Brave new world

The world of my thoughts

Death of Democracy!


They blinded me
so that
I cannot see
brutally murdered democracy

They made me deaf
so that
I cannot hear
the voices of dissent

They cut my tongue
so that
I cannot speak
against them

But…

I still
saw
the dead democracy

I still
heard
the shrieks of protest

I still
cried aloud
at them…

Blasts!!!


And the city was shaken again
with the series of blasts
same in the future as in the past
I was aghast with my own reaction
me, a complacent, without any action?
There was no anger, no frustration
no desire for any demonstration
no grudges, no fears
no sorrow, no tears
got bored of repeated news
I changed the channel without any views!!!

It’s Palestine !!!



I had a dream last night

I saw ruins
of once inhabited spaces.

they told me their stories…

I saw deserted roads
and bulleted houses

they made me hear their noises…

I saw blood splattered roads
and barbed wires

they shouted, howled and cried…

I saw men
as red-holed corpses

they refused to leave their holyland..

I saw women
thumping their chests over white-clothed bodies

they didn’t let the body go…

I saw young
being beaten by green-uniformed men

they hated all love stories…

I saw children
with tear-less eyes and faked smiles

they didn’t laugh even on Humpty-Dumpty…

I woke up
with sweated body and fast beating heart

I shared it with ‘P’
he laughed and said,

“It’s a dream and yet, not a dream
it’s PALESTINE!”

Friendship ? What friendship ? You are just my Facebook friend .


I made my first friend or best friend in first class. I remember we were group of four friends who always used to hang out with each other. Eating lunch together, playing together, sitting together. It was fun. For us, the definition of friendship was being together. I remember that once we decided that during summer vacations, we will send letters to each other. We all were in fourth standard. Yes, and we did send letters to each other in our broken English and Hindi handwriting. I talked with my friend on phone for the first time in fifth or sixth standard.

Today, when I look back I think I had great friends who like me were committed to that single definition of friendship. We might not be able to meet today for our own reservations in our life but, we know that bond which we made as children will always be there.

I joined Facebook in 2008.

Since then, I have made so many friends. Correction. Facebook friends. This is a new kind of friendship. For this kind of friendship, you are not supposed to meet in reality. Even if you see people in real, you cannot greet them. However, on Facebook, you can like her/his status, comment on them, like his/her photos and claim to be best friends. This propaganda of friendship is not just for the world but also for your benefit. But it is also true that we want to make ourselves worth of being a friend on the portal. After all Facebook is all about friendship.

I have made myself wonder on my own hesitation and pure reservation in meeting or greeting a Facebook friend. They have so many times slide past me without recognising me while I try to connect that Facebook profile pic to the real person in flesh and blood. I really wonder how this happens?

I daily get so many requests of friendship and to be very frank I do not understand why do they want to be my friend in the first place. I think even now I have more than 150 requests pending and double that no might be the number of friends I have. I know I will never meet them, may be I don’t want to meet them. Then, why do we make these friends? What exactly is the truth behind these virtual friendships ? Are they merely for a propaganda of friendship? Are they just show-off or the world has truly manifested the elements of friendship in how much you are friends with your friend on Facebook ?

Whatever it is. Facebook has actually changed the definition of friendship. There are four kinds of friendship which have been defined/ created by Facebook. First, there are friends whom you never want to meet ; Second, friends who do not want to meet you ever ; third, friends who are “friends with benefits” who can be used in need and last, but not the least your real friends whom you keep on meeting but need to prove that on Facebook by tagging, posting pictures etc.

I don’t think I enjoy Facebook that much but may be in this lonely world devoid of real friends as they make themselves available only on Facebook, we feel worthy. May be we feel desired by so many people. May be this is a new public sphere which let’s us create our ideologies and ideas in which friends can pitch in and participate without losing their time.

Or
May be it is just an escape from the real friendship of the real world !

Death


What if I want to die tomorrow. What if I love death?
You must be thinking I am mad. Who can possibly love death? Death needs to be dread. How can it be loved? But, I am not like anyone. I want to feel death. Not through other people but through me. How would it be to touch death ? To see it. To admire it. To even detest it.

Long ago, not very long, just three months back I used to go to college daily by passing through a shamshan ghat, a crematorium. It was never left deserted. It was always full of people. Wearing white clothes. Crying. Sad. Some consoling. It always brought back the memory of my haunted past. My past which still haunts me. A nightmare. A past which forced me to face death. Twice. In a period of twenty days. Twenty days.

One night I had a dream. A dream in which a house was breaking. Falling apart. The day brought hours of restlessness. Then night. Again. Restlessness. Depression. Then next day.
Death.

That was not the first time. Suddenly I remembered a dream. I saw, long time back… My school. Women wearing white clothes. Crying. Howling. After a month.
Death.

Twenty days. Those twenty days were period of depression. Lot of crying. Then after.
Death.

But, this death brought a calmness. A silence. A calm, soothing sleep.

How fascinating is death? One person, who was talking to you before, playing with you, suddenly dies? What exactly happens? When our body is considered a machine, how and why does it stops functioning ? Why can’t a person be brought back? Why can’t this machine be made to re-function ?

These unsolvable questions always attract me to death.
To love Death.
What if I die tomorrow?

Name


And he thought he will always be alone. That day he sat penning down his thoughts. His thoughts. His poems. He started writing. Words started flowing. Grabbed a rhythm. And then a miracle happened !

A girl was born !

Yes, a girl of his dreams was born in his poems ! He never thought he would be able to find someone for himself but, here she was. Staring at him, with those beautiful eyes created by him. She was so beautiful. He got so mesmerised in her beauty that he forgot everything. Now, he had no other work except to write about her. How would she move. How would she eat. How would she dance. Each and everything.

He named her Ghazal !

Ghazal became a poem of his life. He would imagine her walking with him. Sleeping with him. Waking him up. Ghazal got involved in his life so much that he felt complete. Now, he didn’t need anyone.

One day Ghazal came in his dreams. She wanted him to make love to her. He immediately got up and started writing. Creating a beautiful poetry of love. Celebrating her beauty and his love ! He loved his small world. World which has Ghazal in it.

Slowly and steadily, their lives were getting entwined into each other. He created a past for them. How they met? How he lured her to love him? How their parents were against their marriage. How on one wintry night they ran from home to his friend’s place and got married. Everything. Now, they had these memories for their nostalgia. World was so real !

19th November, 1942.
It was a wintry night. He cosied up to Ghazal and asked her to make tea for him. She also got up quietly and left. Suddenly, there was a hard knock at the door. Someone was banging the door madly. Confused, he got up and opened the door. His childhood friend Rudra was standing. He was sweating and was scared to death. Next to him, was Ghazal !

“But is it possible? How can she be real ? She cannot”. Perplexed, he kept on thinking about his muse and her. “We need your help”. Rudra’s voice brought him back from his thoughts.

Rudra came inside with the girl. He introduced her to him. Her name was Ghazal. Shocked ! It was so unbelievable. He felt as if he was dreaming. He prayed he was dreaming. But he was not. He struggled to be normal and asked Rudra and Ghazal to sit. Rudra then started telling him their story. How they met, how he lured her to love him and now, how their parents are against their marriage.

It was becoming more and more difficult for him to believe what was unleashing in front of him. How can my story be converted into real life of my friend? Ghazal was mine. No one can take her away from me. He went back and started reading his poems again and again. Where did he go wrong? Suddenly, he struck on the name of the male character of his poems ‘Rudra’. But didn’t he write his own name? Was he not the male protagonist in the poems? Was he not the lover of Ghazal? But, what is his name? He couldn’t recollect his name. He tried hard but failed. He searched for his identity card. He searched and searched for every paper which could tell him his name. Lost, baffled, he ran out and held Rudra forcefully. “Do you know my name? What is my name ?”. He questioned. Rudra, taken aback, said, “you are my childhood friend. I didn’t know anyone in this city and that is why I came to you. But, I am sorry. I don’t remember your name. I thought you won’t ask as you recognised me”.

Close to tearing his hair apart, he ran outside. He knocked the door of his neighbour and asked his name. He told him that he knows him only as ‘Mehta ji’. He knocked the second door. Same answer. Third. Same answer. Last. Same answer.

Mad, he ran back to his house. Rudra and Ghazal both were not there. He searched the house. No one. He went to his room to see his poems. He flipped the pages. No poems. Just white sheet of plain paper.

7 AM. He got up. “Thank God! It was a dream. Sorry, nightmare!”. “Horrible ! It was”. He went to kitchen and started making coffee. Still sipping coffee, he went to his table and started flipping the pages. Yes, Ghazal, was still there in the poems but his name ?
Blank.
Just Blank.

You…


It’s you, its you, who I dread
Love is a path, difficult to tread
You wretch! You wretch!
what did you fetch?
Drenching me in this love
by calling me dove
Was that not enough for you???
why did you colour me through?
colour me, colour me in this love
by calling me, calling me dove…

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