Roses

Roses are red, violets are blue. But violets are violet and roses can be of any color, so why do we say that?

It seems sometimes that all the paradigms upon which this world rests are but imaginary statements made to confine our thoughts and jail our passions and cut our wings to stop us from flying high in the skies. Skies are blue but they can be red and maroon and purple in the evening at twilight, and twilight is my favorite part of the day.

When we were small I remember we were taught (not by our teachers, but by friends), how red roses meant love and yellow roses meant friendship and white roses meant peace and blue roses were so rare that “as rare a blue rose” was a simile that was taught to us in Grammar. Growing up, I realized that all of this was just a cover up. Everything surmounts to love. Whether it be black, brown, yellow, red or white, every rose symbolized only one aspect of human life. And that was love. And that was the most important thing in the world. But this was my notion in high school.

By the time I started attending college, roses meant nothing to me. They were just flowers, like the chrysanthemums and petunias and bluebells and daffodils, pretty to look at and made a good show at a nursery, but nothing more and nothing less. Obviously, love was overrated. To have a flower just for one emotion and not for the other seemed unjust. Love was injustice. Hence I should not love. My conclusions were very hand-wavy, but they seemed to fill in the void that had been existing in my life for a while now, and helped to make me happier than I was, and I thought it was important that life should be this way. I never fell in love in college again.

Alright, that was a bit of a lie. I did, but I didn’t pay much heed to it.

And somehow whenever I talk about roses, at the end of the day, it is all the same. It boils down to the same color. Black. Someone once asked me whether I named my blog such because black was my favorite color. I did not know what to say, for I did not have a favorite color until then. But I thought, maybe, this is a good thing to think about. Maybe I should have a favorite color. So I looked at all the colors in a crayon box and tried to figure out which one I liked best. I scribbled them on empty sheets and painted images. I painted the skies green and the waters pink and the houses blue and the people red. My friends laughed at it and told me what a weird person I was. When my parents saw, they said it was the prettiest drawing they had ever seen. And that made me happy, because my parents liked it and if your parents like something it means that is good and you should therefore love your parents because they love you too.

What about the color, you ask? Well yes, I did figure out my favorite color. I’ll tell you about it in my next post.

Back to Square One

So after a lot of hits and trials and errors, I have finally come up with a decision as to what all corrections to make. The first thing I did was give proper titles to the last few posts, which were otherwise only numbered and gave little meaning to the post. The next thing I did was redo a bit of my OneNote categorizing, by putting things into their correct places. Seems like I am growing a bit more OCD’ish than I was before.

Today I made a resolution to first complete whatever is left unfinished. That leaves me with three posts of ‘Decagon‘, and to complete the short story ‘Return‘. Yes, I am sure you have already forgotten about Return, but don’t worry, I forgot about it too, so it really does not matter. So yes, I need to get done with them. I also have some plans about publicizing this blog a little more than I usually do. I might put up a page, for all you know. I am inspired by Terribly Tiny Tales, and I want to do something on those lines, but not exactly write tiny tales. I will have to figure that out later. For now, let me tell you a bit about my new wishlist. I really want to check out Windows 10, though I currently do not have that many GBs left in my internet quota. I might install it next month. I also had a self-realization lately, that I need to learn a lot more in Java. I was going through a tutorial and it amazed me to see that so many basics are still unknown to me. I will need to sit down with a book, and really see what all have come up in the new compiler versions of JDK, and get myself updated.

Talking about updating, I am waiting for the L upgrade to come on my Sony Xperia Z1. Anyone knows when it will be out? I downloaded a few Google Apps (Inbox and Messenger) which have based themselves on the new Material theme and they really look clean. I am looking forward to it. It will be a nice combination, Android L on my phone and Windows 10 on my laptop. Hope they don’t dismay me.

That’s a lot of talking for now, see you soon with fresh new posts, and even better genres. Have a great day you!

Stranded – 1

They reached the city gates, hand in hand,
The guards looking at them melancholically,
He choked on his voice, but bravely enough,
Asked them to open the gates for them.
The guard’s eyes met with those of the girl,
All lachrymal, trying to rub off her tears,
Her eyes looked into his and a moment later,
Her vision buried into the sands below.

Then a screech of the gates, and a toll of the bell,
Made it known to one and all,
That the two would remain unwelcome as long,
As they drew breath from this world.
They limped out slowly, eyes forever on each other,
Neither knew what stood against them,
For the sands of time were running loose off their hands,
Nothing perennial in their lives anymore.

Save he, the girl had nowhere to go,
Or to see, or talk, or wail loudly,
But he seemed disheartened, became laconic,
Owned brevity in speech, in thoughts, and smiles.
Once she thought she was in love,
But that sentiment was only ephemeral,
And withered like leaves that fall off in autumn,
Never getting to see another spring.

Their hands had the mark of the city they came from,
And no one else would take them in,
So they walked by day and they walked by night,
Until they came by a petite inn.
As he drank his ale, she thought about him,
How their lives had changed for just one decision,
She thought of the evening when her hands was bloodied,
The blood never washing out, the oceans turning red.

She remembered how she had pleaded at first,
Explaining to her father that it wasn’t her fault,
Telling him how much she had fallen in love,
How she tried not to do so, but all in vain.
She remembered how she had been tied,
Beaten up till her skin almost came off,
She touched her bruises and almost instantly,
A tear silently fell into her wine.

Read the next part in Stranded – 2.

Does It?

Do you still wake up the same way like you did,
When you were in India?
Does the sun still share its light the same way,
Like it does in India?
Do the trees still shed leaves in autumn like they did,
When they were in India?
Do people still talk about love and hope,
Like they did in India?
Do you still exchange gifts in Id, like you did,
When you were in India?
Do they still look the same, like they did,
When they were in India?
How does it feel different then?
Pray tell me, what is different?
Does not the moon shine bright at night,
Do not the fields grow crops anymore?
Does not the rooster still crow in the morning,
And does not the smoke come out of chimneys?
What has changed then, how are you different?
Does it not pain when your loved ones leave,
Does it not hurt to give birth to a child,
Are you not loved by your neighbors anymore?
What has changed, how is it different?
Do you still get the smell of wet mud,
When it rains in India?
Do you still hear the shouts of Holi,
Do you still see the lights at Diwali,
Do you?
How is it different then, than what it was,
Pray tell me, I don’t understand.
Why do you fight now, when you didn’t fight then,
Why do you, what has changed?

*inspired from the song ‘Husna’ by Piyush Mishra*

Abyss 5

Someone walked in through the bedroom door,
Walked out through the balcony,
And jumped to the ground below.
I kept looking at him, a known silhouette,
A plethora of emotions, a croaking of a raven,
The smell of first rain, and the salt from the sea,
The early morning breeze, and the hundred known faces,
All converging into one, then diverging into many.
I looked at the mirror, he looked at me and smiled,
Then vanished as the waves that lap against the shore.
He jumped back from the ground into the balcony,
This time I jumped to reach him, to hold his hand,
He wasn’t real, the face was now mine,
We had interchanged, only if it were for true.
The smell of smoke, of petrol and the wind in my hair,
We were racing on a road travelled years ago,
He looked at me, and his bike speeded up,
In a moment he vanished.

I was back on my bed, getting down to open the door,
He visited me for some notes,
We broke our fast together but his plate was untouched.
There was another woman going up the stairs,
She waved at me, and her face changed into his.
Then there was laughter, and I was in the classroom,
Sitting behind him, and he cracked a joke.
Everyone around was laughing, laughing merrily.
We came out of the class into the open air,
The grass so green and soft, like it was alive all over again,
We smiled, and yet tears were shed.
Someone shook me and I woke up, it wasn’t that bad a dream,
After all it was only a dream.
Or so I wished.

Quietly I Weep

A winter night, in the quilt I lie,
Thinking of days gone past by,
When I could have lived happier than I was,
And in my heart, something thaws.
It melts and gives way to things underneath,
Words to be said, deeds that I did,
Tears that I shed, and secrets that I keep,
And here in my quilt, quietly I weep.
Words have no worth, deeds undone,
Songs unheard, happiness shun,
Where I stand today I have stood before,
Only then she was there, now no more,
Quietly I weep, and no one knows,
How dries in me a small black rose,
She knew I loved her, then why do I,
Stand here today, all happiness wry?
Call the birds and tell them to go,
Tell her what she did no one will know,
And people will think I was but mad,
To lose knowingly what I had,
But she and I know, and it will prick,
I loved you and I will, the clocks still tick.

We Stopped Looking for Monsters Under Our Bed When We Realized They are Within Us

To begin with, the title is not original. I read this saying somewhere, and I liked it. Next, a very Happy New Year to all my readers, though I know it is a bit early. I wish this new year bring in lots of hopes, happiness, success, and a new ambition in each of your lives. It has been a ritual for some of us to make New Year resolutions, which we definitely take care to not keep; however let me not delve deep into criticizing you, because it’s you who has made me what I am today.

We stopped looking for monsters under our bed when we realized they are within us. Well, we all know where this heads too. A world, where corruption is our biggest possession, where our children inherit it from us happily, and move on to pass it to the next generation, is where we live, is where we love. There have been people who have tried to remove portions of this corruption, but, all in vain. For there is this conscience of ours, which has got used to corruption so much, that it has stopped pricking us; it thinks the way we think, and does not stop us when we do something wrong.

I studied in my junior school that whenever we do something, whether it be wrong or right, our conscience speaks to us. Well, to be honest, it has never spoken to me till today, and it has never decided what is right or wrong. If it would have, then I would have been a holy person, devoid of badness, devoid of ill-thinking, devoid of evil. And if there is one in this world who is devoid of evil, is the one who dies now, is the one who smiles after he dies, because as he died, he gave up his evil to the world, and the world embraced it and distributed it amongst themselves, happily.

Then who is to blame for all this? Is it those small children in the school who learn it while walking on the streets? Is it those college students who do it because they had wished to do so since they were in school? Is it those people sitting in the office who consider it their profession to practise wrongdoings? Or is it that grandfather who sits in the room reading a newspaper, on one hand saying loving words to this grandchild, and on the other hand dirtying his mouth at the Parliament? To blame are the elders, the older people of this country, who consider it their asset to practise corruption. They are those who say that we should stop corruption at grass root level, and themselves manure the grass. They are those whom little children hear whilst sitting in the other room, and decide to be like them when they grow up. They are those who slap their child on hearing that he used a slang, and have nothing to say when the child says he learned it from his parents. Our “sanskriti” speaks of respecting our elders, of considering them next to God. Does God go about murdering people? Does God go about plotting against his own family? Does God go about smiling at people and stabbing them behind their backs? Does God discriminate between people of different castes, creeds, and religions? If yes, I consider all elders as my God.

The whole point of my writing this is demeaned if people do not take a correct step towards the right after reading this. Saying things is easy, committing yourself to doing something for the betterment of this world is difficult. Kill the monster who harms you tomorrow; kill the monster who is within you today, because he harms you more than any other monster can. A very happy new year to everyone, and this year, let us walk on the path of righteousness, on the path of justice, and on the path of truth, once again. I hope this year we write more, we read more, and we encourage more.

Satyameva Jayate! (Truth alone Wins)