i never believed in ghosts.but of course i literally drank all the ghost stories if i ever came accross them. i never completely agreed with their existence (or denied it this happened to me.

all of us had new rooms in second year .airy and better lighted than those in the rickety block of first year.
and on the very firat night my roomie deserted me.

due to reasons i had to sleep alone.i dun just want to waste your precious time making you read all that stuff here,all i can disclose is that we din't have a fight.

at around say one o'clock i locked my door,and switched on the allout(mosquito repellant with extra campus is endemic to malaria to add our pile of worries) and dissolved into many a dreams in my bed.i remember i had the fans moving at full speed and all...

at six around mum gave her usual wake up call,but i slept well beyond that as it was a far as i remember my all out was burning bright then.

and you know what!!!!
next when i opend my holy eyes,my allout was switched off,the fans were switched off!!!
temme could that be a ghost??

like a cart wheel--

muscles shrink
skin wrinkles

no more
no more
the shackles
the bloody
four walled

the cheeks
wet with
with tears
the heart
drenched in

but sweat
like silver
shines on
and adorns
those no-more
meek shoulders

cries unheared
robbed and raped

no more
no more
she stands
the sun
and skin
turns tawny

out on
the streets
she sells
her body
her flesh
her love and labour

a voice
that speaks
shouts for
not an enigma
not a charisma

but a woman
who runs the world
like a cart wheel

i donot rememeber which one....but on some internatioanl women's day...i saw some program on the tv...which inspired this poem....


i hate being nostalgic.

it's all about those sultry sweaty afternoons meandering into my mind long after they are gone .when i am helpless with the thought that i can never get back my past.i can never go back.

nostalgia is also about rainy ,gloomy evenings.the joy of the rain washing the virgin earth.and the intoxication of the smell that so emanates.

nostalgia is about peeping from some corner of my window to get a glimpse of the full moon.its about star less nights.its about dreams that never met reality.

nostalgia is about the wind blowing through my hair.its about the endless greens that surrounded me,long ago.about the tranquil waters of the pond nearby.

about the cuckoo calling from the coconut and my whim to rush out and meet him.

nostalgia is about all that is lost,it's about pain and tears that have dried's about my past.

but i will recall something i had read long ago

the past is not dead
the past is not even the past...

Black and White

I was thinking about colours.And then thought that i would rather have it in my blog.Colours add to the charm of the things .Colours generate a hunger to live.Colours have more significance in our lives than we know.We owe so much to them.So much.

I have not seen much of colourless things.So they can trap me better.

Black and white!I dont think they are colours.And many of you people will agree.This piece is dedicated to these two intriguing characters that have arrested my mind since last night -- Black and White.

Well not many of us have seen the black and white television.I should have been born a little earlier or may be a lot idea absolutely!!!So I never cared to visualise life without colour.Never had the time to...nor the interest.

Last night I went to the market(and came back all drenched) to repair my cycle.When the job was being done i strolled into a bookstall and started browsing through all the magazines,as if i could buy them all.I asked for India Today and Outlook.Din't feel like giving up forty bucks(20 for each).And then saw something new.

A magazine.I think I have forgotten what it was called(bless my memory!!!).I din't even wink before shelling out 50 bucks just for a caption that adorned its cover --"let me be me".I got it home.

And the first thing I did today moring after I opened my eyes was see all that it had.Something about the childhood of an indian girl--"little women-Dayanita Singh's photographss flash a light on Indian girlhood. " All of them were black and white.Not a tinge of colour anywhwere.And along with that the black letters gave me a feeling--I was sinking into them.

Thay had Indian girls,of course.But along with them were people indian girls cannot do without--other women ...mothers,grannies.

The dearth of colour made me think more and more.It directed my attention to the soul of what i was looking at.Now that I was just not looking at,I had begun observing.

I fell for the expressions that the eyes of the characters in withheld.Some said they were utterly satisfied with whatever.Some said they were exalted with their lives as a whole and desperately wanted to show it on their faces.Many had supressed feelings of anguish,pain,fear.Neatly supressed in some corner of those catchy eyes.

Many had raised eyebrows.All of them had questions.Innumerable!

Well, as I try to wind up, the name of the magazine comes back to me marie clarie.

not original 2

No,I can’t let you go,not like this,with tear filled eyes,like someone you are not.You know,you mean my life to me and more .Don’t go and leaving me behind to cry alone ,don’t go.For the sake of my undying love ,don’t go;come back,please,come back.
But what if you don’t come back?
I shall never let you die in my heart.I will cherish you like nothing less than a part of my life, remember you as a phase I never wanted to overcome, a time I never wanted to leave behind,as a person I always loved and wanted to be loved by.You were not a passing fancy,or a fad.You were an aspect of my thoughts, which is sans boundaries .And my feelings for you ,are a reflection of what I am.A bundle of joy ,I am at loss of words,and can’t say more…..


Windows ,far away, lighted ones in amongst darkness,make me conspire against my peace of mind,and tranquility of the moment,give birth to all sorts of uncalled for, unhealthy,disastrous imagination,that drives many a men crazy. The glimpse of light oozing out of them compels me to reflect on the lives that breathe from within them and carries me away for a few minutes from my endless brooding,lift me up into my world.Ah! the wonder of distant windows! I wish I were inside one of them,far away from myself.And the pale lifeless light could swallow me in her arms,and I immerse in a unturbulent slumber,to be awoken only by love,and to be free from all cages,have all chains untied.And I accompanied by my whims can go along to breathe the air I have wanted to all my life so far…


It’s a bit too late for a review, I know, but still I can’t stop myself from writing a one.I cannot find out whyt a film like “haasil” flopped.In a previous entry about ‘fanaa-destroyed in love’
I had given a hint regarding my inablility to like a single movie.I liked this one but-‘haasil’; after maye be ‘rang de basanti’.(To the dissapointment of many of you people ,I found even ‘rdb’ a little boring-but that’s another story).So my recent favourite was showed on dd national last Friday night.It stars jimmy shergil and a gal of unknown origin(‘coz I just remembered her face,her name had been wiped out of my memory,until a friend reminded me that she is da ‘asoka’ gal –hrishita bhatt.And there is Asutosh Rana(is killed before the interval) and of course ,Irfan Khan.All that escapes my lips when I think about him is –“woow!!!”

Why I liked the film? Well there are various reasons:
# The modest setting of the film,in some obscure small town(probably bihari or uttar pradeshi) with some university resembling a palace or something of that kind whicht invokes the whim to sink back into ages.I would have really loved it to be there.I don’t happen to like the Karan Johar kinda stuff these days.
#The man who plays jimmy’s nagging (I tried to use the mildest word around)dad asking questions and questions and only questions;dads are eggjactly like that!
#The very pragmatic love story(I have always appreciated na├»ve ones),shows how exactly young people in India’s huge middle class fall in love .It always starts with a letter and ends with one.And there is the song ‘ankhein to hoti hai dil ki zubaan’ -the eyes voice the heart.The rest of it ,again has been forgotten.
#And of course Irfan Khan (“woow!!!”).The wrinkles around his eyes paint him the shrewd shylock he plays,dialogues said with so much of precision, with malice and of course a touch of reality in them.And I liked the way he shot people ,dead,impulsively.
#Though this might sound kiddish,yet another reason was the happy ending-‘all is well that ends well’.The reassuarance that jimmy is not gonna end up in jail,when the CM pardons him for having murdered Irfan.This was because while all politicians are goondas first and then politicians ,our CM saab had been a school headmaster first.
#And then because of the villains uttering dailogues like ‘mouke ki nazzakat ko samjho’and ‘I like artists’.
#I will wind up writing a little about the climax scene that actually has compelled me to write this.
I can’t exactly translate the feelings into the perfect words ,but it made me realise that the feeling of being loved must have been wonderful.I felt jealous of the couple.
Our hero jimmy, hates tying his shoelace throughout the film ‘coz he thinks it to be a sheer waste of time.But at the end on his lady love’s saying so,he ties it.The idea behind I guess is that, he ties himself to hrishitta ,and that the free bird youth of his comes to end-as it time to settle down.

Some north-east guy has directed ‘haasil’(again a friend told me)-I din’t care to find out his name.
Hats off to him(though I am not wearing one,lol).But films like ‘haasil’ are rarely made these days…

i m stuck...

one bright sunny day,i went into the settings of ma blog,and altered something(i dun rmbr wot xatcly i did)and from then on i found the comments link missing in my entries,so if u something to say about those entries post them here...

not original 1

why is it always
the anonymous i talk to
the faceless who understands me
the random who puts me at peace
& the unknown, i fall in love with?

whoz me?

It has been a long time I stopped thinking about myself. I have immersed myself in this world , thinking about people who hardly matter to me. I give them too much of importance.No one matters to me , but me.I’m my world.I’m my world.
I will live my life,unaffected by outsiders.I’m my life.Nothing from outside the frontiers of my mind will matter for me.And I am a believer of the free soul.So I will never cage mine.I’l let it fly free,free from all chains/bonds into the blue unknown,unfazed by the noise of the people who don’t matter.No one matters.
Let my soul fly like a falcon,over the barren desert perching wherever ,if it gets tired.Fly fly and fly away, beyond the last blue mountain.I’l be myself.I,Me,Myself.

I have run enough.Now I want to rest.I have cried enough.It’s high time now.And all my tears have dried.I have never had who either understood their value,or ever tried to wipe them out.Never.No one.

If I start pouring out my woes,my life will end,but ,my thing wouldn’t get over.
Most people have an affinity towards the good things about life-cheer,love,light,affection.One of the best writers I have come across(at times I despise him for his womanising skills) Khushwant Singh,says he has the calibre to feel hatred—he would ,if he could ,murder (of the first degree)all the people he hated with all his venom.

I am much like that—but the feeling is not hatred ,its pain.I can feel pain,even in the happiest moments of my life.Pain is not just a feel.
Pain is another woman who breathes within me.She never leaves me alone.She pokes her nose into every moment that I live.I can’t live without her either.She is the ember who keeps the fire in my hearth burning,my heart beating.

At times I want to leave myself and her behind,and surrender,surrender to the divine ,die.Yes,I want to die at times.And I’m always waiting, with arms outstreched, for the divine hug .