You would certainly have listened to a quote many time
“The less you expect, the more you get”
Imagine applying the quote on a person of your life.
It would be like shivering in the rain in the middle of the road thinking of an umbrella and suddenly someone arrives with a raincoat.
It would be like standing on the edge of some floor of a skyscraper, and straight away you see someone standing on the edge of the terrace of the same building
It would be like thinking of some song and suddenly someone sends it unknowingly saying “you too will like it”.
It would be like calling a yellow paper brown and you find someone calling it black.
It would be like planing to go Singapore but someone gifts you ticket to London.
Sounds a bit miraculous. Isn’t it?
In simple words having someone from whom you never expects but still seeing him at every sharp turn. Its something really special and extraordinarily pleasant.
So Its my cheers to that someone of my my life. Having that someone is like having a Range Rover.
Every fucking time I look back I find something new
Either its something more relatable or I end up seeing something less connected being converted into least.
Either I move towards the staircase leading to reality or my world of fantasies broadens up.
Either my demands turns into needs or the needs vanishes into nothing.
Either I become stoned or it just hurts me a little more.
Either I begin to love things I am scared of Or the hatred list doesn’t agree to cease.
Doesn’t matter if its a boring book or an amazing movie or my own messed up life Every single turn back turns into novelty.
Today when I woke up, as usual my day started with memorizing the faded stories of yesterday’s night and I tried hard to drift it away because it was making me nostalgic and nostalgia is something that make me feel sick so as to avoid the sickness I didn’t want to think about it but my brain didn’t follow my command so I had to look forward to it. In my dream I was reciting a poem written by “Harivansh Rai Bachan” “Jo beet gyi so bat gyi” that I originally recited in my school when I was in grade 9 that bore me hell lot of appreciation and today even after 5 years my tongue could match with each and every word of it. I took out my black dairy afterwards and wrote down the whole poem and I could connect with each and every word of it, the words that didn’t make sense years ago were now appealing to me and in spite of feeling drained I was feeling content. It made me look at the history of my liking and writing of poetry and I could connect everything from the time I started liking poetry and then how the liking converted into writing and I still remember the young age when I could not understand the poetry that well but I could still feel the depth, darkness and dedication of it. At that age I could not imagine that how after years this poetry can define my life so perfectly but I always knew that it reflects the originality of the poet. Its being a quite a long time that any poetry has embraced my blog, so the dream of mine forced me to open the window of my blog and as soon as I switched it up a notification popped up saying “Happy Anniversary” and at the moment I realized that its the anniversary of my blog. I took a long breath, closed my eyes and started to smile at the little co-incidence that made me realize that the my break from my blog is over.
Something that need to be told That you are an asshole. Played with my keyboard. made me think a lot and went away from the shore. in a borrowed Porsche. Still I loved you to the core and that you should not have known. So I could not have been placed in the lost zone under the burning smog. and the exhausting hope, Tricking my own bone whose marrow you have stole. Its you, who pushed me away from my cell phone. Silencing my vocal cord. Still I love you to the core.
As I am turning twenty, my emotions are gyrating for grave. The bewitched innocence, being disenchanted. Caught to be captured, in the game of gambling. where cards are shuffling with no king on its way but the bugs are shouting the same way. The piano is evolving its melodies. with each passing day. And my hands are getting adamant in some another way. The hunter is chasing Clouds trying be denser The roots are getting bolder Still the strokes are enhancing their number
I want to ruin everything everywhere I go.
I want to add sugar to my past and chew it hard
I want to run away from nostalgia and stop pinning myself
I want to kick your ass, and ask for the answers that have never been questioned.
I want to shout a loud and let the world know what I feel about you.
On the edge of darkness, you see yourself from a varied angle in a twisted circle, attentive at a distorted triangle, steeping in a small square, rectifying a rectangle and producing pentagon.
On the edge of darkness, you see yourself painting a wall, with the words to be recalled but no more able to crawl, loosening the rope but hardening the hold.
On the edge of darkness, you see nothing but yourself.
A day before I was making my way from my home to college in a public transport. I was totally consumed in book written by Amitav Ghosh and I didn’t realize when this aged man cam steeped ans sat next to me.
After a while when I emerged out of the battle of world war 2 I realized a mustard turban next to me is holding a thin copper wire in one hand and a plier in another and rather than noticing him I was taken back to the days of my first year at college when we were assigned to play with them and draw something productive out of it and I created something really stupid.
When I was done with memorising my nostalgic memories I saw the man making something similar to figure of a fish and keeping in his bag and shortly after repeated the same process and I had no idea of what he was doing or why he was doing so I kept I asked Mr. Ghosh to hold on for a while and started making several guesses. I could not match any of the guess with the situation.
Finally I turned my anxious face to the old man and questioned him what and why he was doing that . He replied in baritone that he was making a key. I was again questioning myself what kind of key? In no time, he opened his month again and said its a key to run sitar and then he proudly claimed “I am an artist”. I wanted to reply him by proclaiming that I too am a artist because of the fact that I study in a design college but I could not tell that old man I am also an artist because may be I could not make something productive out of that copper wire or I was engrossed in literature more than the art forms or I was nothing before than man in turban or I could think of me a artist myself.
Questioning to the man left me questioning to myself.