Ink Stained

Little Miss Flappy Bird, where is your calm? Is it your little stomach, Or your itchy palms. What makes you jump, and jump over again? What makes you turn, and turn over again? Little Miss Flappy Bird, Where do you come from? Is it some place far, or close some place, that is known to all as the Fidgety Town? Here this Sunday morning, you sit on the highest cable. You sit for a moment still, and then jump over again. You watch me with your one side eye, and then turn around your place. You watch me with your other side eye, and then turn over again. Is it me that you find amusing, or is it in your nature? Or is it my smile charming, that you descend from your cable stature? What in your chirping voice you tell, what from the little beak mask? Oh you want me to come with you, so sweet of you to ask. As much as I admire your joyous life, your jumping off the twigs and leaves; my life is chained in thorns, and am made to live it like t

Here in this part of the world, where sometimes relations have a value more than transactions and where also strangers sometimes become more valuable than the once closest blood relations; exist certain questions. Certain questions to which answers were never made our found. Why did the younger son of the two couldn't grow? Why couldn't he join swimming in his primary school days? Why couldn't he go to school on the scooter? Why couldn't he work as he desired? And most importantly, why did he give up on it? Why does a beating from dad, which once left you horrified for days, leaves a smile on your face, more inclined towards laughter today? Why on a Rakshabandhan, where on one hand none of your cousins sent you a Rakhi, an year old sister sent one four days prior? And why to that you wrote a lengthy letter in a language she hardly understood(targeted audience)? These are the few locks the blacksmith made without a set of keys to open them. Or he must've lost t

Hi Anuj, Well, you must live a few more years loving that name because in a few years a theory would level up from bade guru baba's ashram and snatch away that name and leave you with a very boring one. Oh by the way, I'm writing this letter to you because I think if you'll know your future, maybe you'll make amends in your favour. So first of all, forget about that helicopter and the aeroplane you've been dreaming about. You're never going to be a pilot. I know this is your dream and you tell the same to all the teachers that come for the visit but what's true is true dude. You'll come to know the reasons for yourself. ("dude" is the word you'll learn later, it means friend. There will be many more synonyms too). Second, live as much as you can in this school, because you're here only till you pass your high school. Then you'll move to a totally newer section of the city where there won't be any chicken(both eatable and wear

मैं किनारे पे खड़ा उस कश्ती को देखता हूँ, उसपे सवार उन मछुआरों को देखता हूँ, डूबते हुए सूरज की कमज़ोर किर्णो में, उस कश्ती की शांत परछाईं को देखता हूँ|  पूरा सागर शांत है, लहरें उसकी खामोश हैं, किनारे पे मेरे कदम भिगाती, ये लहरें अभी भी बेज़ुबान हैं| ये वही लहरें हैं जिनसे मैं डरता हूँ, दिन में, इनके रूप से डरता हूँ, बारिश में, इनके गुस्से से डरता हूँ, शांत महासागर, में इनके उछाल से डरता हूँ|  अभी ये खामोश हैं, पर ये खामोशी भी मुझे डराती है, पता नही क्या छुपाति ये हैं, मेरे ज़हन को हल्के से हिला जाती हैं|  कितनी ही कश्टियाँ डूबा चुकी हैं ये, कितनी ही ज़िंदगियाँ उजाड़ चुकी हैं ये, पता नही है कितनी भूख इन्हे, की अभी भी उस कश्ती पर मु फैला रही हैं ये|  कुछ तो होगी वजह, जो हैं इतनी तुनकी ये, जो भूख इनकी इतनी असीमित है, जो ताक़त इनकी इतनी अतुलनीय है|  पर उससे भी ज़्यादा है ताक़त उनकी, जो है जाते लड़ने इनसे, और है ज़्यादा हिम्मत उनकी, जो हैं जाते खेलने इनसे|  होती उनकी है जीत कभी वहाँ, तो कभी वहाँ हार भी जाते हैं वो, जिस डर से हूँ मैं खड़ा यहाँ, उस डर

The poem ( http://sudhir-swarup.blogspot.in/2014/08/torn-edges.html?m=0 )unlike on what seems from the face of it, is not only about a dog, ignorant and playful, being ultimately run over by a vehichle. It's not just that. This may be called an inappropriate approach of the poet that he couldn't bring out his point and he gets lost in the story while creating it; loosing on the rhyming edge too. But an english translation is what it deserves atleast. The translation would not be traditional line-by-line explanation (which no doubt has bored us all in our years of literature) but a very brief reading of the thought behind the dog, its paper toy, and the vehichle. Our proverbial dog is you, me, or any other youngster today. He is weak in the context of the open world but has enough strength to control his life. He may not be very ready for the going traffic, but has enough spirit to cross the roads by himself. He with all the strength he has gets lost in small games life plays

His jaw was weak, but then he had an inquisitive will, His paws were small, but they were strong enough to hold on the edges; His eyes were dirty, but they had a shimmering twinkle in them, His mother was far, but then he enjoyed playing with his toy. He jumped on the right edge and grabbed it with his small paws and his wet jaw, he went right with it, and he went left; But poor he, his paws were small, small only to hold on one edge. As he grabbed on one edge, the air blew his toy from the other one, he left first and grabbed the second, but poor he, his paws were small, small only to hold on one edge. He tried tearing it while keeping his little paws on it, he tried tearing his hard toy; But poor he, his jaw was weak, weak only to wet it not tear. As he angrily nodded with it in his mouth, he put in his full strength; But poor he, his jaw was weak, weak only to wet it not tear. As he played on, he was overlooked by many, and smiled on by few; He

This is My entry to ASUS and INTEL contest #incrediblezen. http://www.asus.com/campaign/zenfone/IN/        The last time I spent an eighteen grand(excluding the interest on the credit card), I wanted my phone to do everything. I bought it for a purpose that was to fill in the gap of a laptop,the gap of a camera, the gap of a music player. The phone pretty well stood on its money value and provided me on one hand with the utility of a good camera which kept my pondering photographer alive,and on the other with music player and chatting applications which didn't let me die of pondering.        But I always used to think what if my phone could give me more than any phone could,or maybe more than a laptop! How it would be to have a projector in the 5 inch slab which would make it a huge screen in much bigger units of length. With a projector in my hand, I would carry a pvr in my pocket. I could watch my favourite movies without spending hefty amounts in tickets. I could als

                      As my black Nokia shivered at it's place on receiving her message, my eyes went straight to that old dusty clock just to realize the longer arm had travelled yet another semicircle. With that realization I closed the browser and I closed that book giving upon my search as I realized over all realizations,I have an entrance to get through.What I was searching for was a book,a scripture or any such thing that described a "Superhero". The moment the word "Superhero" reaches our ears, funny dresses with capes as long as that of Cinderella's gown, and underwears of bright colors worn over tight pants come to our minds with super speed,super strength,sticky webs. But what really defines a superhero, that is the question of this blogpost. Behind that funny cape and behind that tight uncomfortable costume, lies the real definition. According to that if you ever wanted to be a superhero and always wanted to meet one, just turn around in the ho

            How often you lay your back on a mat on the roof, which is still warm from the day's heat; and without your phone vibrating around, glance at the moonless dark sky garnished beautifully with shining dots; some bright, some just bright enough to be visible. The mat your mother bought from the salesman at the door after heavy U.P. bargaining provides a little itching trying hard for you to get off it, but the visual plight just covers for all the itching, for all the heat.              Is this sky really that beautiful? How do I never see it anymore. I remember in the olden days, somewhere between the transition of the centuries, we used to climb up the bamboo ladder (seedhi) on the boundary-less-roof, lay there, talk, play antakshari. Yes we had a ladder and no stairs, which we used more than often because of the trademark electricity cuts from the khamba of the clumsy old Lucknow mohallas.              But we often disregard the beautiful (important) things which a

आज इतनी धूप क्यू है, हवा के साथ,ये धूल क्यू है, मुझे तो चलना सीधे हैं, मेरे खिलाफ इसका रुख क्यू है? यू ही चलते हुए इस धूप में, बिना टोपी और शूज़ मैं, मेरे साथ या मेरे खिलाफ ये लू है, आज इतनी धूप क्यू है? यू ही चलते हुए हवाओं में, क्या नज़र आया इन बंद आंखो से, मेरी ही तरह एक मुसाफिर, पर वो इतना खुश क्यू है? कपड़े हैं पुराने से, धूल में सने हुए, पर उसके चेहरे से कुछ और ही लगता है, धूल से गंदा,पर वो हंसी क्यू है? शायद कुछ पा लिया है उसने, शायद कुछ खास हो वो, या वो लौट के आ रहा है,पाके अपनी मंज़िल को, इसीलिये शायद इतना खुश वो है! उसको देखते हुए आगे निकल गया मैं, और वो मुस्कुराते हुए, हाथ हिलाते हुए, पीछे निकल गया क्यू है? कहाँ से आया था वो, कहाँ था जाना उसको, कभी नहीं जान पौन्गा, क़ी वो इतना खुश क्यू था! पर मैं चलता रहा युही, मुझे तो चलना सीधे था, हवा के साथ,ये धूल क्यू है, आज इतनी धूप क्यू है??                                         

       As the droplets of heavy rain descended from the window of the bus, I missed my camera more than ever. The yellow bright streetlight from the many minuscule lenses of small droplets of rainwater, which try hard to stick to a dirty glass, but are forced by the blows from above (the flow of rain) and the pull from below (of gravity) to not let stay; would've made a beautiful shot.        But it seems this scene is the one that can never be shot perfectly or never be shot at all. However hard you try to focus, however firm you try and hold your hands, however close, however far you keep your lens, this shot is next to impossible.        Haven't we all been on that glass once in our life, or twice or even more. However hard we tried to stick to the thing we loved the most, to the interest which was most beloved to our hearts, we had to in the end, let it go. Be it the butt of the last cigarette or be it the history lesson of medieval period; be it the home in old chowk

       I being a Marley fan always thought this to be a song made by a cool singer for a cool topic. Well, it's not cool to be offensive though to a certain womankind. But then today I read about what it really means. It says, "no woman? don't cry." in a certain Jamaican vocab of which Bob Marley was a container of, and this was written for his wife Rita Marley who underwent great austerities with him until he was not successful.       As the world celebrates the respect and love towards a a certain sect of Homo Sapiens usually characterized by long hair and a warm heart, I recall my life, pressing on the rewind button and counting those kind on my fingers. well, I certainly have very few a fingers to count that.       I remember her doing my hair, washing me, cooking for me, being my support, wiping my tears. She even fought a teacher for me. She who made a hell lot of sacrifices for me. She who even before my birth fought with her husband to send me to the best

           I've come up to the third year of graduation and consider myself a grown up man. But this status was booked up in the registers long back ago in the July of 2010 when we were all promoted to the topmost level of the ladder we'd been building for past fifteen years of schooling. We were all in the senior most class. But as Uncle Ben said, "With great power comes great responsibility"; so did come big course, big subjects, bigger equations, bigger sums, bigger diagrams and along came bigger chiding, bigger beatings on making small mistakes. One such giver of big to small was our chemistry teacher, Mrs. Dixit.            What a scary figure she was. A Humongous Deathtrap, wrapped in an Indian clean saree, which was just enough to cover her big belly. Her arms, sandwiched between a set of perfect biceps and triceps built over the years exercising on students' backs. Her voice had that Hitler quality of making one weep even on his own birthday. A figure so

               Have you ever excavated the dreams behind your conscious mind; somewhere in between your cerebellum and oblangata , where your thoughts not very primary breed; with a pondering spade? It happens most of the times when with a pencil in your hand and not a very lucrative bulk of course in front of your eyes, you throw in the first blow of the spade to find a dog. A cream coloured labrador, cuddly and obedient; not very big, not very puppy. The dream you had since the day cookie ran away.                 The other blow brings in another more vital object of which you were recently parted, and which was dearer to you than most of the pretty faces you know. A white, smooth and beautiful cuboid with a silver htc engrave on its black shiny screen. The dream of owning it back. Or maybe an MRF bat. A heavy well greased bat, in perfect shape, with a red grip just as the God himself used. Or maybe coming first in the class with the same amount of work you've been doing since