To Err Is To Be Human, But to Arr..

To err! To err! To err! To err is human. To err and wrong is to be human. You wronged me, and I wronged you. And we acted human. Does not change the good deeds that you did to me. Does not change the good you intend right now. And I can not hate you for long. As, I know, to err is human. I am around friends who have erred a hundred times, and a sister who has erred a thousand times. And myself, who has erred a million times. Not that my sins of erring are greater than their’s. More you know someone, faster your err count rises. I know my friends. I know my sister better, and I know myself even better. I am not pointing at the times, they erred when I wasn't around. None of us thinks of it. And the errs you did, do not cloud the space between us. Because on a subtle layer of our mind, we know, we err, and live for good.

How can we expect perfection, when people wrong themselves. That too normally, and commonly. Over and over, they wrong themselves, but some of them turn into a sack of regret. They regret and turn bitter, because they fail to forgive even their own selves. They can never forgive your erring. They love perfection, and they don’t have a space for their own happiness. Forget they will understand, that you have the nature bestowed authority to ERR, for you were created as human. Don’t break your divinity for them. ANd the rest of the people, don not even notice that they err. They are devoid of sight, and cannot hold to relations for longer. Just like they can't hold anymore space here, on my blog. Someday, when your image of perfect is cracked, might be the right time to look back into this blog. 

People make follies, and they live with it. Imagine erring on your wedding alliance, and ending up being in a bad marriage. Or taking up a wrong job, and living with it for the rest of the life. The turmoil of your daily chore is like the pains of giving birth to a demon’s child, each new day. There are follies foiling people everyday. Each day, someone is shot down by the erring process. You and I, we both know people who erred, and are living with their folly.

But it is not about them. It is about you and me, face to face. I know you wronged me, but that doesn't change the good behaviour we shook like handsome hands. Or the intentions we hold for each other, for that matter. There are times we wrong each other, we bitch, we abuse, turn our backs against each other. We wrong it all! But all the good things remain there, no?

But some people don’t just make mistakes. They live it, feel it, and paint a world with it. As a sensible mind, I can never have a place for such wrong intentions. They Arr, as pirates, unlike us, who err as humans.

Translation of a Song By Gulzar

Tujhse Naaraaz Nahiin Zindagi

Hairaan Hoon Main

O Hairaan Huun Main

Tere Masum Sawaalon Se Pareshaan Hoon Main

O Pareshaan Hoon Main

Life, you don’t upset me,
But you do astonish me.
Your blatant questions do disturb me

Here I am, all disturbed.

Jeene Ke Liye Sochaa Hi Nahi

Dard Sambhaalane Honge

Never did I believe,

That life would mean to nurture pain.

Muskuraaye To, Muskuraane Ke Karz Utarne Honge

Muskuraauun Kabhii To Lagataa Hai

Jaise Honthon Pe Karz Rakhaa Hai

Smile, I have to pay a pound of me for each smile

Smile, when smile touches my lips,

I know it’s a mortgage settled there forever

  

Sinfully Perfect

Pressure points drilling in. 
Pressure always makes me sin. 
Sinfully perfect in every way. 
Sinfully perfect in my own despair. 

drinking the flames
I Pass through the fire
Spewing a raptures inferno – 
from within. 

fire howls atop ma pale skin. 

I see it within your glistening pools 
that sinful desire – ignited, needed. 
Press it again – make me sin 
ride this fire deep within. 

Growling further into my own despair 
Diving headlong into my own hell – 
divine hands couldn’t save me now. 
Pressure always makes me sin. 

Let crimson flames roar. 
Let my sin – make you sin. 
Ride this fire deep within – await 
the rapturous inferno when I’m within. 

Sinfully perfect in every way, 
I’d not ask for it any other way. 
Pressure always makes me sin, 
and I beg you now - press it again.

Survival Of Love: My entry for the Get Published contest

A literature student, who knows more about the corners of her dusty college library than the race to high paying careers, would probably never imagine her man, coming from an MNC and talking about his trade of corns in Europe. And no man, who knows it is smart to talk about gadgets, would date a girl bound to classics. But it does happen with the narrator, who meets Kabir for the very first time at her home. She finds a known sheen of dream hidden behind a pair of spectacles. Kabir is someone who can handle a group of fake people, but does not know how to respond to simplicity. He looks several times below, when he so wants to keep looking in her eyes. Our narrator, Avi, and Kabir talk for about 10 minutes, and their conversation free them in a way. In each other, they see an unknown side of life.

Kabir had read and appreciated her poetry several times before, not knowing who she was. Now that Avi tells him about her works of poetry and stories, her simplicity draws him in, and he reveals a lot about himself. He finds something magically appealing about her. They talk about books, they talk about their own poems and part with a promise to come back with their writings. A promise made on a thin ice. Which would better be broken, but better kept by an unseen pull, a force. He, a drifter by nature, who would recluse from anyone who tried to come closer. And Avi, someone who has just trusted books so far, finds him strangely close. Avi emphasizes him to write, instead of typing his poems. She has this vague confidence, that she can judge a writer through his writing and work, combined. Her queer way of relating him closely with her books maybe?

After this unexpected meeting at her home, where he just drops in to return few novels that her sister had borrowed from her, for him to read, a series of meetings unfold. And everything happens so naturally, that they both feel like they are flowing on water.

On their second meeting, he comes with his poetry that titles, “You are not welcome”. And she comes with her poem, whose first line says, I was a dream, now a reality, soon to elapse as memory”.

Both are fearfully aware, that they live in different realms of the world, with different social circle, topics to talk about. They live their lives for different purposes, which do not recognize eachother. And even together, they see this one single world, very differently.

While on the first date she has this flighty feeling that says –“you belong somewhere else”. By the third date, she feels that she is dancing in a crystal ball, with a strong blizzard blowing around.

If you have picked up the cue from ‘blizzard’ in their crystal, you will know a lot is to happen next. A lot is to happen between them, helping them grow together, and know themselves better. A lot more than a plain love story, peek into their world, to know what happens the next.

This is my entry for the HarperCollins–IndiBlogger Get Published Contest 

 http://www.indiblogger.in/getpublished/, which is run with inputs from Yashodhara Lal and HarperCollins India.

May Worse Than One Can Imagine Fall On You

How I wish something better had 'inspired' me to write, instead of this sheer provocation. We are still sleeping on the soft, cushioned, and flabby pillows, happily shutting our eyes against all the vicious acts happening around. We give and accept statements, laud and hoot eachother’s voices. And how nicely we do it. Elated by the performance, happy to have proved our brainpower . The charade is over in a day or two. And we are back to our tables. Brooding, how to churn out chunks of money, what to buy for today, and sell out for tomorrow.

Ironically, the brainpower is limited to the chatrooms, parliament discussion, in the pages of newspaper, twitter, facebook (if not found offensive to anyone) and the media discussion grounds of course. The intellectuals are on a mental work out till they vitiate all their energy. Their ideas fail to feet on the ground. And the brainpower is exhausted, leaving no scope of acting on the brilliant ideas and suggestion, which could have made a huge difference. We are exhausted miles behind the effective decision taking.

We are here again. The black deed is done. the girl dies there, in the darkness with the echoes of loud noise from discussions. 

When will this rising din of revolt touch the future of girls? And save them from the dark shadow always lurking behind them? Can anyone in this country save the girls from a traumatic today and a scary tomorrow, that has already scarred not just a few, but whole of their sex? 

Is there even a single girl, who can stand up and announce she has not been through some sort of sexual harassment? We are a shame and a disgrace to humanity,  till we can save and rescue each girl from such fate. 

As for the case, I would like to quote my lovely friend- Bitch Slap's golden words, moulded by a heavy & hot iron “If any of the rapists are reading this, Yo Bitch Go cut your dick and stuff it in your fucking mouth!!” I believe she did what no one could do. 

Resale

Death is building up in me.

Reconstructing my too old existence.

and there is a new sun for this new structure.

Too strong for my withering bones

I will soon be compressed as sand

Under its burning hand. 

Andekha Tufaan

Namkeen paani kuch idhar bi hai baandh ki peeche tufaan ki tarha thapede marta hua. baad kabi yaha bi aati hai ehsaso ka dum ghoti hui.
aur beh jati hai imarate jo bani thi palko ki chaon mei, sapno ki narm ithose.
ye paani samundar ki tarha vishal na sahi .
kabi chkh kar dekho. ye kam kadwa bi nahi.
baad ke bad sanate ki goonj khokhla ek aks chod jati hai, sab kuch cheen kar...