Monday, September 13, 2010

As You Like

Defiant to the havoc of fate, I rant
Assumption of a better reason, I can’t
The rest is all for you
May thee accept, may thee assume
My insanity for my hideous fume
Fumes of sizzling thoughts over thoughts
Flames of victorious yet wrong plots
For you to assume, for you to accept
How callousness plunges me into debt
Debts of apologies, debts of endurance
The rationalities only through your lens
While I stand;
Still defiant and yet irrational

Profound to the tides, I plummet
In agreement to the sun, I set
The rest is all for you
May thee read, may thee notice
My wrong philosophy of real chalice
Chalices of my imaginary elixirs
Elixirs of the imaginary pleasures
For you to notice, for you to read
My mind owned by a feigning creed?
Read, misread my painful breaths
My actuality to a thousand deaths
While I hold on;
Still profound and yet acquiescent

Intense to my words, I speak
Running out of voice, I shriek
The rest is all for you
May thee laugh, may thee attend
My speech for a formality to pretend
My funerals of my actual messages
My adieus to my impractical adages
For you to attend, for you to laugh
The fluctuations of my apparent graph
The court jester in me, as you like
As you want the rest of me on strike
While I remain,
Still intense and yet fragile

The rest is all for you

Friday, September 3, 2010

Jumbled but better

"Fibonacci series," I thought. Yes, that's how I want my life to flow. Mistakes. Lessons. Add them up. Reach another level with a welcome board exhibiting the scintillating resultant number having greater dynamics. And that's where you give life to your resolutions, live a couple of new moments for new lessons and befriend another even greater number. And the chapters continue... Organized and augmenting. "Nice," I grinned.
"Life," I shuddered. What a swizz! How did the subtraction make its way in? It's like making it through a labyrinth, feeding yourself with experiences, good and bad, and half way through, you're either lost or end up making the same mistake again. It's like starting a game all over again because you couldn't exploit all the functions of your own weapons and you re-bounce to level 1. Disorganized and jumbled. "Retrogressive," I moaned.
"Fibonacci series," I thought again. The rule is simple. Simplicities coalesce into complexities (which you wouldn't even call complexities). Numbers, being synonymous to precision and clarity, are something I really envy. They've got no room for abstract confusions. And on and on goes the series. On and on...
"Life," I shuddered again. The rule is simple, keep moving on no matter what. And that makes the word simple lose its meaning. Memories coalesce at the back of your head, your assumptions keep resurfacing, and fear is a permanent resident by default. Clouds of uncertainties, with a flexible density, keep floating high and low wherever you go, trying to convince you to kick off your dreams of clarity. Sequences planned or thought are rarely the sequences followed. Blame it to your circumstances or blame it to your inability to conquer the unexpected arrows aiming at your way, you'll still have to go through it. And there you are: on and about-to-be-off, on and almost-off...
But, "Life," may be you're better. Inside you, is my share of misfortunes and my share of fortunes; Sweet or bitter, in the end of it all I won't regret having explored every corner of the maze the best way I could. What about all the numbers Fibonacci skips on its way? At least, life gives me a complete package.

Saturday, July 31, 2010

Talk your talk while I walk my walk

My ears twitched as they perceived that sound and I understood it was a familiar voice, though my dormant senses didn't serve the purpose, my vestigial part took the bold step out of my numbness and so the familiarity gave me a twinge of pain I had been trying to barricade myself from.
The name of the voice didn't matter but the identity did, and as the voice switched to a plural form, the belligerent murmur reproduced a rampant ruckus inside my head, and the traces of the elusive peace I'd preserved left me pleading. Pleading for peace of mind, for it was being directed to a wrong trajectory.
With disputable disbelief and unnecessary curiosity making them replay the same scene, I could say it was a pure entertainment for them.
"Gossiping", they call it and mistake it for a God-given right. I don't even bother calling it anything.
Human nature gets the better of you somehow. The "I-care" behind every "I-don't-care" can't always be imprisoned.
My twitching pinnae, my rushing adrenaline, my questioning mind were never a part of my plan, nor will they ever be. I just feel pity for the truth - PEOPLE LOVE ABUSING TRUTH.
I might want to brush-off the whispers aside and bestow onto them a few words of clarity but oh yes, everybody falls for their own version of truth in the end of the day.
"That's the girl I was talking about," another voice challenged.
My fist clenched tighter again, not in fury but in unity. As long as I am what I should be, I can keep my limbs moving. As for the voices, let the dogs bark. Who cares?

Sunday, June 27, 2010

Unnoticed Tourniquets

It wasn’t an ordinary day, indeed. As I sank into a seat somewhere below the sky, as it had always served one or any other person, I was made aware, once again, of many an omen that suggested something divine, something supernaturally natural.

Out of the hectic ghostly life where we have intentionally or unknowingly become the evils of each other, pulling each other for a damn ‘me and mine’, I happened to realize how insignificant we have considered things as. My cell phone buzzed once a sudden.
I simply didn't care.
I can produce my own leisure time just to indulge in what I enjoy doing and that was what I was doing – observing each petty detail around me which, without having an air of importance, could actually mean something. But, the hush and rush around is always there to obstruct my way. In no time, I was surrounded by grubby figures.

“Bhok lagyo, paisa dinus na,” begged all the voices over and over again.

I handed over the only coin in my pocket to one of those hands. And I smiled.
Closer came the others with a more intense look. Was I scared? I don’t know. But, there was something I didn’t fail to notice, an indefinable hope sparkling in those eyes and my ears did their job too; I could hear coins jingling in their pockets, assuring myself they weren’t desperate. It didn’t take me even a second to realize how God has set ways for everyone, children of only six or seven and look how they can convince you by their innocence! There’s a power God has fueled in those poor creatures and I like to call it divine.

I headed off from the seat and wandered along the streets, at times smiling on account of what I deduced from expressions of people passing by. Everybody else worrying about their stuff and I was worrying about why others worried about everything.

A tall, slim figured lady, with her loosely curled hair playing over her shoulders, attracted my attention as I wondered how looks conceal age. Her appearance visibly spoke for her that she was a French woman. Most of all, it was her accent that confirmed my assumption. Her eyes looked lost and her lips as if about to utter it.

“Excuse me, which road…uh…way…go…uh…leads to Tamail?” she stammered.
“On your right,” I instantly replied and consciously translated, “Thamel est sur votre droite.”

Her expression, like a vivid sparkle across her face, conveyed how delighted she was to hear somebody reply her in French.
“Merci bien” she thanked.
“Avec plaisir, madame.”
“A co-incidence, perhaps that the befuddled French lady, fortunately happened to find no one else save a person, who knows few basics of French language, to ask for direction,” I said to myself, “Or simply, God’s way of helping her.”
It was noon by then; I could feel the sun being harsher by every passing moment. I decided I should probably settle somewhere for the day instead of walking all day. Just a feet or two away, an old lady with a heavy looking rucksack was trying to get to the other side of the road and helping her was a little kid covered in dirt and torn clothes, her grand-child most probably. The kid was not a good guide, I must say. Dense wrinkles took distinct shapes round her eyes every few seconds – she was straining her eyes too hard just to know old age had taken over her, and the little lad by her side would take a step forward, motion her for the same and in no time, he would pull her back along with himself; he looked totally confused. I could judge that wasn’t going to work out, but before I could take few quick strides to help them, the lad had already decided to make the journey.

The next moment, I heard the child cry, “Aama…”

She mumbled something none, not even herself, would be able to figure out. Maybe she meant to curse her eyes, the old age. And maybe also the one who she has worshipped her entire life. But, it was just a slip of feet on one of the potholes of the road.

“A necessary accident to save them from worse,” I thought for had they taken a few steps more, they would have inevitably been crushed by the continuous number of motorbikes being roughly driven by reckless teenagers racing with one another for a damn show-off, whose speed appeared so out of limit that I couldn’t even capture the colour of the bikes.

“Another co-incidence, huh?” I smiled at the sky.

With the sun glittering as warmly as it could and hunger kicking me inside, my muscles refused to carry me any longer. So, I got in a micro to get back home. It wasn’t any of the planned systematic days of my life, yet I couldn’t help love the flow of events, all owing to the great realization of the day. Obviously, I was constantly smiling.

“Hey!” Somebody pat on my back. Looking over my shoulders, I found one of my friends back from the school days, smiling at me as if it was the greatest joys of his life, No wonder it actually was a pure joy, especially when we hardly have time to give a ring to our long time out of sight friends and family, as if nothing else counts as much as “my work, my schedule, my mood…”
Memories revived, we had a good talk, a good laugh not for so long though. Because we had our own destinations. He offered to pay my fare, I insisted I would. But, he was fast.
“Shit!” I sighed, as my hands inside my empty pocket searched in vain. By that time, he had already gotten off; however I managed to wave a normal good-bye.
“Gosh! I’ve been roaming around without a damn coin!”
“Thank God, he paid my fare too.”
“Oh, yeah, THANK GOD! That was even more angelic.”
One more reason to smile. Never had I been so content about everything.
“Took a day off for good,” I said to myself, “But, the classes today?” An evanescent worry passed across my head.
“Perhaps you’ve made your not-so divine looking but, actually divine arrangements for that too, haven’t you?”
No one replied but, I could sense Him winking His eyes.

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Of Being Crazy, of Being Real

There are times in life when you see yourself as your own enemy, when the light of the day seems vague compared to the clarity in your mind about your apparent abnormalities, when you, with a dart of shame, realize you could do more than just being a crazy thinker. But the gruff analysis of oneself only makes you crazier.
Yes, I keep thinking about a simple joke pals crack and create a tragic tale out of the laughter, I keep twisting the questions and derive a suspicious tone out of it, I keep replaying the past scenes and amalgamate the dialogues to construct a dialogue for me to mutter in the next conversation, and I keep lurching away from the crowd and yet blame the crowd itself. So I dub myself crazy. I painfully wriggle in the whirlwind of realizations and resolve to be, well, to act, practical; to brush off my abnormalities.
So there are more lulls than interactions in every conversation just because I don't want myself to think it my way. Crazier. Then I over react, I write depressive lines, I declare I hate myself. Even more crazier. Come on, what happened to that self-evaluation-is-a-refining-process thing? I can't see my orchestra composing better, melodious tunes.
May be my way of thinking isn't much of optimism and simplicity, may be it's way past being practical, may be it wreaks many moments of my life and may be that's wrong but, broaden my understanding, it does, help me reach to better conclusions it does and despite creating endless questions and fuzzy answers, inspire me to a greener pasture of interpretation it does. Heaps of perplexities and depressions it does pile, but I can't deny that there's LIFE in it, there's way of understanding LIFE in it.
"People die of thinking as they die of any other disease," one my favorite sayings I've heard so far, keeps screaming out itself in my mind and my response, supposed to be supporting how its trying to decatalyse my thinking, antagonistically reproduces another set of thoughts and there, I'm one step closer to my death! I smile at the hilarious approach to such a solemn adage and walk in circles of my convoluted thoughts again.
Here again, I'm panting because I've made my thoughts run so hard. Crazy or not, 'guess I can't quit it. And most importantly, now I know - I think, in fact, I over-think because I like thinking; because it's being me.

Tuesday, June 22, 2010


It was just a plastic bag, a discarded and dumped plastic bag; a poor kid in the street was playing with. He was trying to make it fly and whether or not it agreed to fly, the immanent joy sparkling in his eyes was as remarkable as the sun. The spectacle was, however, not a mere smile inducer but a deep penetrator, a messenger saying how happiness is actually like a free bird unlike how it is generally made complicated.

There are vivid pictures in my mind of me playing with toys, as a kid. Back then, every new shining toy brought an excitement of its own but only an ephemeral one, with an underlying promise to be replaced by a new desperation. Whims always took a greater height in no time, and so do they now, for almost everyone I assume. The glittery toy is always on a next level and hence, satisfactions remain to be a distant dream.

What intrigues me is of all great people in the world, how come a boy of six or seven know the true secrets of life? A bottle of chardonnay or a trip to Las Vegas doesn't necessarily assure you the happiness you yearn for. The key to happiness is not how much you spend on it but how much of yourself you can naturally indulge in it.

What I like better is that the little lad didn't take the plastic bag back home but let it rest on a piece of land it fell upon after he'd derived as many smiles as he'd wanted from it. That inspires a new optimist in me. In my own battles of life, many I've conquered and many times I've been conquered. But, now I know it doesn't really matter how much credits you have in store to show to the world what you've achieved; true riches lie in the feelings of joy, spirits of hope and will you have flourished inside you against the compulsions to get depressed over failures and deficiencies.

So no more am I going to elongate my wish-to-have list but make the most of my what-I-have list. I am going to be happy!

Sunday, June 13, 2010


There I was, soaked in the mayhem of my conflicting thoughts, strolling down the street and rummaging a meaningful point to stop at.

Kathmandu, as always, looked busy, and all I wanted at the moment was a magical wand that could make them shut up – the gossiping girls behind me, the babbling going-to-be-politicians ahead of me, the unnecessarily loud announcements of a lucky draw from a corner and the competitive horns so abundantly spread in air. The loudest of them all was, of course, inside my own little box in my head. And I could tell it wasn’t going to be spellbound by any magic or any distractions; because it had so stubbornly occupied my core I could bet demagnetizing my voices inside was as tough as bottling up feelings.

No, it hadn’t been a fair day. Not at all. Sleepless nights for the last few weeks and all day long all I get is some freaky response? A mere glimpse and an “ok”? I’d been giving all of me for that stupid problem, had been trying to be as much helpful as I could. As if it was some kind of do-or-die thing. And I’d counted on it to pay back, counted on people to be a little thoughtful before jumping into any conclusion. Some part of me said that it didn’t actually matter, because in the end of the day it is no one else but you who has to evaluate yourself and since you know what you’ve gone through, things will end up fairly. The next me grumbled that things are never as simple as that. You just can’t color things with your favorite color even if you own them. Your choices, you evaluations, your verdict apply only to yourself. And then there’s this unavoidable aspect of reality: whether you agree or not, the rest of the world judges you too. And why shouldn’t it matter when their judgments can bring changes to your life? A simultaneous and apparently diplomatic voice was crying to be heard too. It moaned what all of that internal chaos was for when it was all over, so over. Well, because it bugged me to be feeling like I was chanting some soliloquy with no one to answer my endless questions, no one to reason my unremitting complaints. The voices wouldn’t cease to go against one another and I doubted I had a single set of ears.

They said it was no big deal. I had handled an issue. I was done with my part of the job. And if people weren’t free enough to reach the depths of your true involvement, you still hadn’t lost anything. No big deal. But what about all the discouragement it showered on me? What about the reluctance to start a new course, just because there was always something called “luck” with a gravity of its own? What about the things I missed because I was so engrossed with that one thing? I had neglected all the other planets and stars to focus on the sun and the sun had left without a warning. How could I reassemble my solar system?

I sound so melodramatic. That’s what they say. They complain why I am so complaining. Hey, hey, everybody’s appreciation is not what I’m fighting for. But a little more consideration isn’t much of a big expectation, is it?

And here I am, still thinking about it. Call it ‘an over-thinking-disorder’, a phrase termed by few of my pals. All of those few just chuckled at my words, with an expression I haven’t succeeded translating yet. It was something like a mockery, a blurry sympathy, disagreement or a mixture of all of them.

So, of all people, counselors and psychiatrists, I choose no one but take to writing it in a scrap of paper. And because it doesn’t speak back or produce any expression I wouldn’t want to face, I give it no fragmented or edited version but a complete truth. It gives me back silence and my personal assumption that its silence speaks for its willing acceptance, at least, makes me smile at the end of the day – the plain reason why I write. Exactly why I write. And I know, unlike all those minds blinded by suspicious surveillance, it will again accept that the set of words ‘Why I write’ is not a plagiarism but a coincidence, won’t you?

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

My favourite mistake

There I am, as always, trying to get over what I can't get over- my tendency of being carried away to an impractical extent. And I don't see it as any ordinary weakness. The tides rise on and off, but I can't parallel how it gets off; I'm left behind with unimaginable impacts. I envy the resilience people have. I envy how such phases are evanescent for them while my convalescence seems like a forever phenomenon. Enough of thinking over and over again. Go there, do that, I command. So I step up believing I can be strong and as jolly as the world seems to be. And there, I get to hear a couple of words and I'm already away. Despite my instincts of how true one is or isn't, giving in happens to be my favorite mistake. And before my dream takes me to another interconnected world, I wet my pillow because its not the first time I've been through this and unfortunaltely, not the last time, no matter how badly I want to make it the last time.
But is it really that bad?
Repeating mistakes is like being who you are; surrendering to some inseparable flaws in you comes so naturally that resolutions hardly work.
Even I thought I would and I could get over it - my apparently little world of shortcomings which actually, without my conscious knowledge, is widening its territory exponentially. A personal deceit, I like to call it, because it's within you - the system that's letting your weaknesses out and yet so deceivingly out of your reign. And because you resolve to get rid of it after every ordeal it entangles you in but another brand new day starts and that smug part of you ends up being your own enemy again. The worst of it all is that you cannot inoculate yourself from the sharp pique of your self-inflicted injury.
Self against self.
It seems like nothing can hurt more. But, isn't it equally true that nothing can be more natural?
I mean it's a different story that I get hurt, I cry, I hate me for being so weak but it's not the end of the world. I make mistakes, it's natural. I try getting over them,it's effort and when I fail, it's natural again. Trying again has to be natural too. And picking up a favorite mistake, it's interesting. So yeah, my frequency of my favorite mistake may be awful but it's never in vain. A tleast I get to think, I get to talk to myself, get to realize without my natural mistakes, I can't be me.

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

Just Another day

Need no alarm to wake me up. A programmed waking up. Good morning, I don't remember to wish wish myself. I don't see how that's gonna change my day. The aftermaths of my heavy thoughts of yesterday still ringing in my head. Life now n life ahead, thats all I can think about. Life then well I always carry it in my head. A new day with some old thoughts, here I go.
Every column in newspaper reads almost the same. Political freaks taking over the headlines. Like I care. But somehow, today I do. The dangers of red have come into action and they call it "peaceful" To Hell with your peace, if peace means absence of weapons we're talking about completely different things. My ephemeral agitation over the political crisis makes me babble against every move they take. Done with newspaper, done with babbling. I cant see how can I help it right now. So back to my own life with my own pieces of news.
I want it to be a fruitful day unlike yesterday, I keep saying to myself. And picture this, seated on my study table I have my face rested on my palms staring at the walls. But they won't produce me fruits,no. I know it as well as you do. But then again, knowing and doing are completely different things. Enough with staring and stumbling upon stupid thoughts. Chemistry, it is, Chemistry for now. Yeah. Good job, whichever side of me it is that took to taking authority over the situation. I love conversions. So I take the chemistry journey read and reread the same lines out of concentration. Chemistry, chemistry, chemistry.
In the end of the day, my exercise book is not all about chemistry though. I turn over the pages to find a poem in between reactions, a few stupid lines I'd meant to txt a friend, squeezed in the edge of a page, a few contemptuous expressions against myself every here and there.
My thoughts over my actual priorities again. Not a fruitful day, I declare. Tomorrow, as I wake up I'll have my analysis over my disgruntlements diluted. A new day with not new thoughts but new commitments, I want it to be,I promise myself. But I can see my stubborn thinking taking distorted shapes in what you call a dream, with promises of aftermaths again. Frustrated, I forget to wish myself Good night again.