Stories that involve no protagonist ,simply because it revolves around the life of thousands enacting the life of a refugee,a patriot and a windhorse in the facade of the inner heart-wrenching combat between one's spiritual Dharma and conscience -validated karma.
Of lost spring,Of childhood purloined. These two masterpieces take us back to the present of thousands of nascent buds being withered every time the old clock strikes the odd hours of destiny .One stuck in the quagmire of war while the other of a never-ending patriarch,engulfed by the guilt of things done and undone, toppled,crushed,exhausted by the rules of life.The cacophony of harsh reality intertwined into a rhapsody .
A month back when Social distancing was not a word but two different words inscribed pages apart in the dictionary but then there it was ,they got clingy enough making everybody around them unclingy .The melange is no more another word you search the meaning of but a way of life we will survive for.
In the picture:looking at the news of how every 1 out of 3 people are getting infected by the virus.
2018-First bench of the row,the old dusty notebook and a ₹5 ball pen,the professor was lecturing us upon a thing which rendered as some complicated syllables that were merged together somehow and jumbled up in my nonchalant cerebellum into a rather rhetorical yet curiosity bugging question ,that was- Did I grow up?
Digging up the plethora of pros and cons ,what bugged me the most was excruciatingly painful because it somehow broke me down ,it broke that little girls dream into shardes.The best part of being a kid is whatsoever be the situation you have the liberty of calming yourself down by giving assurances of having a better tomorrow because that tomorrow you are going to be Hannah Montana ,or may be an astronaut or why not the president. Harsh but true our heart lied to our brain.The worst part of growing up is your dreams dwindles and coalesces into a tiny hypothetical utopian world you once wanted for yourself. The realisation of it being never true hounds us. We adapt to situations over years ,places and generations still the brain always fails to lie to the heart,and we long for those gone days . Back bench of the row,labelled and neatly covered notebooks,and a birthday gifted Parker pen,and the teacher asked us about our dream.If it was today I will write- Me in 2008
Recently I came up across a line "some people write to be in a pedestal higher than the other mortals"
This line should have been read and forgotten like the other 200 words of that article I read last year but it paced through every artery and back to every vein till it clotted my brain. The only solution I resorted to was quit writing. Over these months the only thing I realised was that I can survive without writing . But again in a country where an art like dance is hailed with the anagram of "ABCD-any body can dance" why is writing something goes through a judgemental outlook? I can go on without dancing,without writing but I chose not to because I would prefer being the author of my life than to succumb to the writings of someone else. #trouble_wt#mirakee
The most fond memory of my childhood were those anecdotes of my grandparent's childhood. The way they portrayed their day to day life never let go off the grip of my attention and I would listen to their stories over and over again instead of the vehement opposition of my parents who would ask me to go and sleep. Somehow every person of that generation had a bizarre inbuilt capability of reciting their poems ,the poems of their life. I am thankful to the inventions of video cameras,android phones but they all have somehow robbed us of our creativity to recreate our past in a way we could have portrayed it to our grandchildren.Our future generation will probably not listen to our stories in awe merely because every event will have an evidence of how it actually did occur.History would not have been this interesting if there was no scope of creativity in it.It is the authors who made the day to day lives of a shepherd worth being portrayed in a novel. Having been a hosteler past 3 years we often discuss events we don't have a video of quite frequently may be because everytime we are able to add a whole new dimension to it .Living a moment once is so much more than living the same moment virtually over and over again. One cannot sabotage your rendition of events ,no matter how flawed it was,no matter how perfect it was not .You can always remember those events with a wide smile . I remember when I was enrolled to a new school my parents said i did not cry at all unlike in the previous school.This was their memory of my first day in my new school where they were proud of their strong girl.Mine was how I somehow resisted that puddle of tears till my father bid goodbye and then two fat drops rolled down my cheeks.If this whole situation was videographed this story would have had an unbiased ending but now it has two beautiful diverging yet true endings . Well this might be the reason why I still long for those anecdotes of my grandparents ,they are no less than a story read over and over again anew with twist and mirth.
Have you ever been judged ?criticised?mocked? It hurts.doesn't it? Well when someone mocks your childhood because you probably didnot know Beatles back then but instead grooved in"'keh do na keh do na you are my soniya".It hurts even more when they try to force upon you their likes giving them the pseudo tag of being cool.Well next time anyone does that to you and you feel miserable tell yourself that you are cool because you are you and are not living life in disguise of a wannabe self proclaimed cool being.Be the oldschool ,there is no shame in being that for that brings you real happiness.Binge watch your favorite shahrukh Khan movies,feel free to tell people you don't know what zeppelin is,don't crinch before stating that you have not watched GOT. Be the real you . #mirakee#writersnetwork #readwriteunite
As a child I spent a lot of time pondering about what it will be like growing up,bidding farewell to your family,town,old friends,alma matter and entering a new college ,a new place ,a new life .I often imagined a lot less about studies but more about hangouts ,independent life .Little did I know that this ain't a cake walk. You miss a lot of stuffs and of all that what you miss the most is your home that lazy Sunday mornings ,the cup of bournvita filled up to the brim,the honking of pa's scooter,your tuition classes ,the family dinner . This poem is about how no matter wherever you are a place will never be as comfy as your home. A bird will always choose the nest rather than a manmade tree house.