tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9341881382624486872024-03-13T11:53:39.853+06:00Connecting the Dots Looking Forward...Two Cup Teahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03449029133120828484noreply@blogger.comBlogger76125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934188138262448687.post-40796040886731878022020-09-12T22:28:00.002+06:002020-09-12T22:28:44.204+06:00Clinging On<p> </p><p><br /></p><p>There has to be</p><p>a combination of letters,</p><p>a sequence of words</p><p>which can explain</p><p>how I feel about you.</p><p><br /></p><p>You might say,</p><p>Why juggle alphabets ?</p><p>I don't care and</p><p>It does not matter the least</p><p><br /></p><p>Your jokes are cruel.</p><p><br /></p><p>I laugh sometimes,</p><p>and sometimes</p><p>when I don't understand them</p><p>I note them on a piece of paper.</p><p><br /></p><p>The more I decode you,</p><p>divide you into days, hours, moments,</p><p>the more I trivialize</p><p>"Nothing"</p><p>is all i can finalize</p><p><br /></p><p>I realise the absurdity</p><p><br /></p><p>I might be weak, </p><p>and I might not enjoy</p><p>but </p><p>I will cling on to you.</p>Two Cup Teahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03449029133120828484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934188138262448687.post-49735845388497573202017-05-28T01:43:00.003+06:002017-05-28T12:48:34.800+06:00Scenes on an Airplane to Surat<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Surat, the city of flyovers, diamonds and everyone driving on
the wrong side.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although it has been some time since I shifted here, but my
romance with this city of Farsaans started only recently. Something in me
melted, a few knots opened and I fell for this mad mad city.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It happened only last week when I took the Air India flight
from New Delhi to Surat.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here is what happened Mota Moti -<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->1.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->2-3 Families with 6 to 7 members exchanged seats
with a dozen other travelers.3 poor souls caught in this conundrum started
complaining. Poor steward had no clue (as it was all in Gujarati) and requested
all passengers to take their own seats. Obviously, no one listened to him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->2.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Flight was delayed by 10 mins and then suddenly
a Gujju uncle stood up, opened top 3 buttons of his shirt, solved this puzzle in
a jiffy and pacified everyone. Easy Che !<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->3.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Only one old Grandma had to be seated away from
her family but she showed her resentment by saying bad words in Gujarati. (Ganda, I think)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->4.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Meanwhile, Sweet Gujju Girls (SGG) wearing crop
tops and hot pants for air travel, chatted merrily<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->5.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Any purpose served by dimming Cabin Lights was
lost as Diamonds sparkled brilliantly on every wrist, neck and finger.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->6.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Everyone clapped when the aircraft took-off and
landed. Old Grandma burped both times.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->7.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Theplas and Namkeens were taken out as soon as
the flight was airborne.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->8.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Captain announced (Thrice) – Passengers are
requested to remain seated while the seat belt sign is turned on. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->9.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Steward to SGG – Would you like anything to
drink ?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
SGG to Steward – Jeeru Che ?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->10.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Wailing infant was “crowd surfed” from 13B to 18A<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->11.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->All phones rang in unison even
before the plane landed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->12.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->While I waited for my luggage, Gujju uncle still
having Top 3 buttons of his shirt open, inquired about everything from my
career path to my personal hygiene.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->13.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->While I was wondering what to do as “No Uber was
available”, a family offered to drop me at my area in their chauffeur driven Audi<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Such is the city. Live it. Love it.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Two Cup Teahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03449029133120828484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934188138262448687.post-47284920841489488572017-04-23T10:26:00.001+06:002017-04-25T21:32:45.399+06:00Growing Up with a friend<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Tear apart,<br />
one by one<br />
these false sheaths of<br />
poses and perceptions<br />
limits and assumptions<br />
your thoughts about yourself<br />
you no longer question<br />
<br />
Tear them,<br />
shred by shred<br />
with the fire of reason.<br />
<br />
Only then<br />
you will find your true friend<br />
<br />
Be his friend again, <br />
Help him to grow,<br />
grow up with him<br />
<br />
Be true to him this time<br />
Don't leave him behind<br />
leave no thoughts unsaid.<br />
<br />
Be with Him<br />
Be Him.</div>
Two Cup Teahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03449029133120828484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934188138262448687.post-18020955600184365152016-05-15T10:20:00.000+06:002016-05-15T10:25:01.895+06:00Old Writer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
Old writer<br />
sat on his old desk<br />
with a brand new typewriter<br />
<br />
remembering stories<br />
of his life and<br />
of a life unliven<br />
<br />
stories he had enjoyed<br />
stories he had endured<br />
stories he had collected<br />
stories he had never told.<br />
<br />
Old writer<br />
chose a long life<br />
to become an old writer<br />
with many interesting stories.<br />
<br />
For example,<br />
once when he...<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Two Cup Teahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03449029133120828484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934188138262448687.post-22472494575782505342016-02-05T23:56:00.002+06:002016-02-05T23:56:31.628+06:00What inspires a poet ?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
Golden Daffodils would be my first guess; dead albatross
would be my next.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course, it is a personal question and thus needs to be answered
in first person. So my attempt to answer it is an honest introspection of those
moments of solitude when my imagination metamorphosed into poems.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Emotions recollected in tranquility”, William Wordsworth
had famously and verily traced the origins of a poem.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For tranquility, I have almost always relied on winter
nights. There is a certain stillness and
assurance that comes along a winter night. It says to me, “Delve deep into
yourself, and take your time to distill your thoughts. I will engulf the
surroundings long enough for your thoughts to condense into words.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But for emotions, it is more complex. Emotions, for all
practical reasons, have to be sacrificed or at the least deeply concealed for a
successful modern life. A successful
modern life, in that case, becomes impossibility for a poet. For a semi-poet like me, I have created a
parking lot for my emotions. I carefully park them from where they can be
easily towed, whenever a long winter night might arrive. Needless to say, I
live a semi-successful modern life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So when the night does arrive, I handpick a parked emotion
and try to live it again. I try to remember the settings and the incidents that
evoked it. What memory was stirred in
that moment, why it surfaced to reality? I try to follow that memory strand to
the depths of my being and I usually land up in my childhood.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Childhood, when my
imagination was my lone companion. Childhood, when I truly enjoyed solitude.
Childhood, when I was observant and innocent. Can there be a treasure more valuable than the
memories of your childhood.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And sometimes, I land up in my youth when love was in
fashion. I could have written odes to
the moons on your nails. Also when love is in fashion, can misery be any farther?
On many nights I could have written the saddest lines.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
And sometimes, I land up nowhere. In this emptiness, I
expand my existence. Only my ideas can float in this nothingness, only my words
can dangle in this space. A piece of my
existence falls on the paper to become a poem. <o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Two Cup Teahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03449029133120828484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934188138262448687.post-86135543571656935772015-10-23T23:13:00.000+06:002015-10-23T23:21:19.060+06:00आख़िर यह जीवन क्या है ?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
बचपन से ले केर अब तक<br />
जो भी हुआ ,<br />
या जो मैंने चुना ।<br />
और चाह कर भी जो मैं कर न सका<br />
वो कहाँ गया ?<br />
<br />
वह एक राह<br />
जिस पर चल कर मैं<br />
यहाँ तक पंहुचा ।<br />
और वो रास्ते जिन पर मैं चल न सका ,<br />
वो कहाँ गये ?<br />
<br />
वह विकल्प<br />
जो मैंने चुनें<br />
जिन पर मैं स्थिर रहा ।<br />
और समय की धारा जो बह गयी<br />
वह कहाँ गयी ?<br />
<br />
या' यह पल, हाँ यही पल<br />
जो गुज़र रहा है अभी ।<br />
और इसे समेटने की क़ोशिश मे ,<br />
जो शब्द नहीं मिल रहे<br />
वो कहाँ गये ?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Two Cup Teahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03449029133120828484noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934188138262448687.post-35639157920427631572015-10-22T11:05:00.001+06:002015-10-22T11:15:11.498+06:00ज़िन्दगी जीने का आसान तरीका <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
जीवन की असीम संभावनाओं को<br />
एक मनगढंत परिधि में कैद कर जीना ,<br />
भला यह भी कोई जीना है ।<br />
<br />
क्या है जो मुझे रोकता है<br />
इन सीमाओं को मिटाने से ?<br />
इन सीमाओं में इतना सुकून क्यूँ है ?<br />
<br />
वो कौन से विचार है<br />
जो मेरी जीजिविषा को बांधे हैं ।<br />
मेरी इन विचारो से क्या दोस्ती है ?<br />
<br />
इन सवालों का ज़वाब ढूंढ़ना<br />
क्या सचमुच ज़रूरी है ?<br />
या इन व्यर्थ सवालों में ,<br />
मैंने ढूंढ लिया है<br />
ज़िन्दगी जीने का आसान तरीका ।<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Two Cup Teahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03449029133120828484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934188138262448687.post-54879366889100135672015-05-31T16:08:00.001+06:002015-05-31T16:13:17.791+06:00Wanderlust<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
Can you feel a chilly mountain breeeze<br />
with your eyes closed<br />
on a summer afternoon?<br />
I can<br />
<br />
Can you visualize the mountain peaks<br />
with the magic of sun and snow<br />
to the last shade of yellow.<br />
Can you stay there forever<br />
or atleast think about doing so<br />
I can<br />
<br />
Can you recreate the desert<br />
vivid to the last grain of sand<br />
and then remember the last thought<br />
you had at that place<br />
Can you go back there just to feel<br />
the same again<br />
I can<br />
<br />
Can you see that distant wave<br />
coming to tickle your feet<br />
and then laugh young and free<br />
Can you wait for yet another<br />
till the last shimmer of the sea<br />
I can<br />
<br />
I have more such plans<br />
But promise me<br />
you will always find time<br />
to come with me<br />
smitten by wanderlust</div>
Two Cup Teahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03449029133120828484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934188138262448687.post-16368810302007147252015-04-29T22:39:00.003+06:002015-04-29T23:29:35.106+06:00Existential Confusion<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 11pt;">There is a state of
mind- some angst, some irritation some despondency. A grand confusion, a
feeling of being directionless and not knowing why...</span><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 11pt;">I call it the
existential confusion.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 11pt;">Existential confusion
persists beyond the traditional methods of unburdening one like socializing;
movies, indulgence etc. It is a state where your identity just manages to hinge
on your name and designation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 11pt;">It is a tiredness
spreading through you when you are losing the will to prove or disprove peoples’
thoughts about yourself. Introspection makes it even worse. What do you think
about yourself? Who are you in reality? Tiring questions.Are you not just a
residual image of accepted perceptions?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 11pt;">Perceptions- collective thought
of the surroundings about you and your own thought about yourself. This sum
total of perceptions defines your reality. What else would reality be?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 11pt;">Have you ever been on this
perception trip? Have you ever felt this existential confusion?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
</div>
Two Cup Teahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03449029133120828484noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934188138262448687.post-6889626473358689582013-09-05T01:00:00.002+06:002013-09-05T01:00:30.333+06:00Tall Man Small Shadow<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
Many times I thought about writing a review for the book- “Tall
Man small shadow”. I have never written
a book review before and to make the matter more complicated the book is written
by my father. Can any son write about his
father objectively? Will a son’s praise
not be viewed as a natural way to express gratitude to his creator? Will a son’s
criticism not be rated too harsh and an act to separate his identity from that
of his father?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had written a few lines about his book on some websites
based on my preliminary reading of his manuscripts. I had read a few chapters
of the edited version but had never read the final book until a few days back. Only
now I feel I can write about the book. Here is what I felt:-<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->1.<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> </span>The story is arranged in short chapters, with
each chapter written from a different point of view. A single scene when viewed
from different angles gives the reader a holistic view about the lives of book’s
characters. However there are times when the reader is left slightly confused because
of the multiple angles.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->2.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->The characters are intertwined by a series of coincidences
in a very real-life setting. Whether these coincidences are fabricated or not,
the reader is free to have his own interpretations.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->3.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->A few lines where I could not help but marvel at
the simplicity of thoughts are-<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><i>a.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal;"> </span></i><!--[endif]--><i>Perfection if pursued could dispense the
need of God.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><i>b.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal;"> </span></i><!--[endif]--><i>If it is death, I am dying every moment. If
it is life, I am living every moment.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><i>c.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-style: normal;"> </span></i><!--[endif]--><i>Mere talent may lead to frustration and
pessimism.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 1.0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->d.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]--><i>When he
fails to understand, he philosophizes</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->4.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]-->The experience of reading this book is like
reading many books in one. Many questions, many philosophies, many thoughts
left just short of their conclusion. Sometimes entertaining, sometimes deliberating.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Reading his first book, I could feel that he has many more
books in him and perhaps many more philosophies.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I believe in the
saying-“An author should be judged by his best lines.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I know, his best
is yet to come.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Two Cup Teahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03449029133120828484noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934188138262448687.post-74210821022064764312013-08-05T02:23:00.000+06:002013-08-05T02:26:38.985+06:00Love, Poetry and Prose<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Some people
love only when they are sure that they would be loved back. Is this love
selfish? Is it impure? Can love be impure in any case? No one knows about it;
everyone talks about it. Especially all these clichés- sonnets. Are there even
enough words to contain the enormity of love?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Was Pablo
Neruda as fierce a lover as a poet? Did
his woman feel the same pain, ecstasy, fear and longing as we do when we read
one of his poems? Who is to say that he was not an erotic lover, not even a
romantic but a simpleton and his poems were only a catharsis of his lonely heart?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Can a heart
that has never loved, feel the longing for a comforting caress of the
lover? Yes, through poems, I suppose.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But what is
the real feeling that is felt when two people are actually in love? Do they feel
any different from- Tonight I can write the saddest lines-? What do they feel?
How do they feel? If it is any different from poetry can it be penned down?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">‘Avoid
writing love poems’- A poet has himself advised. Are poets even the right
species to seek advice on a phenomenon like love? Half of them are divorcees
and other half bachelors. This decision of love cannot be influenced by such
unsettled men.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Some might
say poetry although marginalizes yet glorifies love. Poetry seduces words together
to simplify love. It makes more people fall in love by its rhyme and helps them
to forget their everyday prose. Poem is an expression of love to help the
common man understand how he feels. I find this argument baseless.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Can poetry
describe that penultimate moment; the one just before- two lovers depart. The
moment that you desperately want to prolong even if amounts to selling a part of your soul to buy another second. Can poetry justify the act of sacrificing your best for
the whim of your lover?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Poetry cannot
even tell for sure whether the tension that two lovers feel in their first
embrace is like ebbs and flows or more like waxing and wane. Only prose can dare
where poetry ends. Prose is what poetry claims to be.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Think, whether
the first word that every writer wrote to express something that could no
longer be contained inside him- was it intended for a poem or a prose? And what
if the first words of all poems put together form a prose and not poetry. If <i>‘l love you’</i> is a poem; <i>I</i>, <i>You</i> and<i> Love
in between</i>, is a prose.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Love- it has
to felt up your spine and out of your brain. Love should
better be left alone, to be expressed through prose.</span></div>
</div>
Two Cup Teahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03449029133120828484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934188138262448687.post-3575061108734942152012-12-08T01:19:00.000+06:002012-12-09T06:12:53.145+06:00A place to hide<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It had been some time since he had written a word. There was
a growing feeling of creative deficiency inside him as life took systematic turns. Society,
he thought, had finally purged him off his angst and the nausea attacks, which
would only subside once he had written something; had ceased to occur. He did
not know if it made him happy or sad. Was writing really important to him? Wasn't it normal for the young to confuse idling with passion, musings with creativity? Age eventually
pacifies the deliriums of youth.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Even if you were in a prison whose walls would shut
out from your senses the sounds of the outer world, would you not then still
have your childhood, this precious wealth, this treasure house of
memories?" He continued reading his favorite book.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, he thought...he still had his childhood. Childhood...when
imagination triumphs reason. Curiosity dominates acceptance. Innocence blurs ego.
He lit a cigarette (after a long time)
and sat thinking about his childhood. Images conjured in the blue smoke he
exhaled.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His home, his room, the Sundays he would spend there, the
afternoons when he would hide as the house slumbered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His favorite hiding place was the Gulmohar tree just
outside the boundary of his house. It was a young tree, not old enough to have
a graceful circular shape of mature tree but old enough to have blossomed once,
in the last season.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He used to climb to the highest part of the tree and sit there
as inanimate as an extension of the tree. His limbs sprawled as dangling branches
of the tree. He used to stay extremely quiet, not utter a word, sway with the
hot wind that rustled through the branches and counted the time before his
mother would notice his absence and call for him. Meanwhile, he would remain extremely still and even allow
a train of ants to pass through his hands and not flinch an inch.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What if nobody noticed
that he was gone? What if nobody found him? Would his parents file a missing report? He
had read story of a cat that climbed up high on a tree but would not come down
as it was too scared. The neighborhood had to call a fire brigade to take
the cat down. Surely he was not afraid of coming down and obviously a fire
brigade would create quite as scene. He always got down sooner or later. He
preferred an anti climax for a melodramatic end.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He sometimes, used to
carry a book with him on the tree and sitting there with his book he would
create a miniature world of his own. He would read his story to the tree and
add a few twists of his own to make it more interesting.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He opened his eyes and took another drag. He had not changed
much over the years. He was still conjuring a miniature world of his own
through the books he had been reading. He was living many lives in this cosmos.
But his creativity had no place in reality. Reality as such is too harsh
to co-exist with art.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Books were his favorite hiding place these days.</div>
</div>
Two Cup Teahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03449029133120828484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934188138262448687.post-61216248681417793302012-04-01T20:24:00.006+06:002012-04-28T23:09:38.686+06:00Old friends...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Old friend<br />
remember how we met?<br />
I was going nowhere<br />
and you were going somewhere<br />
but we both smiled to greet<br />
our worn out boots<br />
<br />
And we started to talk,<br />
old friend,<br />
about the places we had seen<br />
the people we had met<br />
which roads led to which?<br />
when to turn right<br />
and when to turn left<br />
<br />
Old friend<br />
there was so much to talk,<br />
we went for tea and a smoke <br />
shared our anecdotes <br />
and compared our travelogues<br />
but between our tired eyes<br />
old friend,<br />
we both knew<br />
we were just drifters<br />
<br />
<br />
And we settled on serendipity<br />
rather than destiny<br />
to explain why we should hold hands<br />
and drift together<br />
on this course<br />
old friend<br />
<br />
Old friend, <br />
when I was with you, <br />
I was with myself...<br />
<br />
<a href="http://theconnecteddots.blogspot.in/2010/02/old-friend.html">Old friend</a></div>Two Cup Teahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03449029133120828484noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934188138262448687.post-60677184758721744092012-03-20T23:06:00.003+06:002012-03-20T23:37:14.994+06:00Tale of the tamarind treeThe tamarind tree <br />and the old woman, make an<br />aged couple who look alike,<br />rough skin, deep roots<br />thin branches devoid of fruit<br />with wooden knots and varicosities<br /> <br />In the little shade<br />the tamarind tree can provide<br />she knits silently<br />with her needles and weak eyes,<br />courses and wales like <br />the vagaries of life<br /> <br />once even they were children<br />who played with pebbles<br />and recited rhymes with<br />the birds and wind,<br />they became soulmates<br />with their first tamarind <br /><br />and the tamarind tree heard patiently<br />her infant fantasies<br />her first love <br />her first moan<br />her furtive affairs <br />no one else could have known<br /><br />later they discussed<br />marriages and funerals<br />and with the little wisdom<br />that they could gather<br />they shared the secrets of their <br />wrinkles together<br /><br />Now that they are<br />grumpy and old<br />the tamarind tree <br />wishes their story be told<br />from a flute crafted<br />of its branch<br /><br />and their duet when<br />sung in the evening hour<br />on the melody of the woodwind<br />would leave a taste<br />like their first tamarind<br />a little sweet, a little sourTwo Cup Teahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03449029133120828484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934188138262448687.post-81316379917427934552012-01-27T23:48:00.003+06:002012-01-28T00:05:12.785+06:00a forgetful poetcome back<br />ink my thoughts<br />don't disappoint my pen <br />and the few readers i have, <br />again.<br /><br />my words await your texture<br />my lines forlorn your rhyme<br />tune my banal words <br />into a song, <br />sublime.<br /><br />come back<br />if not for me <br />then for my musings<br />for no one likes a bland prose<br />and worse still,<br />a forgetful poet<br />who moved onTwo Cup Teahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03449029133120828484noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934188138262448687.post-77591238016122556232012-01-22T23:56:00.003+06:002012-01-23T00:02:08.363+06:00Prelude to a poemThe sky was grey and low. A dullness prevailed over the surroundings. Nothing moved except for the cold wind that scurried across trees to sweep away their dead leaves. Obstinate clouds had successfuly blocked the sun since morning and the sun after his initial attempts to peep out had retired and dimmed.The setting was perfect.It was a beautiful winter afternoon to write grim poems. <br /><br />He opened a blank leaf of his notebook quickly and sat on his desk. Now it was just a matter of time, a patient wait for that moment of nausea to strike. A convulsion of emotions would stir inside him and in an uncontrolable fit he would vomit lines and spread them out on paper.<br /><br />But not today, today his gloom desetred him. He could not conjure a single thought of melancholy on this perfect day. Restless, he had tried reading several passages of Master of Petersburg to catalyse his thoughts with grief. No reaction.The fact that his faculty of sadness had failed to utilize this opportune afternoon angered him bitterly. He could no longer be sad at his will.What had robbed him of this ability? What would he write now? It had taken so many great authors to convince him that only a great tragedy could infuse in his words a charm that would have a universal appeal. How could Rilke be wrong? Only after enforcing solitude and pondering over a tragedy would creativity find its roots in soul. Now all those hours of seclusion when he endured boredom seemed to have gone waste.He gave pondering one last try.<br /><br />He read his previous poems.Since when had his thoughts slipped towards the dark and the gloomy.What had turned him so despondent, when did he convince himself that nothing signified anything.<br /><br />He was very idealistic in his youth, he remembered. He was determined to display that his mind had a certain precociousness that education could not provide its pupil.With a dismissive air, he hid his hard work. He enjoyed practicing the obscure language of mathematics over white sheets in secret, it looked so systematic, so neat. He remembered his old desk, books piled up, notes tucked one leaf beneath the other.A youth fueled with idealism and discipline <br /><br />He had also pasted one of his father's poem on the wall. What were the lines...he tried to reconstruct...<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">You cross your fingers if you want<br />i am going to sail my boat in the storm<br /><br />empty lighthouse, fog or mist<br />i am not afriad of nature's fist<br />.... or dead albatross<br />nothing can stop me from faring across<br /><br />...broken oars or broken mast<br />like polestar I'll stand steadfast<br />to catch the wind in my sail<br />and whistle my way....<br /><br />You cross your fingers if you want<br />i am going to sail my boat in the storm</span><br /><br />A shame he could not recollect the entire poem, all he remembered now were a few words glittering in green ink and his father's signature beneath.Two Cup Teahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03449029133120828484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934188138262448687.post-85015962203201866932011-12-12T02:40:00.005+06:002011-12-12T22:02:10.257+06:00This word,existencewhat was it inside him? a rebel meekly struggling, an angst too weak to burst into vehemence.He hid it from this world by his routine, he yawned along with the others, day after day.He carried it inside him surreptitiously like an illegitimate zygote planted in his head.His morose moods had fed it for over an year. Today, it filled his body from the inside, covered all his organs with black tar. He felt it like an attack of nausea that would not subside. He could bear it no longer, he could not walk as if nothing had happened.It had to be rinsed out of his brain,ejaculated from his veins. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not let it go. It was a parasite he had fallen in love with. It was his creation, afterall.He had nurtured it in the darkest hours of his being, carefully putting thoughts behind his words, shaping it with ideas he coveted, reading it passages from books he loved.It had grown in his stupor,vegetated in his lethargy.It was this word,existence.Two Cup Teahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03449029133120828484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934188138262448687.post-90228539310199761752011-11-25T01:31:00.002+06:002011-11-25T18:44:22.704+06:00The winter morning mistThe blue smoke filled the room like the winter morning mist. What an unoriginal line he had just written. It hangs in the sky motionless. Another one. He could go on describing it, use his limited vocabulary, make a few paragraphs, draw a margin and fair it down in his notebook. Another second rate creation. However he chose to arrange his lines, they would not convey significance. They were more a outcome of boredom than a genuine interest, a meaningless chore to fill the two hours after dinner and to tire his mind enough for sleep. Never had he been consumed with an insurmountable urge, a moment of heightened passion when the pen etches on paper, an extension of the thought that erupts in the brain. Such sudden urges were confined to writers who sat on his table, mocking at his incompetence. Which angel blessed them? How could they write such beautiful lines, lines that carry a world in their words, lines that expose innermost secrets, lines that gave birth to the next one? Lines that resembled none in his notebook. He scratched his head and saw the blue smoke with a fresh perspective. It turned into ink and blotted everything he had written so far.Two Cup Teahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03449029133120828484noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934188138262448687.post-5900217155557036992011-11-20T01:54:00.001+06:002011-11-20T01:54:44.131+06:00ode to the moons on your nailsif i could rewrite my poems<br />i would rewrite them all<br />not one has the words<br />that absolve my melancholy<br />not one has its root <br />in the crevices of my soul<br /><br />if i could rewrite my poems<br />i would write more about nature<br />and only seldom about you<br />and not one would be titled<br />ode to the moons on your nails<br /><br />if i could rewrite my poems<br />i would befriend solitude<br />more than my pen<br />and wait for each emotion<br />to age inside me <br />and find its graceful endTwo Cup Teahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03449029133120828484noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934188138262448687.post-47435880954204074092011-10-22T00:30:00.004+06:002011-10-22T01:03:47.583+06:00A ProseFor hours he had been sitting on his chair, with his hands on his head and eyes closed. His notebook and pen lay in front of him. He had been thinking about writing a poem.A brimming ashtray ,half written and stricken sentences bore testimony to the sincerity of his effort. What could he think that could turn into a poem? He mulled over his childhood, his youth, his daily routine for some inspiration. Nothing poetic came out of it.He observed his surroundings. A dim lit room, faint smell of tobacco,books that he had read many times, a ticking clock, an old fan with a worn out bearing, nothing peculiar, nothing fascinating enough to make him pick up his pen. Perhaps his flair was in writing prose.Two Cup Teahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03449029133120828484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934188138262448687.post-44992544672389356132011-10-09T20:24:00.007+06:002011-10-22T01:08:11.202+06:00AnonymousSome feelings have no name for them<br /><br />what do you feel?<br /><br />when the cool mountain air<br />sweeps through your body and your spirit<br />declares- it is free and botherless.<br /><br />when you lie outside in the winter sun<br />and bask in the warmth of ennui<br />without a care in the world.<br /><br />when you read a line in a book<br />that enunciates a thought you had since long<br />and you stop to read it again.<br /><br />when a childhood memory emerges<br />from the depths of your being<br />and you understand a part of yourself,<br />a little better.<br /><br />when you remember a conversation<br />with an old friend<br />and a forgotten smile reaches your face<br /><br />What do you call them?<br /><br />when a thought lingers on your mind for days<br />and you ache for that moment of solitude<br />to find the right words <br />and turn it into a beautiful poem,like-<br /> "She smelled the flowers<br />and knew she was in love."Two Cup Teahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03449029133120828484noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934188138262448687.post-38157277394237638882011-08-29T01:39:00.005+06:002011-08-29T01:43:27.479+06:00once a fire
<br />There is a smolder in these white ashes
<br />somewhere, refusing to extinguish
<br />waiting to flicker
<br />one more time,
<br />in the damp breeze
<br />and fill the night
<br />with its mellow glow.
<br />Yes, there was once a fire here,
<br />whose flames rose to meet the sky.
<br /> Two Cup Teahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03449029133120828484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934188138262448687.post-76793736487445473022011-08-10T21:09:00.005+06:002011-08-10T21:15:20.916+06:00my goodbye to youone day,
<br />we would meet again,
<br />in a different bent of
<br />space and time
<br />
<br />free from
<br />the restrains of today
<br />the flaws of yesterday
<br />with only us between ourselves
<br />that day
<br />we would let our hearts
<br />do the reasoning
<br />
<br />words would convey what we mean
<br />no emotion would fumble expression
<br />no desires would be left lurking
<br />to form a dark memory
<br />
<br />but until that day,
<br />remember me,
<br />my friend
<br />
<br />this is my goodbye to you.Two Cup Teahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03449029133120828484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934188138262448687.post-12548671745033022662011-07-29T21:16:00.001+06:002011-07-29T21:19:15.330+06:00a thought to linger onanother day ended after a long evening<br />the last sun rays receded in the sky<br />leaving behind shades of darkness <br /><br />the tender night caught the falling sky<br />into her arms and sang a lullaby<br />everything slowed as<br />time adjusted to its melody<br /><br />everyone hushed for the day to sleep<br />everyone had a thought<br />to linger on tonightTwo Cup Teahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03449029133120828484noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-934188138262448687.post-85833696681418923642011-07-25T00:56:00.003+06:002012-03-20T23:51:31.043+06:00The Little White CloudTired of wandering<br />on whims of the wind<br />the little white cloud<br />stopped in the blue sky<br /><br />For many days<br />it had swirled and tumbled<br />in the vast skies,<br />and had grown weary<br />like a lone traveler<br />the last few turns<br />it cannot remember<br /><br />It hung in the sky<br />motionless<br />with all its resilience<br /><br />It wanted to be free<br />from the fetish of the wind<br />left alone in the vast expanse<br />with a compass of its own<br /><br />It wanted to soak the seas<br />smell the mountains<br />and perhaps <br />inspire a poet<br />on its way.Two Cup Teahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03449029133120828484noreply@blogger.com3