The Battle That Was

 

It was the fiercest battle ever. The battle of chaos and order; the battle of day and night; the battle of storm and sky; the war between Seth and Horus. They were related, or were they the part of the same duality? The evil and the good? The two sides of the same coin? Castor and Pollux? Whoever they were – the war didn’t spare anyone. All those were around were sucked into the vortex. All those wanted to remain on the horizon were fighting with their life to stay away. Even the gods were forced out of their abode to witness the war of odds.

 

Seth was powerful, knew the world and magic and Horus was just a child, learning to see the world, attracted by the light. It was a battle of deceit and just. It was a battle between the master of chaos and the pupil of hope. While the darkness rose and covered the world, the little kid sought help from even the tiniest of hope floating around. Tried to grab all that he knew to be his. Called for all those he thought to be beside him. The roar of the raging dark waves submerged his cries. The impregnable veil of confusion shielded the visions of his nearest one. And he lifted his fist in despair.

 

Red flames of cremation ground outlined the deep dark sea. The sky broke loose and was raining fire. The dry parched land was covered with poisonous crawlers. All the oasis has turned into bubbling muck of mud and grime. The cries of dying hearts were shredding the notes of pianist. The painter’s brush was only spewing red, brown and black. The shoulder bearer’s eyes told it all – he was all but lost. Child king knew, now is the time of death. May be one, may be all of them – will surely not see the glimpse of the days to come. They were midst of a battle of survival. The fight till death – the fight to live.

 

The battle was to create order after the chaos. The war subsided only to raise his head with renewed vigor. It raged and rotting smell of corpses kept filling the atmosphere. As it was destined may be, Horus won, killing Seth on the command of Isis. He drag the beheaded body of Seth on the dust filled path. Yet he lost his left eye, the eye of dreams. As the gods have decided, the evils of Seth were removed from the face of the world. Or is it? Isn’t that great snake lurking underground is the same Seth, preparing to strike again in time?

 

The dust was settling down; a bleak pale sun was trying hard to pierce the cover of the smokes. The wintry chill of the air was freezing the bubbling earth under the feet. And there was silence. Silence of death. Child King raised his head, using his palms to shield his eyes, he was searching for survivors. He couldn’t hear the notes of the pianist. He couldn’t find the colors of the Painter in the haze. The whiff of air brought a mild fragrance and he knew. He was searching among the ruins, looking for remnants that he knew so well. He found the brush of the painter. Held close to his chest, the painter was fighting the death. Picking him up he searched for others. There, behind the ruins of the broken piano lied the pianist with his fingers smashed. Further down he found the shoulders. Only the shoulders of the bearer, buried under the weight of fallen heads. He searched for his remain, and searched, without success. He picked it up. He knew the pianist might heal his fingers, which will dance on the reeds again. He knew the painter will collect the colors from the sky once the dust settles down. He also knew the fragrance has already told him that some still wants to rest her head. Now the shoulders will support again; but not as the shoulder bearer. The shoulders will wait for the fragrance to get spread someday, anyday. The dust will settle down; the sun will shine again. The clouds will cover the sky. The rain will soothe the battered earth. Butterflies will dance again, the garden will blossom in time. But the time wont be the same again. The battle looks to be over for now. He just waits for the fog to lift, for a new day, just beyond the horizon.

 

And Horus? He lost the eye with which he dream. His left eye was no more with him. The dreams and colors and hopes may not be seen again. The eye that absorbed energy will never open again. The eye buried in the sands of Sahara, will remain lost forever. He is the king, one who can perceive the time better without the conscious non-stop interference of the un-worldly visions of that left eye. He will be more righteous king, one who has no dreams, who cant dream. Who can only do the right, and strive to take on the reign of life.

 

 

 

 

Across His Hilltop

 

If you look up, towards the hilltop, you might see him. His tiny body, covered in a shirt with half the buttons, a trouser rolled half way up, a stick in one hand, while the other shielding his vision from the sunrays peeking from the dark cloud covers. He checked the cloud forming on the valley of dreams. Everyday he would send the dreams he collected the night before and check the dream clouds grow a bit more. He awaits it to get delivered. The cloud will shower his dreams when they are ready.

 

 

Knowing that it’s still sometime before the cloud becomes full, he turns around. He has a swing behind him, on which he swings daily and tries to catch the tree on other side of the deep gorge. That tree has all the flowers he needs for his temple. Everyday, he swings closer and closer, yet can’t be close enough to be there. From where he stands, it seems just a few hands away, yet…

 

Does the tree choose to move away, just when he starts to swing? Otherwise even after swinging more, why can he reach it? Or does the swing choose to get shorter when he is just about to reach?

 

No one knew him as he was. No one ever saw, the dreams he kept seeing. No one, except the tree on the other side, that is. She was his only companion. He came to this hilltop, to just sit till eternity, with nothing to do, but thrash his way with the stick in his hand. Once he came here, and looked below, he even wondered how it would be to try and jump off the hilltop. Will he reality have wings coming out, as his grandmother said, long long time back? He was judging the flow of the wind to decide his next move, when he looked aside and saw the smiling tree. A tree amazingly with flowers of all colors and smell, yet no one can see either the tree or the flowers on it from anywhere except where he stood. Did the tree choose to bear all those flowers just for him? Otherwise why are they just like the flowers he saw in his temple in the dreams?

 

And then there were days, when he saw, a golden bridge, made for him to cross the gorge. He crossed and hugged the tree; or was it he was hugged by her – melting all that was unwanted in him, invigorating and electric. Charging every pour of his body with that will to live and fight, those were missing. He would dance around, play with her flowers, decorate her with his dreams and fairy-dust, and keep looking at her. He lied down with his head on her lap and kept listening to her through the day. And she allowed putting his hand through her stony rough outside and touching those parts, which no one including her knew existed. Touching caressing and feeling the ripples; both were afraid to batter their eyelids, not to miss a moment of togetherness. To treasure each second as they unfolded – each having a story of their own. They were one, till the hands of the clock woke them up – reminding that there is still some more moon-less and moon-lit nights to pass. Still a few more seasons to unfold before the gorge can get filled. As he comes back through the gorge, he can see the drooping branches from the corner of his eye, and he starts blowing his flute, to make her know – its not the end.

 

Next day, the legs covered in rolled up trousers will again reach the hilltop, to look across and greet her. He knows, what ails her. He knows where she needs to be touched and cared. He knew his swing would only take him to that smelling distance. And he starts swinging, to move close to her, and whisper. Please stay alive, for me – to let me come close to you again, take care of those flower laden branches, caress the roots you keep hidden and hold your hand till eternity. He knows the day is not far, he just needs to dream a bit more hard, make her believe a bit longer, and the cloud will come, it will rain, and gorge will get washed away, the distance will vanish. The day will come – till then the dream-breather will keep dreaming and child-king will keep looking after his hilltop.

 

 

  

B h o o o o – k a a t t e e e e e e y!!

 

First the flight :-

The kite soared slowly towards the blue sky, riding on the cool breeze from the river. It climbed up, up and up, knowing that the string is in firm control of that hand that’s flying it. Knowing that the string is also tied securely to the reel. With the air on its delicate paper wings, it soared high into the sky to challenge those birds. Those bird, that one day mocked at the flimsy paper for its wish to fly. Now here he was, among the clouds, steady and watching down onto the vast city, the roof tops and the coconut trees, the mango grove and that little girl with a rough Chinese cut hair, with world of dream in her eyes; crinkled and with the shade of the hand blocking the sunlight. She watches it with amaze, and the right end of her lips curls up in a absent minded smile.

 

 

Then, up for grabs :-

Just when the kite was preparing for the final surge, the reel of string went blank; there were no more. And the string was not attached. The hand that flew, unaware, gave that mighty pull to sent it dashing skywards and saw helplessly the end of the string slipping out of his hand. The kite was guideless. Slowly it started to swing and fall and fly away aimlessly. All those greedy eyes, which were watching it with envy sparkled with joy. “B-h-o-o-o-o-o-o K-a-a-a-t-t-e-e-e-y!” – they all went up in chorus, and ran behind helplessly falling piece of paper. The girl also looked at it with horror. The piece of paper that she thought to be dream is soon going to be snatched. Hands and sticks and all sorts of tools went skywards; it’s a free for all, to grab it and own it, at any cost.

 

It was brief, as the torture ended; the grabbing hands dispersed; the silent eyes below the fringed hairs on the forehead looked at the remains of delicate colored paper, which a few moments back was her dream, proudly soaring up there; beaconing to take her to the cloud land. She picked up a few pieces, carefully removed the dust, sat down beside her toy house, and carefully wrapped it around her doll. Tilting her head a bit, she looked at it adoringly. As she wiped the sparkling drop of water from the corner of her eyes, she finally managed a careless smile. She still has a few pieces of her dream, and it will be safe in her doll house, forever. She might not be able to ride her dream kite, but will remember it for one day it gave her the hope to soar to hr dreamland.

 

Or :-

Just when the kite was preparing for the final surge, the reel of string went blank; there were no more. And the string was not attached. The hand that flew, unaware, gave that mighty pull to sent it dashing skywards and saw helplessly the end of the string slipping out of his hand. The kite was guideless. Slowly it started to swing and fall and fly away aimlessly. It was flying so high that no eyes ever got trained on it. Only a few, as they knew it was there from the beginning, and they shouted, “B-h-o-o-o-o-o-o K-a-a-a-t-t-e-e-e-y!” It was only a jeer, as they knew its out of reach, they didn’t bother to run after. The kite looked down at a pair of eyes, which now were filled with horror. She ran behind it, with arm towards the sky. But it was too late! The wind was high, and the kite was too far. She ran and ran and ran and saw helplessly as the kite disappeared behind the wall of clouds, forever. Teary eyed she ran a few more steps and then was lost in thought about that dream land above the clouds, where rain has her abode. She remembered, the kite whispered to her, just before it went up in his journey – “Will you come with me?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Someone asked, “So what? What’s the difference between today and yesterday? Is there any?” For the uninitiated, there is none. But for those who know – its “B-h-o-o-o-k-a-t-t-t-e-e-e-y!” nothing more than that.

 

 

Be Missed

Its not friends, its not wealth

Its not love to be felt

The emptiness that we feel

Are often memories pulling the reel

We seek to connect and resonate

Some relations we cant contemplate

Yet they fill you with all

They make the time to stall

Its not to miss

But be missed

  

Dream Breather

 

The times have changed. The Child King, Shoulder bearer, Pianist and the Artiste, they all are there. Yet they are not! They have slowly given way to a new reign, the reign of the “Dream Breather”. Are they really gone? Or is the Dream Breather just another face for them? Maybe they have tied them all into a single entity. The Child King springs out as soon as its sees the open fields; the Shoulder Bearer is still tied to all those heads who wanted to rest their heads; may be just a bit away from where it used to be, to let them judge the weight of their own heads a bit more. The Pianist still plays the tunes that give Dream Breather its soul and the Artiste now keeps painting the dreams. And the Dream Breather breathes and lives on his dreams and walks towards them – its his reign now!

 

Everyday the Dream Breather walks up to the top of the little hill; sits there and looks at the far away land, where the clouds take their shape. That’s where from the winds brought him the news, that the dreams he wants to breathe are being nurtured there. Everyday when he walks towards his little meadow on the hill top, he sees a garden just off his route. The garden is fenced closely by the immaculately designed hedges, which protect everything inside from the glare of the world. Yet it fails to hide the fragrance from many. You need to have the nose and Dream Breather knew what’s there inside.

 

Everyday while passing by, he waves at the garden and it waves back with all its zest. Once on the meadow, the Dream Breather closes his eyes, and he can see the bed of asters, daisies and bluebells inside the garden. He can see the tree in the middle, which looks like a storm has passed over it, barely holding a few leaves; and a little sparrow perched on its branch. The tree looks forlorn in its own thought, while the garden keeps moving all its freshness, life-streams and fragrance towards it. It keeps decorating its branches to hide its brown worn out branches and the nest of the sparrow, while the tree looks lost in its thought.

 

The Dream Breather had made a new friend. While looking at the cloud birth from his hill top one day he saw the image of a garden, a garden that he wanted to build long back. And he knew that garden can be built again, all he needs to make sure is that the ground is rich enough to have those flowerbeds ready before they decide to come. He knew the tree in the middle of his garden would be big enough to give the shade, and small enough to let the flowers shine under the sun. And he began speaking to the garden by the path. Everyday the garden used to release just a breath of its healing fragrance; and it never used to forget to remind Dream Breather that its not his, its is just that bit extra she has after covering her tree. The Dream Breather was happy while absorbing the fragrance, almost like stealing a king’s meal that he can enjoy for the rest of the day; and sometime for many days to come.

 

The Dream Breather knew he was getting addicted, but was more concerned that the Garden should not be harmed. But the Dream Breather might have already induced some of its dreams on to the garden? He saw the garden also has started to live on dreams, sometime of her own choice, but sometime very quietly the same dreams the Dream Breather loves to breathe. Should the Dream Breather be happy that she breathes on dreams like him? Or should he be worried that those dreams might disturb her present and the dreams that are so loud all around her? Dream Breather treads cautiously. He knows the yards that still separate his path from her fences.

 

Very rarely she beacons and the Dream Breather runs off his well-laid path, across the uneven turf, towards her fences; and then pauses; sits outside the fence, while she lifts her veil of mist to say hi. So close, yet the Dream Breather knows, that’s the limit to her sacred abode; and he knows how privileged he is to be there. He knows how precious those little moments are, to feel her breath and touch her existence. Yet he is afraid to stand up and look across the fence. Almost afraid that he might disturb the sanctity of the heavenly place. He silently collects those gifted moments and stores them in his “garden to be”. The king was accepting, the giver was looking to have more. Its for that faint hope with which he lives, he too will have a garden, and she might comedown to grace it.

 

She in her own way, kept Dream Breather on his path. She too knew she was drawing the sap of life from the Dream Breather. She too was collecting some of the stardust the Dream Breather uses to decorate his dreams. He knew, it might as well be to decorate the Tree, yet it was she who wanted them, and that was reasons enough to unload his entire basket. One day she silently beacons him again. Like always the Dream Breather ran towards her. With hope in his heart, yet fully prepared to just collect those sacred moments only. But this time was different.

 

For the first time, the Dream Breather was surprised to see the door to the heavenly abode open. She nodded in consent, yet he was unsure if he should step inside. She held his hand and took him in. For the first time he saw those beds of Asters, and Daisies, and Pansies and Bluebells.  And he was surprised to see that there were also lots of Forget-Me-Nots and Birds of Paradise. She lifted the veil, she threw away the green cover of the turf and showed him the treasures which no one dares to see. He was lost; lost in his dreams and like child ran from one place to another. With silent joy, he was collecting them for himself and his dreams. He knew the time is short. He paused and then made sure he could also give something in return. He looked at her darting eyes and quivering lips, and left a few loving touches here and there. He was feeling like the king; and then she told, that she only tried to help. Helped him to reduce his pain.

 

Even if she helped, was it required to tell him that? The treasure he collected and decorated his own abode lay scattered. There was a king inside; a king who was ready to be a pauper, yet never ready to beg or borrow or steal? She gave her the most precious jewel in the world, but why did she had to cover it with her tar? Tears he was ready to share; pity he dreaded. The Dream Breathers dreams were mutilated and torn. He was already putting colors to his dreams, and the colors lay scattered. Those places where he put the jewels now lay tortured. Will he be healed? He didn’t care about his heal. Soon, he knew those ulcers will remain; he can not dream about giving back those ulcers, so hid them, so that not even she can see them when he sat beside the roadside to talk to her again. He knew the distance might help to hide the pungent smell.

 

But the mistress of fragrance might have felt it. He also realized that the road he used to take has slowly moved towards the fence; everyday sitting on the same place of the road has slowly made it move towards it. He saw her in pain and she wanted to move away. Did he hug those little plants too tightly? Was he so lost in his own need and passion that the embrace strangled her for breath? He looked at himself and saw the pollens on his chest and few crushed petals here and there. With horror he stepped back a bit. He knew it might be the time when he needs to move off a bit. He knew she will be restless again, but till she is ready, shouldn’t he be a bit more careful that the precious garden is alive? After all isn’t his own Dreams and life depends upon her life. He started moving back and forth, still unsure.

 

Sitting on the ledge of his hilltop the Dream Breather pondered with the setting sun on the horizon. The same persons, who once asked him to be himself, now thinks he cares only about his own dreams. The same persons who once pleaded to let him live for himself, now feel he can’t think beyond himself. The same persons who knew all about his masks, now think one of those masks is his reality. Which one is the real him? The Child King? The Shoulder bearer? The Pianist? The Artiste? Or the Dream Breather? Is there anyone who can look at his wounds and still choose to come close and sit beside him? Isn’t it normal for others to either look away or to poke at those wounds? The Dream Breather was told to show courage and go out with his wounds even if everyone makes sure to poke at them. Yes, the Dream Breather comes down from his hilltop now a days; he was already coming down and face everyone and was ready to take on all the blows. He only was hoping for an ally or at least a bottle of potion to give him courage.

 

Just as the setting sun threw of its pallet of color all across the sky, just before the gloom of dark engulfed the world, the Dream Breather felt a droplet on his cheek. Is it the dewdrop on the petal from the garden, or is it a teardrop that the winds carried from the land where the clouds were being made? Can his dreams that he offered her choke her? He heard a whisper floating towards him, “Is it only you who knows how to breathe dreams? Is it only you who has belief on your dreams? Is it only you who knows how to decorate a dream? I know when dreams are powerful enough they do come true.

Queen of Kalahari – Princess of Amazonia

From the cloud capped misty mountains

Leaving the moss covered Kapok trees

Bidding adieu to people who worshipped her every drop

She came to her lords dwelling, to become

Queen of Kalahari – princess of Amazonia

She tied her silken strands in a bun

Held her infant in her loving embrace

Knotted her flowing skirt tight

Busy decorating her kings dwelling

Tireless to enliven the rain-parched kalahari

Queen of Kalahari – princess of Amazonia

Years of journey drifting into habit

Yet she pauses in hear cycle of duties

Tilted head glancing skywards at the clouds

Life seeming a bout of ayahuasca

The angled smile lost in thirst of Kalahari

Queen of Kalahari – princess of Amazonia

The flight of albatross beaconing

The dreams of rainforest alluring

She knows the nest where she blooms

She yearns for the worshippers of rain

Yet her love for Kalahari is Kilimanjaro diamond

Queen of Kalahari – princess of Amazonia

A gust of wind

Musky – lost in thoughts

Pushed at the heavy wooden door

Creaking the door open

It entered – salty smoky room

Raising her soul and filling his heart

Queen of Kalahari – princess of Amazonia

I Kept Walking

They said it can never grow

The little sapling among the mighty trees

In the shadowy stifling corner

Yet it gathered bit by bit

Sponging itself in own sweat

Pushing the trees raised it head to blue sky

And I kept walking –

They said it should be killed

The rainbow bird that wanted to sing life

Couple of shots, a few knife jabs to make sure

Does a dead body has some hope left in it

The dead heart pulsates again

Eyes opened to dreams it soared high

And I kept walking –

They said it’s not possible

To reach the infinite reaches of riches

The light might reach by eternity – they laughed

“They” never had the know how

Powered by dream on the path of thought

Might reach with enough time left to savor

And I kept walking –

Winds of Amazonia came calling

They said rain has a permanent home there

I saw my dream on the cloud-clad hilltop

The moonlit bubbles glistening in raindrops

And I am walking –

Thats What Simon Says

Some move with the world as it moves,

Some always steady even when the whole world sways;

Some change with the changing seasons,

Some with their believe and faith stays;

And that’s what Simon says!

 

It’s our choice that with the shining sun,

We gather all we can make all our hays;

We can run through path made by others,

Or cut through the forest to make our own ways;

And that’s what Simon says!

 

One can sit back lost and tired,

Or run to life in blinding haze;

One can curse his luck and cry alone,

Or keep trying with heart n soul unfazed;

And that’s what Simon says!

 

One can play into the hands of life,

Or defy the game that life plays;

One can try to just live off the moments,

Or live all the moments those make your days;

And that’s what Simon says!

The Storm & After

The reign of Shoulder Bearer started long back; and he has roamed the forests and the hills. Though none knows where he came from, he tells none where he is headed for. But those who rested on his shoulder knows that the shoulder will always be there for them, because of the unseen thread that always keeps them connected.

 

The Shoulder Bearer roamed, as the Artiste kept painting and destroying his canvases. The Shoulder Bearer kept walking with the Pianist still trying to bind him with his surreal notes. Was the Shoulder Bearer tired, can we see a hint of limp in his stride? Is he bleeding from the walk? He dreamt himself to be a god; or was it the heads resting that gave him the feeling?

 

He stopped to nurse his feet, and he discovered it was his heart that was bleeding. The Artiste and the Pianist were smiling; they know that the reign of the Shoulder Bearer might be closing towards and end. The Artiste picked up all of his brushes to paint the picture with million colors, the piano jumped to the sky to fill the ether with its mystic tune. They were inviting the world to see the beginning of the end.

 

Shoulder Bearer looked skywards, the rain falling on his eyes, trickling down to his chest. His chest was wet, was it rain? Was it his sweat? Or was it fusion of tears – rain’s and his own? The world was churning; can even Noah’s ark bear this storm? The Pianist quizzed, does he really want heads to rest on his shoulder? Or does he have a hidden agenda? Is he there just to liberate the grieving hearts, moist sighs and grappling hands? Or is he searching for a shoulder in return too?

 

The shoulder bearer pondered, is there a land that needs him along with the Pianist and the Artiste? Can they all coexist? The storm tormented his soul and his eyes and his creation, but he was lost in the rain.

 

The storm was short, but it left a trail of devastation. The stars were twinkling in the sky and the earth was wet. The moonlit night glided on top of the bubbles of his dreams. The night was calm, but his reign was in tatters. He lifted the head resting on his shoulder, carefully removing the long tresses covering his shoulder and her face; he looked in to her eyes. The depth of the eyes put the oceans to shame, it was as deep as the space itself. With all its dark mystery yet holding the brightness of million of stars and novas. He inhaled her aroma kissed her goodbye.

 

He stood up to survey, to find pieces of his heart strewn around. Was it a storm or a lifetime? His tent with no doors lying in tatters, his carefully decorated memoirs lying in rubble. He carefully started collecting the pieces to treasure in his casket. He collected the moistures from his chest, the strands of hair from his shoulders, the broken leaves scattered over the place and the blooms glistening with the raindrops.

 

They bid her goodbye, while keeping her with them. The flashes of lightening was not theirs, she was free to go to her master. It was rain who stayed, not imprisoned but crowned as queen.  With the first ray of the dawn hitting the realm, they saw their world clear. The smile was back; the Artiste went to his canvas, as the Pianist once again started mesmerizing the kingdom.

 

The shoulder bearer once again left in his journey, this time assured that he has his treasure that he hoped to find during his lifetime. He has spent a lifetime in search and lived a lifetime in the storm. Carefully carrying his casket treasuring the pieces of the lifetime he spent in the storm, he prepared once again to go missing in his journey. Sometimes during the silence of the nights dotted with the loneliness that was so his, he opens his casket to relive the lifetime he spent with his queen under the storm. Only sometimes – when his heart springs back, to beat!

 

  

If and When

If
Only if
We could vanquish those memories
The phoenix rises when we thought
We have put them to rest

 

Soul
Silly soul
The journey, the steps, tear drops
From the day of realization it seeks
Knowing it will take lifetime to be whole

 

And then
When we close
To shutdown all orifice we chose
On that silent darkness
We spread our hands
And feel the warmth and softness we sought

 

==========================================

 

This was till now just my response to M, she thought it deserves a post. Then today Michy liked it too! So accepting the view of two of my friends…

 

 

Requesting Santa

 

Angels are lucky

They can make one smile

 

 

Hey Santa,

Can you give me a pair of wings?

I want to fly;

Not to be on top of the world,

But to see who cry.

I want to gift one smile,

At least I can try!

 

Angels are lucky

They can make one smile

 

Hey Santa,

Can you turn me into Harry Potter?

I want to do magic.

Not to take revenge on Snape,

But to see all scenes tragic.

May be I can remove some pain,

Defying all logic.

 

Angels are lucky

They can make one smile

 

Please Santa,

Turn me into an Angel for a day.

I don’t want luck for me,

I know you will give me what I need anyway.

But then I can see-

The dark corners of hearts and drooping faces.

And turn then into glee!

 

You know – Angels are lucky

They can make one smile!!

The King Who set out to be a Pauper

The oaken glow of the morning sun told the king that it was a special day. The king chose to inspect his treasury, to find out how much wealth he has stored over the years. The heavy iron vault unwontedly gave way to his push and revealed itself to his owner. The king was in for a surprise. The valuables he thought to be his treasures were all absent. All he found were pieces of blood stained pieces of relationships, old parched scrolls holding some strands of memories, some broken handshakes, some cold hugs, and ruins of his past. The king felt like a pauper. Is this all he has treasured? Are these all he felt proud of?

 

He searched frantically through his ruins. And then he notices the black sooty box sitting atop the farthest corner. With pain and despair in mind, he opened the box. He was in for a surprised. It had a heart inside. It was a pulsating, vibrant, alive. He gently took it out in his palm. The room filled in its warm glow. The king realized it was love, his last treasure. The last piece of wealth he had. He had a plan; he decided to barter it with one who required it most and get what he needs, his treasures.

 

He went out, searched for the needy soul, and as an expert salesman, he handed it out. He was waiting for his reward, but the only thing he was offered a real smile of content. Is this what he wanted? Is it worth taking? He thought of throwing it off. He gave his last love, and had nothing now; he thought “the king is finally a pauper now!” The he noticed the golden lace the smile had, he found he was also getting a few diamond teardrops, and a piece of heart made of ruby. He was thrilled. He didn’t get his love back, but what he got was more than he bargained. He opened the box to store them, and was more surprised to see another piece of heart has taken its place. He realized he has the boon of endless love. He realized, as many times he chooses to give out his love, he will have more.

 

He started his journey back to his treasury to store his newfound wealth, and on his way back, gifted his love a few time more. Every time collecting the invaluable pieces of faith, wishes, smiles, tear drops of joy and innocence. But he never noticed that with every step the trail he left were garlanded with life, with green, red and blue, with laughter, joy and passion. When he returned, his memories were back alive; the parchments were singing their merry melodies. The relationships were blooming red petals of affection; the hugs and handshakes were waiting for him, to rid him of all his tiredness.

 

He now knew how he could be an emperor without a single battle. As long as he has his love, as long as there is a soul who needs love, as long as there is a blood stained heart he ca win his treasure and his empire. With every tired head he supports, with every wandering raft he steers out of raging storm, with every blind hand he holds he knew he is expanding his kingdom. He might look pauper to all, but deep in his heart, he knew what he stores in his treasury. Have you noticed the mischievous confident smile he carries now days?

Crowning of the Shoulder Bearer

The pianist was busy weaving a new symphony. Nature forgot to move ahead, lost in his magic; the life stood still. Lost in his creation he kept on playing. After sometime, as if to free nature from its spell, he stopped. He stopped and opened his eyes; the hall was empty, yet he could feel that it was not he alone who was crying. His tears soaked his cheeks, yet his broad shoulders and strong chest was dry.

 

It was a sunny winter afternoon, when the Artiste promised his master creation that she would always get a shoulder to rest her tired head. He promised her that she would always get the shelter of his chest to hide and wont let her tears fall on ground. And then, never she wept alone.

 

But it was an afternoon long past, now the shoulder is empty and the chest dry. He wondered, does he need a head that can rest on his shoulder or is it a shoulder that he needs? Should he get a paper to treasure his tears or should he find a canvas to paint again? The night moved on, as the pianist lay tormented, he had to decide. While the Artiste wanted to go back to his painting days, the Pianist demanded a place for his tears. The artiste has ruled for decades, now it’s the Pianist’s time to get his share. Yet the Artiste was longing for the shoulders that were never alone. The twins fought inside.

 

The morning sun jumped northward from the green shoreline, and the pianist ventured out to get his papers. He went out as a schoolchild, to get the softest and best papers possible. He didn’t tell the world how much he knows about papers, how many times he has already filled them with his musings. He sought out to select the best of the lot. He decided to try them, to seek only the best.

 

He selected three, three best with different colors. He was happy as he sat to fill them with his tears. He tried to summon the oceans within him, to pour his heart out. The notes started to come out. He wanted to amaze the world with the amount of pain he collected.  But it was his turn to be surprised. The papers had their own life, every time he tried to add a new word, they emanated a flurry of tones of their own; tones that sang grief. Every drop of tear that he tried putting on them unleashed a flood that swept his shoulders. The papers clung to his shoulders and chest. The Artiste was smiling, the Pianist sat dumbfound, looking at the losing battle.

 

The pianist realized, it’s not his kingdom where he stood; the Artiste also had a realization, it’s not his time anymore. It was time to move on, it was time to leave the mantle to the new king – the ‘Shoulder Bearer’. They moved back as the new king ascended the throne; he took the oath to extend his shoulder to all those grieving hearts, moist sighs and grappling hands. He took on the journey to seek those, lying in darkest corners of life, to sooth, love and make them ready to fight another day.

 

The Artiste still longed for his canvases, the Pianist still moves his fingers on the reads, but no one can see those wet paints on canvas, anymore. If you notice that the time has stopped or the nature is spellbound, strain your auditory senses; you can still hear the notes of Pianist. The pianist creates his symphony of life away from everyone, he has promised the king never to release his treasures of tears.

 

 

The Child Who was King

It was a lazy summer afternoon. The village was quite, most residents were trying to catch a siesta, in their bedroom; pulling all the curtains to make it as dark as possible. All asleep barring the stray dog named Lalu, he was walking happily behind the child of eight; he is the leader, soon joined by his fellow kinsmen, in their adventure to raid another garden full of mangoes, guavas, berries and date juice. Winning all their booty, they trek back to their castle. The king proudly shared the spoils with all him follwers. They cheered for the king.

 

The lazy afternoon, the dark shades of the Amrul tree, the still green water of the pond, and the woodpecker in the coconut tree watched in awe. The king enjoyed his life while the pond washed his feet. The king wished let there be no tomorrow, and the summer sun was the witness. He smiled!

 

The busy footpath of the metro, didn’t notice the little traveler. The new teen, was trudging ahead, with the bag on his shoulder, made heavy by the pile of schoolbooks. He was lost, wondering about the place he has reached. He searched for the dark shadows of the Amrul tree; the winter breeze was cool, but the breeze beside the dark pond smelled like mother. All his followers pleaded the king not to go; yet he left. He didn’t have any option, but to move, to become the traveler he is now. He tries to remember, is this the promised land? Is this where he was supposed to find all that he dreamt for? Where is the green field where he used to flung his body when he felt tired?

 

No friends, no sign of life around. Surrounded by strangers in a even stranger world. A world where the wall you lean to gives way, where the "friends" you trust most, leaves you faster than they came. The world even Gulliver or Sindbad would be proud to visit. The traveler moves along. He remembers he was a king, and a king can’t lose. He looks up, and smiles; he knew he would win finally! He has to win!

 

The tinkle of the falling raindrops on the windowsill awakens the artiste. It was dark out side; is it night, he thought! The damp waft revealed the truth; it was raining. The world was celebrating life, the green earth lit the fire of inspiration, and the artiste was lost in his creations. He kept on creating them, unmindful of what happened to them afterwards. The king has arrived in the kingdom of Romanticism. He is the artiste now. He found her; or did SHE find him? Does it matter? He is king, he doesn’t think while giving. He is an artiste, who never stops while creating. He kept on painting the life, decorating it with the colors of love, affection and care. Lots of them were also left on his palate;  he didn’t waste them; he used them to paint the smaller frames that were around him. So what if they were not masterpieces, at least they have color!

 

When the rain stopped – why did it stop? The artiste was standing alone. His masterpiece came to life. Consuming all his colors, all his efforts and all his dreams, it came to life. And it didn’t care for its creator. Why should it? I t had its own life. The artiste stood alone, under the scorching sun, with empty palate and brush in his hand, tired, lost. He looked around, searched for those smaller canvases. Even they were gone. Some might have fallen by the road, some picked by the passers by. Has the king lost his battle? Has the traveler lost his will to walk? Has the Artiste lost his colors? Why did the ‘tomorrow’ come? Why did the rain stop?

 

 

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