Rhapsodies of a NEW YEAR

The year has come to an end

Its time to pack the bags again

To set sail to a new year  

And to give life a new beginning

Whether it was a bumpy or a calm ride

Don’t mind as they were your testing times

Instead thank those who were there by your side

To help you overcome the turbulent tide

Now that a new year is ahead

Its time to start and think afresh

To give life a better meaning

By gathering the pieces of scattered happiness

Perhaps resolutions or revolutions

Whatever is there in the mind

There can never be an apt reason

As this is the ultimate time

 Immerse yourself or get drowned

In the vast ocean of happiness

When the murky and envious sadness

Frowns at you from the backend

Turn on the music, groove with it

Keep the emotions at bay

Let the party continue

Because it’s new year and a new day ahead

When the paper spoke

You can crumble me anytime

Scribble and throw me at dustbin

Only to make another addition

To the mountaining piles

You can also transform me  

Into a ship or a boat

And make me sail through

The floods of rain water

Life is too short for me

And sometimes too long

I don’t know what my faith

Is going to be when I am born

Novel or a curriculum textbook

Is the right place for me to seek shelter

You’re never going to throw them away

As the words inside them are precious

I can be a masterpiece for your room

If I am adorned with colours and ribbons

I can be of great help

To help you carry your valuables

Oh! Did you just realize

That you cannot leave without me

Open your purse and take a look

I am that valuable note you need for your livelihood

A Santa Surprise!

It had been a tough day for Nancy at the office. She is driving back to her home now. As she takes her car out of her office compound she witnesses a different New York. The streets are basking in the celebrations of Christmas. The roadside shops have been decorated with statues of Santa and colourful ballons. Two kids are staring at the Santa toys through the glass panes of the Cake store holding the hands of their grandfather. Nancy gets a little excited. This beautiful Christmas sight makes her nostalgic and reminds her of her childhood days. But she is very tired right now and just wants to go for a sleep.

Nancy is back to her home now. She has already parked her car in the garage and is about to close the shutter.  Just then she realizes that she has left her house keys at the back seat. She rushes back to the rear end of the car. Just as she is about to open the door, a voice claims, “Hello!” Nancy replies back – “Hello!” Thinking it might be the auto answer call option that she just activated recently to answer her client’s call even while driving. She kept on repeating Hello! Hello! There was no response; she can see someone sitting inside the car. It’s just a big shadow. Seems like somebody is sitting inside.

Nancy’s hands are shaking now. She is perspiring in the freezing cold of December. She is trying her best to say it, but something has choked her throat and is not allowing her to utter a word. It’s again that female voice that says, “Relax young lady! Don’t shiver in fear and don’t be scared.” Nancy regained her lost courage and said in a fearful voice, “Who are you and what are you doing here?” There is silence again. No one is here, except her house keys. She is now a bit angry and asks herself, “Am I drunk?”, No. Am I dreaming? She pinches herself and realizes that everything is real.

The next morning, Nancy decides to visit the countryside grocery store. It’s Christmas today and Nancy had long been hoping to make a delicious Chocolate cake all by herself. She takes the big grocery bag, the car keys, locks the door and moves towards the garage. She notices something is coming out beneath the shutter of the garage. “Oh! That’s a long red rope,” she utters. She lifts up the shutter and discovers that the rear end of the car is stuffed with gifts. “Jesus!” Nancy exclaims.

 But before she could check out the gifts. She finds an envelope in the driver’s seat that read – ‘FOR YOU NANCY.’ She opens the envelope and reads the letter

Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!

That was me, Santa who freaked you out last night young lady. I have brought loads of gifts for you this year. My sincere apology if I have scared you. Don’t be surprised! It’s not the young and the tiny tots on whom I shower my gifts. Christmas is a time to shower gifts of love on everyone and spread happiness.

I will be obliged if you take all the gifts and oh yes! you will find a large basket where I have kept all the ingredients to make your favourite ‘Chocolate Christmas Cake’

It’s time to say bye. Merry Christmas!

Nancy’s joys knew no bounds. She was jumping and howling. There were countless number of gifts kept inside the Santa’s bag – a Christmas tree, a Santa Hat, a beautiful gown, a basket full of fruits and chocolates, a number of cosmetics, a designer purse and what not. Nancy started pinching herself again, but this time she was not dreaming. It was in real. 

TERRORISM and an INNOCENT MIND

What might go in the mind of an injured child after the mayhem that took place in Pakistan yesterday? This is just a fictional interpretation of the same

Boom! Went off the sound as I saw a man aiming a gun at me.  I stood there helpless because no one was around. I felt a tremor in my head and saw everything around me revolving like a ball. I laid in the ground and saw my school shirt stained with blood. My friends were shouting for help but soon they stopped, because like me all of them had been laid down. I was shaking in fear, reeling in pain and praying to God. My teacher at school taught me that guns are used by warriors to remove the evil from the earth.

O Lord! Am I the evil that I am shot? 

What is my fault, whom have I harmed that I have to be a part of this dreadful act?

   

I am now lying on a hospital bed. I have lost one leg. I can see through one eye and the other? Well, dad said I have to live with one from now on as the other has disappeared forever. Mom has stopped talking as tears are flowing down her eyes like the stream of that river which flows just near my school. My dad bought me a bicycle last week, but I don’t know will I ever be able to ride it again?  I promised my sister that we would go to the church this Christmas and pray to Santa for a big teddy on whose lap both of us can sit and play dumbshell. All my dreams are dashed to ashes now.

 I have lost three of my school friends who used to sit with me in the same bench. We used to make ships out of paper and made them flow when the rains flooded our school’s playground. We used to share lunch together and play hide-and-seek behind the banyan tree near the school’s compound. Nor can I play and nor can I run now, I have not only lost my precious friends but also my half life.

On a Saturday morning at the Indian Coffee House

The Coffee Machine makes a long gushing noise churning out the coffee beans into a magical aroma that is enough to lift up your senses. I take the window sit, put my bag aside, take out my writing pad, pen and spectacles. I waive my hand at the boy who is all neatly dressed up in white ironed attire with a properly tied waiter’s turban and say, “Ek Coffee aur ek Omelette”(One Coffee and one omelette). I am sitting at the Indian Coffee House and enjoying my Saturday morning.

There is an old charm associated with the Indian Coffee House. The black soot at the ceilings and crumpled paints reverberate the tales of the past. The wooden and marbled tables bring out the sheer simplicity which still lures people to this place.  

It’s 10:30 a.m., Coffee House wears a deserted look. The chairs look pale and the table lies in disdain. It seems as if they are mourning in deep grief devoid of the visitors’ arrival. But this does not continue for long as within few minutes, a group of four persons arrive and break the silent milieu that was prevailing. One of them open their laptops and few others take out their writing pads. It seems like they are here for talking business. Wow! It’s good to know that its not the CCD’s and the MAC D’s, the alternate business meeting points apart from offices, Coffee House also forms a part of the league. My coffee arrives. I take the first sip and overhear the conversation going on at the other end. Seems like the group is here to discuss some business deals.

I look outside through the window glass. There is a mild wintry chill in the air as the breeze blows away the left over dust and leaves at one corner of the terrace. The sun plays hide-and-seek as it peeps once and then disappears again in the clutter of clouds. The weather is just perfect for a romantic date. Just when I think this, two love birds arrive. The young couple in their early twenties first exchange romantic glances, then give each other a warm hug. They take the table opposite mine, get cozy and prattle till the time the waiter comes and takes their order. Oh! did they forget that they have to order? because they seem to chatter, not being aware of the waiter. The girl finally breaks the conversation and places the order as the boy obnoxiously looks at him as if he has interfered in their private affair. As the couple continues their lovey-dovey talks, my attention is snatched by an angry voice.

Hur – Hush!, the voice has reached even higher now. I see a waiter running across the terrace with a large wooden stick. A herd of monkeys have arrived. They have created a ruckus; turning the chairs up and down, throwing the ketchup bottle on the ground, causing few of the visitors crumble in fear as they hurriedly move from one end of the building to the other.

On the other end, visitors have started pouring in quite a few numbers as the receptionist is quite busy now taking the orders. The waiters are leaving no stone unturned to serve the visitors. The business group is over with its meeting for the day and is enjoying light talks over snacks and tea. The young couple is in search of more privacy now as they leave in a hurry and make a quick exit.

 A tete-a-tete point, a writer’s sojourn or a lover’s paradise?, the Indian Coffee House is the place to be for anyone who…………………………

Well, go there and find the reason because it cannot be explained here unless you go there J

  

To the Ghalib's House

I took a rickshaw from the Metro station, but was unable to explain to the rickshawala, where in Ballimaran should I go to visit the residence of the great urdu poet Mirza Ghalib. It was only after he heard another rickshawala saying Nawabkhana, he took me to my destination.

As I was making my way towards Ghalib Memorial, Chawri Bazar wore the traditional charm of Old Delhi. Rickshaw pullers were making their way speedily through the narrow lanes, pedestrians were rushing their way to work without even a sign of verbal protest (like a quintessential Delhite), the chacha at the nearby tea stall was still busy serving his first customers of the day and was deeply engaged in a conversation with his everyday friend, women in black veil or Hijab (as it is known in Urdu) were bargaining with the fruit sellers on the prices while the tiny tots were busy looking at the toys that were displayed on the rags of the toyshop, the houses on both sides of the narrow roads were so close that they seemed to hug each other every morning.

It was 11:00 a.m., and there I was at the ‘Ghalib Smarak’ or the ‘Ghalib Memorial’ the place where the legendary Urdu poet spent his last nine years (1760 - 1769) of life with his wife Umrao Begum. Before proceeding further, a small introduction of Mirza Ghalib. Mirza Asadullah Baig Khan was one of the most famous Urdu and Persian poets during the Mughal Era in India. His literary works are popular not only in India and Pakistan, but is also widely appreciated and read all over the world by many well-known authors as well as literature lovers.

   

A small place though with two large rooms, the Ghalib Memorial sums up the life of this legendary poet in a beautiful way. At the entrance, a huge door welcomes me to a room where a marble statue of Mirza Ghalib, his attire (although a replica) and an array of interesting belongings of the poet are kept.

On either sides of the walls in the room are the two neatly ironed dresses of the Ghalib which he used to wear normally.   

The other half of the room was embedded with this beautiful line from one of Ghalib’s poem

Moving on to another room I came across a shelf full of Nawab’s Books, which would arouse an interest in anybody appreciating Urdu literature and poetry

An exact replica of the then period utensils transported me back to Nawab’s time. Just near to it, I came across another statue of Mirza Ghalib.  

The visit was worth that value which cannot be measured in money, but will be kept forever in the memory.

If the Nawabkhana is your travel itinerary, then take a look below for the timings.

The little girl in the park

She runs, she twirls, she twists

And she takes sweet little turns

She is the little girl in the park

Who adorns the morning with a spark

She takes me back to my childhood days

When I played, ran and got drenched in the rain

For there was not a single worry in the world

As there was love, joy and parent’s warmth

That little girl in the park

Arouse the innocence and playfulness in me

That stopped long ago and lost somewhere

When I took a leap from adolescence to adulthood

After a while she sits beside her grandpa

As she wants to know and solve her dilemma

That why she has no wings like the birds?

And why don’t they come out at night?

 The grandpa giggles looking at her and then replies,

 “That’s because they are less naughty like you”

She gives a disgruntled look at first  

Then goes back and starts to play with the dust

I wonder and think in aghast

May be I was the same little girl

When I was a tiny tot, to whom

Life was nothing but pieces of joyful thoughts

That's why you should always write

Write, to strike the rhythmic tune in your heart,

That skipped a bit and sang a romantic song,

When it saw the beauty on that wonderful dawn

Write, to release those suppressed emotions ,

That laid covered under the fake sheet of happiness,

And is now searching for a soul with all fondness

 Write, to break the shackles of loneliness,

Which has trapped you inside,

And has posed a barrier to the anticipated joy

Write, to treasure those happy and gloomy moments,

In the pages of your life’s journal,

To remind you of life’s teachings and its morals

Help the troubled mind to seek shelter,

In a world of peaceful paradise,

Write, to get reprieve from the misery for sometime

Take the pad, think a bit and move the pen with stride,

It may be a sentence, a paragraph or a single line,

Writing always helps to have a stable and calm mind

That’s why you should always write.........................