed with thoughts and ideas that are either there to address a self issue,problems ,routines,duties  or day to to day errands. So to keep it short the time and space to exert my thoughts into writing a blog has evaded me for a very long time. 

so lets start.

In the old neighbourhood of town Barah Mahal , the only sources of exposure to the inner beam of western thoughts were either old cassettes of BONY M or some  dust ruffled books of english literature. The boy A who was still very young was the one who has purchased these from the scrap shop in the by lanes of khawas market, where he once visited with his older brother who had two Persian cats named Ram and pur. When the boy A visited Khawas market he could not able to resist his eyes from golden zippy cover of the BONY M cassette , this is the same cassette which he has seen while searching for Girl S in the desk pedestal when his father Mr B brought him to a dignitary dinner at Barah Bhavan. The boy A was very happy during that dinner, more because his favourite butter scotch ice cream was getting served without his mom Mrs B reminding him continuously  that the ice cream is limited and only to be served to the privilege guests.With this new found freedom of getting to have scoop after scoop of his favourite ice cream, boy A was enjoying the most wonderful time of his life , it was then he heard a giggling voice speaking to him from behind. Girl  S who has the yellowest skin in the whole of Barah Mahal and a giggle that was louder than Mr S favourite Appu the pony was laughing at him.

‘ Are you about to miss a train ,snowman?’ she giggled.

Boy A who has never experienced a girl laughing at him before ,felt a strange feeling for the first time where he wanted to instantaneously avoid looking at girl S eyes  , he later found about this feeling from Mrs B ,where she explained that it is called ‘feeling of embarrassment’.

‘I m not snowman, i am Boy A’ , Boy A manage to gathered some courage before he reply.

‘Whatever………’  and with this last giggle Girl S ran away to the females dinning section of Barah Bhavan

Boy A , who by now had gathered his entire courage and manage to made sense of her comment, got sudden urge to provide her a proper reply.

He left his dearest ice cream cup near the wash basin behind the guava tree and began searching for her at veranda , parking and females dinning  section of Barah Bhavan.

With no success and extended urge to make his point he started thinking about the best option to find her , which was none other then going up to the chair where groom and bride were sitting  and began shouting ‘I have Bajaj Super i don't need train…I don't need train’

********************

A Time for Everything

There is a time for everything,

and a season for every activity under the heavens:

—Ecclesiastes 3.1

Flying sparrows

'When are you going to learn to tie the shoelaces?'
This was the only reason, why my grandmother used to scold me with her lovely black eyes.

A quintessential poet, she had her white worded philosophy confine within her home veranda. By ‘white worded’ I complemented her unruffled knowledge of life’s real exposures. A woman who always relished her glimpses of glorious past, at the same time was the one who loves the vivacity of emerging time.

We used to have this pomegranate tree in our veranda. It was a very old tree, which occasionally used to flurry us with some heavenly tasted pomegranate and was home to some more than hundred sparrows. Now my grandmother used to have a very strange bond with that tree. Where at one moment she used to adore it there on the other she used to curse it while cleaning the never ending trash caused by sparrows and over grown pomegranates over her beloved veranda, with all her priestly decorated plants.

While those sparrows never missed any opportunity to annoy her with their sprinkled litter over the entire veranda, I somehow believed that they secretly adored her strolling presence near the pomegranate tree with their loud chants. Also my grandmother without confessing her love for those sparrows always nurtured them with particles of grain at regular intervals. She used to enlighten us about the virtue of discipline and the value of unity through the actions of those sparrows. How they are the early risers and how thy always pray to god as the first action of day and how they flock together for food and how female sparrow shields her child and how they sleep early with everyone intact to their souls.

Years gone by , she is not with us today , though her face with mouth filled with ‘red paan’ and her lovely metaphors are still the remains in my heart. I just cannot stop remembering her when ever I see these sparrows flying in a line up in the sky.

I got what i am!!

Psychoanalysis of a person, who claims to know himself really well, can actually triggers a nuclear fission on his already perplexed self thoughts .

He starts wandering upon, over his obligatory reasons, spontaneous actions, timorous reluctances, over assertions and righteous moments. He turned his back, from his own pity emotions but tried to repent when he finds out that without them, he cannot move any further.

I was talking to these two gentlemen over the weekend, one highly accurate with sharp words but a bit feeble with eye movements while other slow and reluctant with straight words but really really honest with frank eyes expression. Both these gentlemen have one very fine thing in common both are avid about human expressions and nature.
So last Saturday these two started their broad examination upon ‘what is the real color of my personality’.

They diagnosed the core of my heart and started tickling my head wires. All into this course they were plucking risen theories about me. The facts which I myself escapes from, were getting exposed like beautiful sceneries .They enthralled my head and screened every intellectual thread which was residing there .Whenever I got scared with the sharp overtone revelation of one’s spiky voice, the other’s sympathetic eyes garnished consoling glances upon me.

At the end they finish the analysis and I got exposed to my real self. And when I tried to picture my self as an individual with all the personality attributes provided by them, I found myself as nothing but a clone to the all exact similar clones of our paranormal world.

Knowing all the facts of one personality does not make you a light person; it in fact makes you very very heavy. With all this heaviness over my head I locked my room and lay my body on rest. Questions like ‘What I really know?’, ‘What I am?’ and ‘Where I am going?’ started popping up into my head. With blank eyes I started gazing the still wall calendar over my left.

‘Saturday, December 5, 2009’ I said coldly to my meek heart.

‘Saturday…it was Jenna Jameson new video update on Friday on P… Hub.com…WTF I am a loser…How could I forgot this …Fucking Insane!’

MAGIC ***

Magic***


Magic***


Your heart pulsates; your heart is not able to keep the pace.
And then he rigs another of his rhythmic strokes.
Is it a sound of guitar or lull mountain echo?

Magic***

Magic ***

I am witnessing one miracle. A band called U2 in front of us.
He took upon the chord, he alters his uncanny pitch, he sang it like there is no tomorrow and he amplifies my soul.

Magic ***

Magic ***



He lowers his mic, He lay upon the stage, he put his hand over his own chest.

Crowd went crazy, with everyone yelling his name .The sound got lowered, the drums started fading. I thought its like the end is coming …….with my heart started aching.

Suddenly lights splashed…and there was his voice, like a roaring lion seducing his lioness. I just look around it’s like an illuminated high. The music is rising and I know this is the only night!

Magic***

Magic***

I can see females running over their side and guys smoldering upon their sound bytes.
My hands are uplifting upon their each chord….How crazy I can become when they play their songs with their heavy notes.

Magic ***
Magic ***





He strokes, he bowed and then he looks straight into my eyes. As if he is saying I hope this song reaches to you as I really want.


Explosion, delirium … Molecular reaction ....hybrid theory… whatever … perhaps it’s a nuclear blast in my heart ... I am on high!!!



Its U2 live in my eyes!!!!

Jack Narcissism!

I love Jack Nicholson, I just want to be like him, I mean the way he walks, the way he talks, even the way he grits his jaws and adjust his sunglasses. I just want to be like him!

I always feel it’s upon us, the ‘Guys’ to make a woman feel real special. In a manner that she relish the fact that she is the only female around. Correction! The only beautiful female, walking around.

I just want to get back to compliment’s the way Mr. Nicholson do, the real compliment where you are actually pouring a soft fragrance upon a women who in a manner is actually unaware of her physicality .

C’mon understand the beauty, the undeniable beauty of women eyes, when she realizes that here is the guy who is totally and enormously in awe of her. And your compliment is actually a cold vibrant air near her soft ear buds. Embrace them with words, the poetically brilliant words, these exuberant words are actually there to tribute them.

So imagine,

Here is Mr. Nicholson, all dressed up, no fake glances, only dark shade glasses and one undeniable smile telling one beautiful lady that

‘You my lady is one beautifully deep breath. A breath which is actually breathtaking and which can make my pale heart goes breathless’

The female try gulping it first.

‘With this scent of your body and the color of your eyes I find myself taken away. Taken away to the mountain from I can see only one cloud. A sculpture of your face’

Here is the time when she started feeling that he is high on flirting and this is the part which makes me a fan of Mr. Nicholson.

Leaning over to her side, the guy smiles and the rest is Jack Narcissism!

‘So Baby do you really like all these words or you prefer me being just a Real Man’

;)

Stuck up!

I never have understood the anatomy of mine, about how I am overcoming and growing this thing called ‘writing ‘in my life.



Off late I realized, that I can not write. I mean writing in cluttering manner, thinking that this is some metaphors I am creating is of no use .Not for me anymore.



Now writing I thought was an easier thing, while constructing a thought on which my writing will stroll was difficult. But again as I grew old, walking with thoughts became easier, while penetrating those pensive opinions on writing wire became thornier.



I think differently, is actually the excuse I started putting on in my writing when I started scuttling away my mind on different lines from the genuine point of views and opinionate words from learned people. Not because I am intellectually brilliant but because I can not help being vividly numb about the thoughtfulness of the most important instances of life.



I don’t want to be stereotype, was again my attempt to sway away my own stereotype. What is stereotype? I mean I am stereotype when I say, my writing provoke abstract thoughts about the simplest situation in life. What are these abstract thoughts? Now here I fall, I fall deeply in my own stereotype, which is my inability to define things in simple beauty and symmetric prose.



Also, I realized the meaning of impassive expressions I had for the situations which can leave rainbow exuberance to other but a reckless prose in my mind. If you can not understood the last sentence you can actually understand the entire context of this self sympathy blog.



‘Writing thoughts can be more vigorous if you discuss your view with the other highly considerate thoughtful minds’



Can you take this theory? I can’t because with each interaction I realized that though I understood their views, their anatomy and their diagnosis of life, I can not mint their thoughts in words. Or you can say I have rebound thoughts which can not shape into words.



So how can an expressionless, thoughtless or wordless writer write a blog which should not be surreal?





Ans: Use you mind to conceive a thought and your heart to prose it.

Upper Dipper

Driving through the nights, scrolling upper-dipper beams on abandoned roads, tuning FM channels and getting dispersed in lyrics of songs are the things that I m totally atoned to now a days.

Direction less driving, it puts you towards dark roads where your eyes cannot reach beyond the realm of medium lights. You never feel lost, in fact I feel at ease as if I am moving towards the end of my entangling heart’s restlessness.

The air which rushes in through the window glasses, always manage to gush up old memories. The time and moments that were spend carelessly on the corners of these rustic roads.

Every red light, every green light tinkers the heart over the images of one who has been lost but still lives somewhere nearby. The movement of steering elopes upon the faces which has always made cloudy mayhem in ones heart.

In an uneventful life these drives create moments of highs, perhaps one lonely heart and insolence mind deserve wandering around.

Move towards farmlands, cross barren plains, follow the tracks of river and reach for the heights of sunset mountains.

I wish my life becomes an effortless leaf, whose destiny lies in the flowing wind from high way speeds.