The Flute Player

The sun was going down, sliding away in the river like eyes in the sea of tears. While walking I found my heart heavy with the grief. I settled down on a rock and saw the birds returning to their nests and sky going dark. There was the feeling of tranquility as the waves touched my feet. To this moment filled with many feelings was added the soft tunes of a flute. It was coming from somewhere far away. Every note coming from the flute was in the recognition of the retracing steps of the sun and my heart. There was no sign of the one playing the flute. The melodious notes seemed to me coming from the middle of the river. I decided to take a boat and experience the river that seemed to be the origin of the music.

                         I started to row in the river and felt the waves carrying me to my destination. There, on the other side of the shore, under the shade of a huge tree, I saw a young boy with a thin long flute lost in the creation of his own. The deep crimson color of the sky was reflecting on him and to me he appeared as a painter painting the whole sky, earth and river with his flute. I took out the camera and clicked many photos. Soon I was close enough to make my presence felt to him. He opened his eyes and looked bright and vibrant as a saint coming out of his meditation.

                         I said breaking into the cosmos of music as it got difficult for me to sustain my excitement and curiosity to know this young flute player. i asked “you were playing beautifully. What is your name?”in a voice that was high enough to jerk him from his position and the parrots on the tree which took off, displeased by my presence but i stood on the point and continued to look at him. Breaking into a warm smile he replied “thank you. My name is bhola.”

                       “Ok, I have taken a lot of your pictures. I will send you after developing them, if you want. Give me your address.”

                      his cheeks went red. he shifted his feet unesily and carefully said “I will give you. But first listen to the flute more. Come out of the boat and sit here” he said offering me his hand. I took it and sat next to him. He started playing his flute and without knowing I drowned myself in the timelessness.

In the still darknesss

In the still darkness of the night

I saw the pair of eyes enchanted

Like a deep ocean engulfing everything around

i tried to look away

From that oceanic glare

That rooted me there

And instead of walking away from it

I walked towards it

Intoxicated by the magical eyes

He was someone else that time

Someone who craves to drown himself

In passion, in love.

The unseen veil between us

That stood before us forever

Melted in the heat of our breaths

The wild passion glowed in his eyes

Which surely was reflecting in mine

in the pages of a book

like a rose pressed in the page of book

time spent with you is preserved in my mind

those stolen moments, away from all the eyeballs

breathes in my heart and has scented my life.

in the daily hustle bustle of life

i steel away few moments

and go through the leaves of my mind

reliving the cherished moments time and again

In the Turmoil

My first love was young.

I had dreams and songs,

Those were free of woe.

I thought of the world to be free,

Of everything that hurts,

I hoped to see true love,

I hoped to find the solace,

In the turmoil of daily life.

I tried to find life in my young love.

But everything came falling.

Everything turned into turmoil,

As everything around.

And I figured out,

That there is no true love,

That there is no true solace

 And that my young love is a fallacy.

The only truth is the turmoil around,

In which I live, and in which I will die.

the Growing Jungle

When you write, it is must that your hair are tied much above your head. You are in comfortable clothes and there is no irritating noise around. These are the points that make me a writer but right now none of these is happening to me. My hair are disheveled, clothes are the loosest, like they belong to some fat overgrown woman and continuously there is a drilling machine working in the neighbor. Adding to my misery there has come on my face a pimple that is not only ugly but also painful. But these things can not deter the spilling of my thoughts, as always.

                    Today, I am going to write not about the fly that is dancing before my eyes and trying her hard to get my attention but about my pitfalls that happened today. I woke up in the morning, fresh and lively and decided to do some breathing exercise to put an end to the chronic headaches. Before the real start I went out in my garden that is slowly and slowly taking a shape of a mini jungle, to fuel my eyes with fresh green and other colors of flowers and birds. Everyone in the garden, seemed to be very busy to pay attention to my presence which let me have the most picturesque view. In a way I felt welcomed and accepted. I was glowing in the warmth of nature. But to my surprise came a pair of bulbul. Like warriors they gushed around me. I was gasping with surprise and wonder. I could not gather my wits. I felt a cold shiver down my spine and wondered what on earth I did to deserve such a display of anger. “I think I have trespassed into their territory” I muttered to myself. To save my skin I ran inside to find my dad ready to water the plants with a bucket in his hands.

                   “golu, come, lets water the plants. Your mum will kill us if she sees her plants left uncared when she was away.” Considering it my duty I said “but dad bulbuls are angry, they won’t allow us to come in the garden”

       “Bulbuls are angry birds. But it’s ok. We won’t go near their nest.” He said, consolingly to me. So we went and this time there was no bulbul. We were happily watering the plants and for a moment I thought myself to be the owner of this beautiful garden. I was wrong, because I was tripped and fell on a flower pot and broke it and saw my hands and face covered in mud. With fearful heart I looked at my father who looked at me with fiery eyes. I blinked once and twice and looked at my father who swallowed his anger and said “let’s replace the pot.”

            With everything done, we continued with the watering. But like always lights went off with that water motor went off. And we stood there looking at each other, helplessly. The mishaps don’t end here. The lights came an hour later and we went out again, hoping to complete the work this time. And we did complete this time. Happy at our hearts we were enjoying the birds taking in the drops of water from the leaves. Our enjoyment was called off when the door of the house banged (it’s a kind of door, having a function that once it is closed it can only be opened by a key, which was obviously inside) and we were shut out of the house again. “To hell with this garden” said my father a little louder which spread the odd silence in our growing jungle.

                        

Pests

The most common trait in all of us, the Indians, is to criticize others. And in the tag of “others” comes those people who work for our own welfare. I never watch Indian news channels because they are the typical example of our poor mentality. They focuses more on how ramdev ji was jumping on the stage and how many followers he has and the other irrelevant stuff, leaving behind their duties as news reporters. Coming to half of the general mass, pot bellied with puffed nose, sitting in air conditioned rooms blaming ramdevji over his mannerisms and the amount of money that he has. A simple question to those who are born with a silver spoon in the mouth that with all that money and weird mannerisms ramdevji is still on the stage with hazare ji fasting for the general cause. What about you? If you have all the manners and legal money then why don’t you go and do something, if not the fasting, for the country? The answer is you people have never thought about your own kith and kin, so how can you feel anything for the poor who are victimized by the government.

                It’s a shame on us that we are only the couch potatoes. There is no feeling of duty towards the country which like a rot fish has become the food for pests like us.

Home

Beneath the golden apple tree, strumming the guitar, wearing the shorts and loose shirt which slips off my left shoulder.  Well, that’s how I imagine myself to be. But the  truth is stranger than fiction, isn’t it. So let’s get the real picture of mine. Sitting under the bougainvillea creeper (as there is no electricity, as usual) with my guitar (which is giving me hard time) wearing shorts and shirt (which doesn’t slips off my left shoulder or from anywhere). The climate is typically hot and humid. But I am determined to do what I want.

           After 20 minutes I had to leave the place because the rightful owners of the place had returned- the two kittens. I let them have their fun and left, without letting down my spirits inside. I gave a last look to the sky and saw the sun that was tumbling down, sliding off speedily from his vantage point. The sky turned to blaring white to yellow to orange to red then crimson and then poof. Gone, it was sudden but I was happy to bid adieu to the mighty sun who will return no matter how much I hate its return.

             The electricity is still absent. But in the dark I saw a flickering candle light and went towards it. My mom was there sitting and reading a paper under the candle light. As her eyes came to me, and her lips creased into a smile, I understood why in the midst of this harsh summer, thorny people and surroundings I feel like never leaving this place. Whatever may be the problems around, she is the one who makes home or more profoundly, I would like to say, she is my home.