Risk

It's about not looking back twice.

Bringing the best of options to your head won't make any difference because every time you think it out, there will always be a different way out, a safer way out.

But that's not how things are meant to be.
A time comes in one's life (don't say it doesn't for you, because then you're just a wuss) when a choice has to be made:
1. Get busy living and then get busy dying.
2. Stop worrying about living and dying.
3. Live today, when dying comes, we will think about it.

Option 1
It's the fear of winding up on the streets, living in old beaten up houses and driving a two wheeler to office is the fear that envelopes us in this invisible straight-jacket of security and peace that denies us the possibility of exploring. Well, yes your wife and children will be able to buy their favorite clothes during the holiday season and you will retire as a grandfather with 2 properties to your name and be able to watch the latest soap operas on your new 42 inch television.

Option 2
You see, this whole business of life and death is bullshit, its all about karma and how your actions make up for your consequences. You sit in rooms smelling of smoke and mould and worry about the corruption of man and how he has created an infinite black hole of evil deeds from which there is no escaping. People worry about God instead and where he keeps his sack of gold to shower on his subjects. Money is no object, we are free souls brought to this Earth for one sole purpose, to spread love and happiness. We are living in a mechanical society where we are controlled by individuals and it is our job to break free from these shackles. One would love to live this theory, just because its well, simple.

Option 3
Risk. Its all about taking that leap of faith between your reality and your conviction. Not all who take the leap make it, you may lose your job, you may end up being divorced, fat, living off your parents, writing stories that no one wants to listen. But you may not. Its as simple as asking out a girl. You know you want her, you don't know what she wants but you will never know till you ask her. You may do your stupid little research and survey about what others think about the proposition, you may even give her hints and what not but until and unless you make that move, you will never ever know. And before you know it, she's gone. And then you have a drunken tale to tell about 'The one that got away'. Grow up. Take that chance and you just might have the best story to tell in your life (I'd suggest not to go for long distance).
Just ask yourself : "Whats the worst that could happen ?"

So at the end of the day, the only piece of advice is - GO FOR A RUN

Run today while you have the legs because tomorrow, you will run out of them.

A Stroll

One needs to take an exodus from the four walls of livelihood and head out towards the far reaches of the earth. Discover what fruits she has to offer, the souls one might not have touched, the sights one is left to see so that one day, on your deathbed, you don't have to lie without a story to tell your kith and kin about how you have lived life to the fullest and need to move on.

And so I head out into the vast outside with puffed up lungs and a stride in my step.
For a noble cause I head into the unknown, for a mission I take this path alone.

Six eggs and a loaf of bread and not to forget a half a dozen bananas from the local market.

The evening has set and the games at twilight have begun, the stars have taken the stances and are taking a power nap before their shining begins for the long and tedious night. The moons seems to be hidden today, probably touching up its face.

I may not have walked more than a yard when under my feet comes the rubble on the road, there's rubble everywhere. I stare up at the towering houses and wonder why man always looks to rise up high but forgets the land from where he comes. I shake my sandals to get rid off the dirt invading my space with a word or two under my breath. Staring into these houses I look at the cheap halogen lamps giving off their dull glare outside. No matter how grand their houses may be from the outside, inside they will always live as beggars, ensuring that their electricity bills never go beyond the danger mark.

Hunger taps me on the shoulder as the prospect of food from the market that may satisfy my pangs for delicacies from the netherworld. However, owing to the elastic waistline of my pyjamas, I choose to not let it defeat me and take a vow to have nothing doing with the processed food industry. I have dreamt of days when I will be able to tell tales of how I defeated the sin of guilty pleasure and maybe then I shall quote this moment of my triumph. When I went to the market to buy eggs and bread (not to forget the bananas) and said NO to the prospects of a chips packet or a chicken patty or one of those round crunchy twirls that... mmmmm.

A growl interrupted my train of thought and for a moment I thought a stray dog was after my crotch again. To my relief it was only my stomach that growled in disappointment of being faced with such abuse. On reaching the market I decided to reward myself with a chewing gum (sugar free) just so that my teeth get something to chew on. You never know, chewing just might help me with my jaw line and make it dashing enough for the ladies.

As I asked the shopkeeper to hand me the eggs, bread and bananas, the whiff of the guava reached my nose and I stared at the stack that stood before me, seated like pompous Romans, full of pride and peacock meat,like an audience waiting for the Tiger to be released at the colosseum. The shopkeeper caught me staring and with the proposition of making an extra buck, told me there was no spare cash and asked if there was anything else I wanted. The Romans looked at me for approval but I held out my thumb to give the final verdict, ye or nay. And much to the horror of the Romans (and the bewilderment of the lady buying her coconuts for her deceased rich husband's exit), I plunged my thumb downwards and said "nay".

On leaving the market, I chewed the gum with a much harder intent to make sure I didn't change my mind.
Nearing the house which looked the same as I had left it, I was approached by a dog.

I covered myself with the eggs (nothing harder than 6 eggs to save you from the worst of attacks) but the poor mutt was only hungry. Its wagging tail soon descended into an immobile vine as it understood the possibilities of its evening supper.
And back I was home again with yet another adventure under my non-existent belt.

Till the winds call me again
Or we run out of any grain
I will rest beside the fireplace
Or the gas stove near my face
But when adventure calls hark
I will venture in the dark
For a skirmish with a beast
Or to buy some white meat
But I will return to tell the tale
Of how much I saved, in the sale.

Lost gold

Under the stars, on the grass
Lies sprawled a story untold
Whose ghosts are now but free
to haunt the skies and the seas
It began with many
But ended with only one.
Who went in search for gold
In exchange, for their souls.
In the combed fields of savannah
These friends had sworn
That in the light of dawn,
They would abandon all
Carry their keys of freedom
To the netherworld of darkness
Where the key shall be lost
But all for a mere cost
To walk on clouds of dreams
As they tied up the loose seams.
It was a legend to some others
And a curse to some.
That none ever cared for
For they sowed the seeds
And ploughed their fields
Till their bones returned
To the soil and to the earth.
But ours was not a fate
left to chance, they said.
As they stepped through caves
And jumped over bridges
To leave behind their dust
Back in their cradles
The lure for that heaven
That holy grail.
Brought them to meet
The man with the hood
And the sickle estranged
Who followed them closely
To redeem the debt
That all men paid
As events unforeseen
Unfolded in front of their eyes
Witness to them were the horrors
Of man and animal alike
As friends broke ties
And swore blood on their sleeves
None could win over the other
Hence all succumbed
To each other’s wounds.
And as the last one
Lay on the grass
With seconds of life
In his grasp
He recalled his mother
As she held him with tears
While he looked up at her
And took her hand, one last time
And then he saw a glimmer
In his palm, lay the gold
That none ever had found.

A minute in darkness

I opened my eyes to the world around me. A world that had colours, shapes, sizes, feelings, loss, passion and so many elements that drove our minds and raced our hearts. But the world that stood before my eyes was of a much lesser composition. It felt simple, it felt neat, it felt new.

All that I could identify was one colour. Black. I was seated in darkness and completely unaware and hidden in the oblivion of space. As I felt the wind from the fan brush my face, I let my eyes try to identify the slightest bits of light that my eyes could fathom to. At a distance, I saw the light from the sodium lamp creep in through my window and illuminate my old and broken record player. An antique that had once played classics and given many a reason to bring in a wave of volatility and an eruption of emotions. But it stood silent today and maybe it will tomorrow as well.

I embraced the silence as I made shapes in the air with my hands and performed actions like a mime would. I could swim in this sea of nothing where all was back to square one, a blank sheet that should have been left blank. I carefully listened to the sound of air entering and leaving me. Not many of those breaths have been noticed, I might as well hear them now before I give out my last.

An ascending tune catches my attention as I listen with intent, knowing well in my world what that sound stood for. It was the call for an attack, a battle cry and I was ready to face my assailant. With a swift move with my fist, I grasped the air and immediately dragged my fingers across my palm. Hoping to feel the carcass of the vector but alas I had missed. But there was no shame in leaving a battle unfinished, maybe there was pride in letting your life finish last.

The darkness seemed to have befriended me and wanted me to stay but my time was up, it was the hour for me to go.
My minute was over. Not the best of minutes, I confess.
But who leaves the last as not the least.

Between the Frames

I am a work of art. No really, I have been painted by an artist. But there was something very peculiar about the colours he used to make me. Unlike the lifeless reflections of a mixture of the palette, the spectrum which he created to paint me had signs of a soul in them. The red on my lips had the taste of blood and the pink of my nails had the scent of a rose. Even the green colour of my eyes wept the dew drops of the leaves in the mist of the morning.

I had been created with a mere brush from a box, a brush that went back into the box after every painting, back in the world of darkness that stood in an unknown silence till the creak of a hinge and the click of a latch let the light touch its hard, coarse, hair. But these colours lived on to see the light. See it through me. And now I had been made to dwell in the worlds that millions only imagine living. Jumping from one painting to the other, discovering hidden worlds and reading untold stories. Giving a whole new meaning to the term, the term 'Interpretation of Art'. I can undo those long conversations over Caviar and Chardonnay, unveil the truths, read between the lines, the strokes, the blots and the spots, all of this even before the paint dries off that sheet of canvas.

Imagine me, asking Mona Lisa why she smiled so or having the chance to taste that Last Supper on that table that cast so many questions to the world when all they wanted was some bread and wine. Gazing at the Cosmos on that Starry Night. It was all so blissful and yet to unrealistic, as if I was still on the other side, wishing upon falling stars and falling eyelashes.

Today, I am on this port where ships with sails have been docked beside me. With their orange sails settling down on the mast, I compare the smooth touch of their sheets to the bruised blisters on the hull. I can smell the stench of fishes being hauled on to the port and the sound of gulls trying to scavenge for any left behind. Beneath me is the water splashing against the rocks and the crabs that peek outside for any leftovers.

Tomorrow, I'll embrace the silence and sit in a room with empty chairs and vacant beds. Gaze through windows with tinted green glass that show me the cloudy skies and beyond. Discover wardrobes and pick out clothes whose owners are unknown or unborn.

I have made plans for days to come as I wander from frame to frame and see beyond sunsets and travel under the seas but in my heart of hearts I do hope to find another creation such as I, who may share this eternal space and share the secrets that I may have missed out on.

For there lies a brush with its tips stained with blood lying closed in a box.

On the stool

He looked out through the window, he had been here before. Beyond the mist that engulfed the glass he saw them trickling, the drops of rain. It was an odd time for the rains in this time of the year. Maybe there was something big about to happen or maybe it was just dumb luck. His thoughts were still somewhere in the mist of the glass as the sound of music played in the back ground, Phil Collins had just said that it was another day in Paradise and he'd asked us to think twice about it. There was no thinking twice about where our protagonist was, right there in the corner on his bar stool. Clutching his 5th drink of the evening, he shifted his looks from the outer to the inner (sic). Conversations buzzed, meaningless mostly, the price of tequila, the oil in the food, the length of the sixer and the size of his package (pay package). And then from his ears he shifted focus to his eyes and from the corner came the figure of a female. A figure that had not been taken care of but you didn't need to look at her from tip to toe to tell that. Just the hidden double chin and the muscular legs (to take that much weight) was probably enough. A girl, probably on a date (or just to have a free drink on ladies night) that seemed to seek, capture and cultivate on a seat of her own. Had she not been too busy fighting with her parents for another credit card, she'd probably reached here on time, but right now she was just staring at the concrete between the bricks, hoping for some secret chair to show up. As her eyes rolled from ground zero to the ceiling, clearly she had stood in one place for too long, eyes had been lifted from their drinks and up to her. And she got her cue as well, mouthing the words from the song in the background to give the indication of showing interest in the music, she turned on her heels and went back to the waiting area. He chuckled to himself, shook his head and chugged down what was left of his drink. It was time to move on. As he tipped the waiter, his eyes fell on the girl again. She wasn't alone anymore, in one hand was the arm of her date and in the other was a Shirley Temple. A bit of the conversation reached his ears as they cursed the rain for ruining her hair and dirtying his shoes. It was a crowded place indeed but then again, every body deserved a chance. And so he offered his seat to the couple in despair (not wondering who would sit and who would stand) as he moved himself from the table to the door, put on his jacket and walked into the rain. He'd been here before, he'll be here again. Probably doing the same things, probably just stare at the rain.

Headlights

I am a driver. A driver of thoughts, a driver for my car. I let the radio flood my ears with the sounds of today and yesteryear. Staring at the phone, dreading life threatening calls from unknown people who hate what I do to them. But I must focus on the road, I must keep the wheels turning. I can't help stare at the ones outside. Second soulmates on the backseat of bikes, the thin red belt circling their jeans. And CEOs staring at the paper with blank expressions in their tinted glasses of their plastic worlds. Balding managers in second hands with their hands dangling out clutching their cigarette by the tips of their two fingers. And then on the road, where lives pass them by quickly as theirs stands still on the asphalt of the tar they step on. Well tucked shirts and buttons up to their collar. Eyes staring at their shoes, they walk on, always the opposite direction. But I must focus on the road, focus on getting there first, meet the deadline, meet the client.



Night falls, stars call, cars stall, gears shift and horns blare. Windows roll up to summon the vacuum of silence. Headlights dip in the distance, a signal for help, a signal to move out of the way. Now the backseats of bikes are empty, now the ghosts arrive and dread us of the inevitability of tomorrow. There are scavengers out on the streets with their empty hands and sorry faces. Lights illuminate the path and I stare at the faces again. There are more cigarettes to their faces, there is a visible stubble on each one. But I cant focus on the road, I am blinded by the incoming lights, I curse him to knock into a tree and lose his head. I curse the Gods for letting woman touch cars. I do. My car burns in the moonlight as the engines roar in agony,but I race to the finish line. I stagger and stutter, I indulge and I fall. Waiting for tomorrow to call me to the roads and press the clutch. I wonder how well I would be as a professional driver. A driver of thoughts, a driver for cars.