Ink Stained

    While standing on that airy bridge on the Yamuna bank last evening, I kept on watching the fast moving traffic, their shining headlights, their honking, their zooming noises. Just when I turned to the other side, to rest my eyes from the glitter of the headlights, I saw a road silent, dark, clean(i don't know how) but it was alone. No one took it. What, had no one to go there? Had no one to take the road not taken by many? Had no one any interest, had no one any adventurous desire to explore, to go get lost and then found? Had no one had any time to???       Our lives have very much become like the roads in the evening. Going with the flow, much like the traffic towards Laxmi nagar, the traffic coming from Akshardham, the rush, the counting of minutes of each hour and the seconds of each minute. We're so busy getting ahead of one another, on the same road, honking for sides, silently and violently overtaking. The only thing different between us is the vehicle we are travel

     The issues we talk of in cities in colleges, of love and of hate, of money and of fame, are these of any importance when at the same time more vital issues, more delicate ones, like death due to poverty remain hardly untouched. Today we saw a documentary, "Nero's guests", a film on P. Sainath's, rural affairs editor of The Hindu, coverage of the farmer suicides in Vidharba and the likes. We sat there, hardly blinking, hardly smiling, reacting to each subtitle, reacting to each farmer case, reacting to ignorance of media. The silence is heard after the show, I don't think I ever heard that before.          The government didn't turn their heads when farmers in large thousands turned their sweating lives into bloody deaths. When the toll,earlier slow accelerated from one or two a month to two or three a day. Farmers, who had a family to sustain and loved doing that, who gathered funds to educate their sons, who gathered funds to marry their daughters, to fe

      I wrote this poem long back in year 2009. What's the fuzz about '09 you ask? Well that was the year when certain big changes occurred in our lives. We moved in to a new house, a house which was beautifully made but in quiet silent a place. I had to change the school. The school which I always thought to be my family, I was not a member anymore. Friends became distant, new school had aliens in it. And Dada moved to college.       With Dada moving, I was left all alone, in a big house with not many familiar faces around, in a school with adamant mates. I don't know whether it was the loneliness I experienced that one night or was missing him, I picked up the pen and started rhyming on a piece of a torn paper. Earlier, I never came to this pondering side of mine. Earlier whenever I experienced these fits of loneliness, I had this one companion with me, but now he too left me to rot alone.        Now the cricket matches we played in the evenings were suspended permanent

Will those days ever come back? When love I didn't lack. Dada and I-fought over little things, Over food, toys and his belongings. That jumping over beds, cushion-fights, And late horror movie nights. His worst of worst singing, And my always falsely complementing. The same school and the same teachers, Who sometimes made me face tortures. As I was not as good as him in studies, And we also had common buddies. And now that the times r changing, So are our hearts and our feelings. He is completely settled in DU, So will someday, I and you. But this is not the end, There will be many curves and bends. As the whole life and future awaits, to open new opportunities and gates. I never had a shortage of friends, but one like him was friend of friends. We  will never become children again, To jump and play in rain. No, those days will never come back, When love I didn't lack.                                                                    

         In the past week I've been keeping so busy that I totally forgot to give my mind a thought on a thought and time to my blog. And when today something struck, I planned to sqeeze my schedule a little and scribble a little here .         Today, definitions have evolved. Being selfish is no more a vice, being arrogant is the new pride and so on. One such alteration to the classic Oxford book is the modification to the word spelled "modern" by the one spelled "western". I mean there are people in today's time who call themselves modern just on the context of a few characteristics like eating fast food, following latest fashion trends, buying rich brands of clothes and hi-ing to elders or the smart shrinking of the texts. The clothing today is supposed to be an indicator of ideologies.           But people need to learn that mind and clothes are two very very different areas of the body. When we open our minds and accept the freedom from the right atti

       Going by the situations and the way I was brought up, I always thought the society is equal for boys and girls. The school, where boys and girls were equal, the society, where all kids played together, the movie stars, men are as great as women. But as my racehorse-view widened, I could see the world with colors different than what was shown. The equality is still only on paper.       Just yesterday I was attending this all college meeting for gender sensitization with a female friend of mine, who opened up the world to me so badly that I had to stop her midway. Women however free they feel, there is a patriarchal society driven constrain on her. Right from the way she dresses to the way she walks; from the way she talks to even the way she smiles; from the time she leaves home to the time she's bound to reach home; from the amount she's allowed to drink to the amount she's bound to open up; from the age she needs to start realizing to the age she's allowed to

                  When I was at my place in Lucknow, I remember my mother running after my life with a glass full of chocolate-flavored-bournvita-powered milk in the early hours. A fresh hot chapati with butter and milk was compulsory with it too. and while I finished it with great difficulty, she was standing with my heavy lunchbox of 5 chapattis and and a disproportionate amount of sabzi in it. When i came back, an orange flavored cold glucose water awaited me. while i took bath, she was again ready with the lunch just cooked which i ate in front of the television. After an hour's sleep, i had a snacks meal with tea and some other thing. and of course, the dinner.                   I ate so many a times and at so many abrupt hours that I couldn't even name those meals if I am asked to. But all that is history I guess. I would never be able to get my mother chase me with that bournvita milk. The only things I get now is a cup of coffee, a cup of tea, a bad-stinking-oily chol