Once Upon A Time...

The Storyteller's Dream

noreply@blogger.com (scintilla) — Thu, 05 Apr 2012 04:30:00 +0000

The chaotic innumerous screeching visuals rushing out the window bars blurred his vision. He was looking at a cat attempting to cross a busy street, a kite trying to soar high in the sky, and a fruit seller making all efforts to lure the customers in the market.

A feeling of longing connects them all, he thought. After establishing this superior connection with the visuals his window had to offer this evening, he rested his head on his arm and stared at the fruit seller. Every evening he would look out of his room’s window, try to read the minds of people on the street, and speculate the many meanings of life. It had become his habit now to weave stories in his mind around these sights.

Storytelling had always fascinated him; he enjoyed doing this in every form – through words, images, and sounds. Shifting his gaze from the blur, he now looked at the pencil kept besides him and began to sketch in a scrapbook that his grandson had gifted to him. He moved the pencil from one point to another, trying to hold it firmly between his fingers and drew the shape of a raindrop emerging from the ground. It gave the impression of “an upsurge of rain”, which he then signified by a crooked line in the center of the page. He drew three more drops. Under the crooked line, he drew the face of a man. When he finished sketching, he gave the crooked line a cursory glance, nodded, and kept the sketch aside.

He then picked up another piece of paper and started to look around for inspiration. It seemed like the window was screaming for his attention. His neighbour was fighting with the fruit seller. The cat was now trying to reach onto the roof of his neighbour's house by climbing onto the fruit seller's bicycle. She got distracted by the noise of the kite getting entangled in the branches of a tree nearby, and ran off to a place where no one could find her. Amidst this chaos, the old man's eyes rested on the fruit seller’s bicycle. The old-fashioned bicycle was shining like an undeterred warrior that had fought its way through the brief roadside confusion.

The old man, known as an artist in his young days, reminisced about the bicycle he once owned; the bicycle that used to wake the residents of Sapna Nagar up every morning with its sweet, chiming bells. The bicycle that could seat four small kids at once and let them rejoice with the artist in selling newspapers to every household. This bicycle made him a newspaper wallah by the day, and a dream merchant by the night, taking him to places far and wide that few dared to explore. It granted him the freedom to do what he wanted to do. It was a friend, in good times and bad times.

Bicycles had been a part of his life since he was 5. His first support-based bicycle was the most memorable one, gifted by his parents. His parents knew his love for bicycles, so they always knew what to gift him on special occasions. On some days, he would travel to another city on his bicycle, and return in the evening with his parents clueless about his adventures. Being the only child made his youth more enjoyable. He enjoyed being alone and indulged in the things that kids his age weren't allowed to do.

His adventurous nature, however, caused much worry to his parents, who, on one particularly gloomy evening, thought him to have died. He had decided to take a trip to a haunted haveli 4 hours away from his house. The same morning, he had overheard the Panchayat of his village talking about it. He quickly ran home, packed a bottle of water and a torch in his bag, and left to seek a new adventure on his bicycle. He pedaled with great enthusiasm and finally reached his destination. On the haveli’s gate, there hung an old, tattered signboard saying “Do Not Entarr”. He opened the main gate that surprisingly opened without a creak. He tiptoed inside while holding on to his bag. He gulped heavily and looked around. The ground was covered with dead leaves that had fallen off the trees in the adjoining garden–trees that were now dead and resembled a witch’s hands. Without a care in the world, he ran straight and opened the door, which again opened without a single creak. It seemed that the haveli was inviting him and that there were actually people residing inside.

He peeped inside and saw a lit fireplace, a huge dining table full of all kinds of rich people’s food, and an incessantly creaking chandelier hanging atop the dining table. He took a nervous step in the house and impulsively walked to the dining table. The food looked delicious and he was hungry after this long journey. There was no one around, so he started to hog on the food. Suddenly, there was a loud booming voice that shook up the haveli and also him. He quickly put some food in his bag and turned around. A middle-aged security guard was staring angrily at him. The man asked, “Where are your manners?” He replied, “Where are your manners, Baba? Why are you lurking around in this haveli as if it is yours?”

It was not the security guard but his village Panchayat’s head, who had donned a fake security uniform, and spread rumours in the village to keep people away from his “unofficial” abode. He took some more food from the table and smirked. Casually, he then walked out of the haveli, sat on his bicycle, and headed for home, oblivious of what was waiting at his home – his parents having already killed him in their “adventurous” minds.

III

As a “dream merchant”, his adventures continued, though much smaller in measure. As a newspaper wallah, his daily routine was set until the afternoon. One girl had become a special friend of his, and every day, he would get one chocolate for her. Their mutual love for bicycles brought them together and both enjoyed each other’s company. She would often ride with him on the bicycle in the afternoons. One day, both of them decided to take their bicycles to the main road expecting it to be empty and clear of traffic. He was keeping his bicycle to the road’s side and urged the girl to do the same. However, the girl ignored him and her adventurous streak steered her in the centre of the road’s. He once again politely told her to come back to the side, but she laughed off his advice and said she won’t. He got angry and shouted, but she didn’t budge and started zigzagging. He got off his bicycle and started to walk up to her. Suddenly, he saw a truck rushing towards them. With all his strength, he took control of her bicycle’s handles and successfully moved her to a side. While he attempted to run for his life as well, he couldn’t run fast enough. He fell on the road and the truck ran over his legs, as well as his bicycle on the side. Lying still on the road, he cried in immense pain. The girl looked at his legs in horror and then at his bicycle. Both had been damaged for life.

Five years later, the dream merchant started to live alone in a small house with a window that provided impetus to his imagination. His family visited him twice a year and brought him gifts and sweets. A nurse visited him twice a day to care for him. Young kids from his colony often came to his house to hear his stories. They used to lovingly call him “Kahaani uncle”. He was popular for one more thing: a bicycle parked outside his house. He could never ride the bicycle now, but his wheelchair held more adventures for the rest of his life.

My Seventh Love

noreply@blogger.com (scintilla) — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 13:35:00 +0000

It had all started with a click.

I was just wandering on the internet on a cloudy evening. I didn’t know what was to come. I had just completed my pending work which had been staring at me since two weeks. Finally, conquered all of it!

So now after strolling around on all the social networking sites I have marked my presence at, I went to my best friend, Google and searched “blogs”. I did not want to make a blog of mine, but wanted to read some. Being an avid reader, I usually go on random links and start reading stories. I have this peculiar habit of reading various blogs every day and then awarding my favourite as the Blog of the Day. The prize being a conversation with the writer. I’ve always felt that the person behind the story is the most intriguing part of a story.

After reading some six blogs with almost mundane styles, I clicked on the seventh link. I thought to myself, this has to be my Blog of the Day; seven being my lucky number. I read the blog’s name. I read the first story on the blog. And then I read the writer’s name. I knew this was The One for the Day. I had found The One, for the day.

Amit N. His blog profile proudly said his name. I must admit I had wondered about the ‘N.’ for a long time, longer than I’d thought about the story I’d read on his blog. This writer was different. His blog had a lot of poems. I went through all of them one by one. At the end of the page, I had to take a break. I was suffocated by emotions. Each poem of his had a sense of sadness to it. Keeping my sudden gloominess aside, I clicked on the ‘About Me’ section almost twice. Student, Cancer, 21 Male. I was magnetically attracted to his e-mail id. I added him to my friends list the very next second. I didn’t know what was to come. I wasn’t even thinking.

I didn’t have to wait much for the prize ceremony. He didn’t keep me waiting. He initiated the conversation. I told him I loved his blog. He asked me why. I was taken aback. Nobody has ever questioned me this. So I smilingly wrote down the answer to his question. He didn’t reply for almost two minutes. I tried to keep myself distracted throughout. Then he wrote, “You sure? I’m somehow not convinced.” For two minutes, I didn’t move. Probably for the first time in my life, I didn’t know how to react. This writer was indeed different.

Four days had passed since our first acquaintance. Four days. Ten conversations. By now we knew each other’s telephone numbers, address, family, and friends. All we didn’t know was about each other. On the fifth day, he asked me if we could meet somewhere. I was apprehensive. I wasn’t too sure. That day I ended the chat abruptly and went offline. I wanted to avoid him. I wanted to avoid thinking about him. Half an hour later, my phone rang. It was him. I picked up the phone. The first thing he said was, “I understand. It’s ok. Take your time.” And all I could do was breathe a sigh of relief and smile.

After two days and two terse conversations, I called him up and said, “We need to meet. Tomorrow. Café. 12 pm.” He said, “I will be waiting for you.” The next day I felt the same when I’d read his blog. I was suffocated with too many feelings at one time. I was anxious, excited, highly nervous, and slightly indifferent. I wanted to close my eyes and hum a song. So I did. When I opened my eyes, my sister was staring at me. She just about managed to control her silly laugh for four seconds.

When I reached the café where we were supposed to meet 15 minutes early, I saw many filled tables. But I knew it wasn’t going to be difficult finding my winner. He was sitting besides a window, staring at an old woman sitting outside on the pavement. I went up and sat quietly. We exchanged glances and smiles. Surprisingly, he looked at me from head to toe and said, “As expected, you look great.” Gulping down the amazement, I replied, “I’m sorry. I didn’t have any expectations.” He laughed and said, “Coffee?” We spent the next two and a half hours talking about that old woman, the ill-behaved weather, our previous meetings, our blogs, and a number of things which I don’t even remember now. All I remember is the constant smile in my eyes. When I reached home, my mother and sister were watching television. I walked in the house with a transformed face. I’m sure I shocked both of them because they couldn’t concentrate on their favorite serial for the next five minutes.

For sometime I was in that trance. Ten days later, he broke it. He had to go out of town for seven days. The first day I kept thinking about him. I realized I was most intrigued by his voice. Till the evening, we kept exchanging messages. This ended when he messaged me, “I’m already missing you. Don’t know how I’ll survive for the next 6 days.” After this, he kept messaging me till midnight. I didn’t reply to any of his messages. Not because I didn’t know what to, but because he didn’t say it correctly.

After he came back, we met each other. We didn’t talk for 20 minutes. Then I looked at him with a frustrated face and said, “Say something. Or say it!” It was his turn to be shocked. He bent forward, took my hand, then left it, and said, “I really want us to be together.” I took his hand and said, “I missed you too. Don’t know how I survived those 6 days.”

It’s been seven months since our first acquaintance. I don’t have a moral of the story. I don’t have a “The End”. I’m still living in the trance. He continues to intrigue me. And I still know he is The One. I have found The One, for life.

The Protected Eyes

noreply@blogger.com (scintilla) — Mon, 22 Sep 2008 13:12:00 +0000

It was that time of the day when the sun wanted to embrace you for the rest of the day. Some of its rays were peeping through a huge boundless tree. He was sitting there. He was reading a book. His face said that he liked the book. The sounds of birds and squirrels on the huge tree and the voices of children accompanied his excursion towards the next page. He was reading a book on travelling.

Travelling fascinated him. He loved to explore new places, new people, new cultures, new perspectives, new sounds, and new visions. His dream was to go on a world tour. His mother thought that it wasn’t possible. In fact she used to always laugh on him saying, “Why do you need to travel? It’ll be of no use.” His mother loved him a lot. She was very protective of him. He loved her too. His father had died 8 years ago in a car accident. He wasn’t a very loving person. He used to keep to himself most of the time. His father seemed like a person who had no dreams. He used to be awed by his father whenever he was around. Being their only child, contrary to perceptions, he had no responsibilities. He always used to paint himself as a free bird.

He liked painting too. He loved the fact that by holding a brush in your hands and smearing it with life of any colour, one could transform an empty sheet into a world of your own. Once, he had drawn a tower alongside a river and titled it ‘The Eiffel Tower- As I See It’. His mother was astonished to see such an accurate image of a place which she and her son hadn’t visited even once. One fine day, when both of them were sitting in the balcony and chatting about their neighbors and the weather, he decided to paint her picture. She initially was reluctant, but, later agreed for it. He told her to not to pose and do whatever she feels like. After an hour, when she saw the painting, she made a disagreeing face. She told him to draw a line at a point. He asked, “What was missing?” She replied, “A smile.”

He didn’t have many friends. He had tried to build some relationships, but most of the people were irresponsive. They thought he was a strange character. The reason behind that is that he is a dreamer. He loved to create dreams for himself, for his mother, for his father and for people he didn’t know. Dreams always seemed like a mystery story to him; or like an unlocked treasure box. He thought he had the key to that box. He thought he already knew the end to that mystery, whereas he’d never conceived a beginning. 2 years ago, on his father’s birthday, he was dreaming for him. A man who could have led a perfect life, only if he wouldn’t have been so engrossed in his thoughts that night. A man who could have seen his wife’s painting his son had made. A man who could have been a part of the future his son had often dreamed for him. A man who could have helped his son make friends.

He held the leaf in his hand which had grown out of the tree’s shadow and wanted to explore the world. He made the leaf his bookmark. He heard a familiar sound coming towards him. The occupant of that familiar sound was a friend of his, who he had met 5 years ago in a park like this, who did not find him strange, and who found solace in his company. He had always thought her to be a lonely child. She greeted him and asked him what he was doing. He said “nothing, just thinking about you.” She said in a surprised tone, “about me? What were you thinking about me?” He replied, “Well I was just thinking how I have been provided shelter throughout my life…by my mother…my father…by nature…by my dreams…and by you. I haven’t seen anything in the past 10 years. I can’t. But people around me have protected me and guided me. It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” She said, “Yes, it is indeed.” And he continued reading the book. And she just stared at him, trying to seek shelter in him and his world.

The Rain Drop's Self Esteem

noreply@blogger.com (scintilla) — Wed, 18 Jun 2008 11:22:00 +0000

It was a busy street that morning. A very crowded one. Astonishingly, everybody could find some space to nestle themselves. It seemed that the world was a sea and everybody had a boat to travel in. We don't know each other personally. We see each other every other wet day. But somehow we never get the time to stop and talk. It has always been like this.

So this fateful day, I managed to halt at an unknown place. I saw others over there. Some of them were dancing. Some were singing. Some were playing. Some were talking. This place is heaven, I thought. People from our community don't even bother to look at each other. I went ahead and danced with the dancing group, but they laughed at me as I couldn't flow to their rhythm. I went and joined the singing group, but they rejected me, as I couldn't sing their sound.

I wore a sad expression. I began to walk backwards to my community. I felt low and unhappy. "Cheeeeeese", a happy face screamed. And just then, something flashed and winked at me. That happened again, and again, and again. The happy face looked happier and satisfied. So I thought, "Hey, I can't dance, I can't sing; but I can pose for the winking machine!"

I became the talk of the town, including my community. Yes, they started talking to each other. A new group thus came into place called The Wink and Pose Group. And I am the leader of that group.

Life of a Running Mind

noreply@blogger.com (scintilla) — Wed, 04 Jun 2008 12:30:00 +0000

She was running. In fact, she was heavily panting. Profuse drops of sweat ran on her neck, her back. Her legs were tired. Her mind was still active, though. She had a 22-year-old body which, fortunately, was vigilantly in touch with her mind. She was running straight. She kept in mind not to disturb or hurt any entity during her journey. She had a goal to follow the straight path, and follow the road. Sometimes she felt like changing her track and taking a turn, but her mind did not permit her since Home was close. She did not want them to know her act of disobedience. So she did what was expected of her.

Since her early years, she had been told the do's and don'ts of living. Her parents told her to do what her elder brother did. Her elder sibling did what the parents said. She did not want to be a puppet crafted with lifeless strings. So, she ran. She ran without an end. She ran without a destination. She ran without any limit. But she ran straight.

When she had traversed a long distance from home, she changed her track. She turned right. She breathed in a new air. A new air of freedom, a new air of satisfaction. She felt like an individual. The 22-year-old puppet realized the existence of a soul in her. She ran happily. She ran like she was dancing. She ran like pounding drum beats. She ran like a haunting violin being played in the sea. She ran how a dog pleads for a bone with the tongue sticking out. She ran like a child crying for love. She ran with arms open wide letting go of the strings that held her all these years.

She turned left. After a short while, she stopped. She had come far away from the genesis. She heaved a sigh of relief. With a smile, she walked towards a new beginning. And this walk defined the life she led thereafter. She lived life her way, no strings attached. And she loved the responsibility that came with living the life of an individual...the life of a running mind...

The Line

noreply@blogger.com (scintilla) — Wed, 14 May 2008 10:26:00 +0000

She was sitting in the arts room in the afternoon, with a pencil in one hand and a "what-am-I-supposed-to-do" expression in the other. She was eagerly waiting to hear her favourite sound...the school bell. The clock nearby the window was lazily ticking away, as if it had no destination to reach. As she was staring at the clock, the notorious villain, Anaahita's teacher came and scolded her. She returned her hazy gaze to the plain sheet which was resting on her desk. The sheet stared back at Anaahita.

The teacher had told the class to draw something based on the theme- "Lines". So, Anaahita drew a line on the untouched sheet. Then she drew another line. And then one more in the middle of those two lines... And then she wrote an 'A'. Then the self-confessed lover wrote her name all over the sheet. How attractive it looked, she thought to herself. The teacher came, saw and took away her sheet and told her to be more creative. Anaahita protested by reiterating that she had drew some lines which made sense. With a new plain, white and dull companion she began to think on the "lines" of the theme. She started chanting "lines, lines, lines..." in her mind to get some idea of what this topic meant. She thought of lines that separate people...lines that unite people...lines that lead to happiness...lines that lead to sadness...lines that lead to an innocent smile...lines that lead to an angry frown. Anaahita gasped. She finally knew what this theme meant.

Lines... Such an integral part of our life, yet so indiscernible. Lines that come and go like wind...lines that stay for life...lines that scar...lines that begin everything, and there are lines that bring an end.. The simplest, yet the most hated line, the Line of Control came first to Anaahita's mind. Then she thought about her grandmother's wrinkles...then her mother's scars on her hands... Anaahita stared at the clock. She'd never wandered so much in her thoughts ever before... She saw lines everywhere. So, she was still confused as to what to draw on the dull, white sheet which now was more interested in flying out of the window.

Within the last fifteen minutes of the time frame given to the class, Anaahita drew whatever she could gather from her thoughts. She thought since there cannot be a summation of "Lines", she drew the Cross of Jesus Christ. Satisfactorily, she gave her piece of art to the teacher.

A Dreaming Titli

noreply@blogger.com (scintilla) — Tue, 26 Feb 2008 09:30:00 +0000

Titli was wondering why her brother, Rahul, became so enthusiastic whenever he went out to play cricket in the evening...she was thinking what can be so special and magical about a game of a bat and a ball? Rahul had many a times tried to explain to her that cricket is his life, but the 11-year-old Titli failed to understand the importance of wood and leather in his life. So one evening, she thought of watching Rahul play. Through her half-sleepy eyes, she watched her brother batting and her neighbour bowling to him. She watched 4 balls being bowled, and nothing happening. And then suddenly, Rahul hit a six...and the crowd, which had the likes of rickshaw walas, nearby shops' owners, some employees, and some neighbours who were standing in their balconies who had nothing better to do in the evening; started shouting with joy and chanting Rahul's name loudly. Titli got scared of all the noise. She called her mother and informed her about the noise outside. Her mother started laughing and said, "Pagli Titli, your brother is playing well, which is no reason to be scared of." Her mother went back. Since Titli still couldn't understand the prodigiousness of hitting a six and breaking a neighbour's window, she went inside to watch television.

When Rahul came back in the night, all sweaty and smiling, he had a chocolate in his hand which he gave to Titli. Titli without questioning her brother's generosity and euphoria, opened the chocolate and started eating it. Rahul just smiled and went in the kitchen to inform his mother that his team had won. Titli heard that and immediately went to the kitchen. Rahul saw her, pointed towards the chocolate and said, "And that was my trophy." Rahul and his mother started laughing.

The next day, Titli was painting something for her mother, while her mother was watching television. Titli suddenly said, "Why is bhai so passionate about cricket? It's just a game..." Her mother said, "It's more than a game to him." Titli raised the paint brush, like a lawyer makes a point in the court; and said, "But I still don't understand." Her mother said, "What does a paint brush mean to you?" Titli stared at her mother and then at the paint brush and then at her mother. Titli said, "I like painting. The paint brush helps me in doing so. Infact I can become a painter..." Titli started dreaming with the paint brush resting on her face. Her mother said, "Titli, you can definitely become a painter but don't paint on your face!" Titli who was still lost in her dreams asked her mother, "Ma, is dreaming a good thing to do?" Her mother didn't reply. She stared at Titli. Titli shook her mother from her thoughts and asked the question again. Her mother said, "Well, dreaming is as important as breathing...it's important to dream about yourself, your future or your present. Happy? Now complete your painting."

After half an hour, Titli showed her mother the painting. Her mother was choked with emotions. Rahul saw the painting and stared at Titli and said, "You have made this!" Titli said, "It may not be perfectly painted...but the emotion is perfectly there in it. She's free...to fly...to dream...to breathe. She represents Life." Titli's mother and brother were speechless.

Aisa Bhi Hota Hai...!

noreply@blogger.com (scintilla) — Sat, 09 Feb 2008 10:34:00 +0000

Once Upon A Time...

[Every human is sleeping. It's 2 am. Puchee (the PC) is having a conversation with Tubie (the Tube light).]

Puchee- Are you sleeping, Tubie?

Tubie- Like a good, obedient tube light; yes I am! Go to sleep Puchee or my mom will wake up in the next room.

Puchee- Listen, Tubie...we need to talk...you are my only friend in this room. You know how Pankhi is. [Puchee does not like Pankhi (the fan) as she spreads rumours about Puchee and Tubie's relationship in the air.]

Tubie- Ok, fine what?

Puchee- I had a dream last night. A really bad dream. It really turned me off...

Tubie- What happened? Did you dream again about the mouse eating the keys? Or is it about the speakers now?

Puchee- [almost sweating] Well...I...dreamt...

Tubie- [now completely awake] What happened? You're sweating! What did you dream about?

Puchee- Forget it. Goodnight Tubie. Go to sleep. Sorry to switch you on.

Tubie- Oh come on! You always do this. Why do you create such drama? Just tell me whatever you dreamt about.

Puchee- Tubie, I said I'm sorry. Goodnight.

Tubie- [really angry] Puchee tell me your dream or else I'll wake up Pankhi and tell her what we were doing yesterday afternoon when she was sleeping...!

Puchee- [scared] You wont tell Pankhi. You can't do something like that Tubie. Tubie I trust you.

Tubie- Then tell me your dream and let me switch off peacefully.

Puchee- Ok...I dreamt about you kissing MP. [MP (Mobile Phone) is considered as Puchee's replacement. She is now liked by every human as she possesses more features than Puchee.]

Tubie- Oh... [tries hard to hide his smirk] Puchee, that was just a dream.

[Puchee is crying, which means the UPS is making noise.]

Tubie- Don't cry Puchee, that human will wake up.

[Puchee is still crying.]

Tubie- Puchee, it was just a dream. I don't even like MP. I like you. MP maybe having more services than you, but I still love you. MP is always roaming around. But you remain at one place. And I like that.

Puchee- [stops crying] How sweet. I love you too Tubie. [smiles]

Tubie- [smiles] Now go to sleep and let me dream about you. [He was actually thinking about MP.]

Puchee- [blushes] Goodnight Tubie.

And they functioned happily ever after...

She Fought With Life

noreply@blogger.com (scintilla) — Tue, 15 Jan 2008 11:33:00 +0000

She was watching up there. Nobody on the beach knew she was thinking about her mother. She had lost her when she was five years old. Her childhood had been quite painful. Her mother had died in a car accident. She loved her mother the most...but now she had learned to love her brother and father...

The girl was searching for her angel in the sky. She believes God has assigned an angel for her. And all she saw was the blueness of the deep ocean in the air. She didn't lose hope. She made up her mind to come again the next day. She got up and left for home. She didn't enjoy the journey from the beach to her home. She preferred being lonely than being with her brother and father. She wanted to like them, love them; but they didn't understand her pain...because now they had learned to erase the girl's mother from their memories...

So she had to leave the comfort of loneliness and aboard the torturous flight of slavery. She lived the life of a slave to her brother and father...her brother was allowed to go to school, but the father thought that girls are supposed to remain at homes. So all she did the whole day was curse her existence and pray to God.

One day when all of them were having dinner quietly, the father asked the girl that why does she go to the beach everyday? The girl didn't have an answer. Her brother also asked her the same. She finally said- "to breathe some moments of life...and to be free". The girl stared at the father and brother and then rested her eyes on her plate. Her father and brother started laughing. She raised her eyes and asked them- "why, is it wrong to wish to be free?" Her father said- "No, but it's wrong to stare at your father and elder brother in that manner". The brother smirked, and they continued eating. The girl just stared back at her father and brother as a retort to their sadism. The girl liked fighting with her father and brother. She liked fighting with misery...because this is what she had learned from her role model, her mother; to fight and to enjoy the fight.

The next day, at the beach, she saw a mother running after her son, and the son enjoying the run-and-chase game with her...the girl just smiled and enjoyed the run-and-chase game with sadness, and so her fight continued with Life.

THE END. . .

noreply@blogger.com (scintilla) — Sun, 21 Oct 2007 13:18:00 +0000

I was just 25 minutes away from home...had a long day at work, so wanted to accelerate my journey. And I call a 25 minute drive a journey because I strongly believe that life is a journey and secondly, because I'm quite a philosopher. So I increased the speed of the car to match up to the speed of the wind which was brushing across my face.

It was a dark and lonely night. I had my eyes on the end of the road. The end of the road...the end of a task...the end of a wish...the end of a journey...the end of the beginning...the end of nothing...the end of everything...

When I thought deeply about it, it was so true. We're always trying to reach an end. We're always trying to reach some goals. We're always focused towards The End.

When you're watching a movie, you want to know its end. If you're doing a project, you want to reach its end. If you're travelling, you want to reach to your destination. If you're reading a book, you want to reach to the last page. When you sleep in the night, you're reaching the end to Today. When you're fighting, you want to reach to your win, the end of the fight. When you're praying, you're trying to reach an end to the reason why you're praying. When you're laughing, you want to reach to the end of your sadness. When you're running in a race, you're trying to reach the finish line. When you're dancing, you want to reach to the end of the peak of your energy levels.

When you're breathing, you're trying to reach an end to every second left of your life. And we're all running towards our ends. We all want to be there first.

I turned left towards my home and I reached to the end of my journey for today.

---THE BEGINNING OF THE END---

Falling Down...Into Nowhere...

noreply@blogger.com (scintilla) — Mon, 17 Sep 2007 12:21:00 +0000

I was just admiring the sunset...it looked so serene, so beautiful. I wanted to capture it, so I took out my camera out of my bag, and clicked the scorching elegant star along with the mountain it seemed to rest upon. Since I like to click a subject from various angles, for the sake of experimentation, I, foolishly, walked up to the extreme edge of the mountain...fixed my camera in the air to secure a spectacular picture for it to stay in my memory…but I instead got a very different experience altogether…which surely has stayed in my memory longer than the “spectacular photograph” I wanted to take.

To admire the power of nature, I went a step ahead (quite literally) and fell deep down...into nowhere...

At first I felt numb. I didn't want to shout, because I did not want to hear my echoed voice. It's not like I don't like my voice, but I thought it would have been futile to shout in no-man's land for help. So, I tried to look down and see where I was falling, and all I could see was darkness. For some weird reason, I felt amazed by the situation I was in. I mean I thought it was amazing to fall into nowhere...in nature's arms...

In spite of that creepy darkness I could still see a lot. I could see a future. I could see myself as a part of a happy family. I could see myself as a very successful person. I could see myself enjoying life. Then I thought...what would my country be like? Will people still be terrorized by Osama Bin Laden? Or will television still show unrealistic, melodramatic reality shows? Will people still remain selfish? Will India still remain an under developing nation? Will our society still be infected by 'diseases'? Will cricket still remain media's favorite sport? Will the infamous politics prevalent in every system of the society ever die?

And before I could think of anything else, Death hit me...and those questions remained unanswered...

Wake Up Or Your Life Will End!

noreply@blogger.com (scintilla) — Wed, 12 Sep 2007 11:35:00 +0000

The title of this blog is not as complicated as it may seem to be. You just need to understand what 'waking up' means and what 'end of life' means. Well no, waking up doesn't mean getting up from your bed every morning. Neither does end of life mean death.

By waking up, I mean opening your eyes which are placed in the mind. See the world not just as a place where you come, do your own thing and vanish some day. The world is not a hotel, where you pay some money, get room for some period of time, stay in that four-walled place doing whatever you want to do; being completely ignorant of people outside your room and after a while leave that place as if it was never yours.

Unlock the butterflies in your eyes, and see what kind of a place you live in, what the World outside your four-walled room offers. Life is not all about eating, sleeping, drinking, watching television, and satisfying your self. At night when sleep hasn't captured you as yet, you may be thinking how good you looked today or how will you spend the money your parents just gave to you, but some people at night are left thinking how would they feed their family the next day, or when will that day come when they will be able to consume 3 meals a day, or will they still be living under the same roof tomorrow?

Stop thinking how she/he would react when you'll propose her/him. Think how that kid would be feeling after you closed the window of your car, and how you ridiculed him, how you made fun of his life, his aspirations, his dreams. Think about the daily routine of that kid who you saw yesterday sitting in a corner on the roadside, begging.

Eating a full meal in the afternoon is as important to the underprivileged and under thought-about people as to you owning the latest mobile or the latest laptop or the latest IPod is.

If you cannot wake up to this world, then you have no right to see or hear or speak or...breathe. And you'll end your life as a blank page. Blank pages are uninteresting and unwanted, like the four-walled rooms.

And this is what the title means.

Somewhere...somewhere...

noreply@blogger.com (scintilla) — Fri, 24 Aug 2007 13:46:00 +0000

Drops of water from the eyes...
Somewhere some one is crying because she feels lonely. Somewhere some one is crying because he flunked in an exam. Somewhere some one is sobbing because she's trying to conceal her pain to make it visible and audible only to the walls surrounding her. Somewhere a poor woman is howling because she is not able to procure food for her children. Somewhere some one is crying because he wants to die. Somewhere some one is depressed because she rejected him.
Somewhere some one is depressed because he didn't get the job.

Somewhere some one is not happy with his/her life and we, self-obsessed and ignorant individuals don't bother to think about anyone else except ourselves.
Is any one there to lend an ear or even a thought? Is any one humane enough to spare just a second of their lives? Is any one capable of getting out of the closed, restricted box which is called 'Me'?

A curve on the face...
Somewhere some one is laughing because his friend just cracked a very good joke. Somewhere some one is blushing because she just dreamt of her wedding with her favorite actor. Somewhere some one is smiling because she just made a roadside beggar smile. Somewhere some one is giggling because her puppy just licked her face. Somewhere some one is smirking because he just ran away from the jail. Somewhere some one is shouting happily because her favorite cricketer just hit a boundary. Somewhere a one and a half year old infant is thrilled because he is irritating his mother.

The "Moral" is that try to find happiness in which ever way you can. Enjoy the simplicities as well as complexities of life.

And last but not the least, Somewhere some one is reading this.

Why Is Everyone So Happy?

noreply@blogger.com (scintilla) — Thu, 09 Aug 2007 11:28:00 +0000

Seriously why is everyone so happy? Why are they so excited about life? When I see people around me, it feels like I'm the only soul out here who has a dull and bland life. It feels like as if I have some bad smelly 'sad' worms attached to me and thereby, people would not come near me or bother about me.

Or maybe people are being fake. They've just pasted some fake smiles onto their faces to show to the world an untrue image of theirs. They're not what they seem to be. They're trying to fool themselves. They're trying to be someone else.

Or maybe people really are happy about their lives. And I am the one who's faking it. Maybe I'm the one who's pasting fake, situational smiles onto my face time and again just to show an untrue image of mine. I really cannot figure out. Am I being fake, smiling at people just for the sake of being nice and polite? Or are people superficial?

Either I do not know how to enjoy the business of living life or........or........I guess I cannot think of an 'or'...
In fact now I think I'm just typing trash and I don't know what I'm thinking deep down. And that's sad. Terribly sad. Because I'm not able to decide whether I'm fake or the world is fake. But, I think the whole world cannot be fake; so probably the glitch is in my eyes. But then if I let myself into believing that I'm fake, I again feel sad and I again feel like raising the question- Why Is Everyone So Happy??

And thus, I reach to a never-ending conclusion.

Walking on a Lonely Road

noreply@blogger.com (scintilla) — Sat, 04 Aug 2007 12:40:00 +0000

There was a girl. There was a guy. But no, they didn't love each other. Neither did they hate each other. Neither were they related in any manner, or maybe they were..by the strings of loneliness.

On a charming rainy day, the girl was walking down a long, empty road full of houses. She was accompanied by the sounds of a couple fighting somewhere, a boy sitting in his backyard proposing to a girl on the phone, and a teenager enjoying noise in the form of loud music.
The girl was too engrossed in her own thoughts. She was reminiscing her childhood years.
After a few minutes, she started crying. And in a trice, it rained. She was relieved as no one would be able to see her distress. But soon after she realised that she was walking on a lonely road and no one except her would be able to see her distress. It poured more..but not from the sky, from the girl's eyes.

She walked and walked and walked. Just to meet more sadness, emptiness, hollowness, and more closed doors. Until she met the boy. The boy was two houses far from the girl. The boy was laughing on something. He looked happy. The girl thought he must be enjoying the rain. The boy saw the girl, he saw the tears. He saw her loneliness. He came up to her and smiled. And at that moment, the girl saw his tears.
The girl smiled too. The girl said thank you. The boy didn't say anything. He erased her tears and walked away.

Happy Times v/s Happy Times

noreply@blogger.com (scintilla) — Wed, 01 Aug 2007 15:24:00 +0000

I remember those mornings when I used to get up early, and brush my teeth in 60 seconds, bathe in 2 minutes and wrap myself into my school uniform in 5 minutes and insanely strive to get ready as fast as possible...and despite of such hard work I used to reach school late most of the times..and I was left stranded outside my school building cajoling the security guard to let me in as I was just 5/7 minutes late.
And when that cajoling part was done, I crawled into MY school. School was like a second home, and I'm glad it was like that..or else going to school is a painful experience. I had a couple of fantastic friends there who understood me, who supported me, and who liked me the way I am. Well funnily one of them doesn't even call me now..the last time we talked, she said she's busy. I wondered about how much she has changed. Then I realised that maybe she was never a close friend. She was just meant to be an acquaintance. It shook me, it hurt me, it shattered me. The simple realities of life shattered me.
Anyway, it's been half a month now since we heard each other's voices. So now I reckon that as time goes, she'll forget me(if she hasn't already!) and I also, somehow, will forget her.

The best part of my life was my last schooling years. Those times were weird. And by weird I mean they were amazing. You never wanted those moments to go. You always wanted to capture them. Because one always had in mind that this is the last time I'll be doing this or I'll be doing that.
And now when I'm in college, the first feeling I encounter is that school was entirely different. I cannot say that college is better or school was better, as my college experience is just 17 days old. But..those going to school moments, joking around with friends, burning the midnight oil during exams, doing incomplete homework after satisfactorily cursing the teachers..all these moments cannot be reproduced in any part of your life ever again.
But on the other hand I guess when I'll be leaving college, this will be the same feeling I'll be encountering at that point of time.