Tuesday, 29 January 2008


It is one thing to be a good person and quite another thing to be called a good boy, you know. For the record, I want to say that till now, I have miserably failed to earn the much sought after and coveted sobriquet that I longed long for eons and even bagged for a couple of times to some disinterested yet pious souls but to no avail. The newfound friends were neither much of help to me, nor clear about their intentions; I must confess. Through the much and much of the past of my thought of boyhood, it has always slipped away from me for no fault of mine and it is no better even now.
Though, I always appeared to be some kind of a much maturated person in a world of the grown ups and downs all around me flaunting neatly maintained moustaches and other glittering goodies, I never ever enjoyed my thrust upon allergic knighthood, secretly thinking that someday I will succeed in impressing some gullible souls to believe that I am the long lost good boy of sort that was to be discovered by. After reaching the fag ends of my seeking, I have almost turned into several of the goody goody avatars available under the sun that I carefully stole from my neighborhoods and from the fiction books that boasted of the classical types. May be I never was a convincing type since I know that many of my acquaintances had once remained the good boys of their kindred and sweet hearts as a temporary measure, due to their extraordinary quality of being sporadically sober in front of their holy mentors.
It certainly is a daunting task to become a good boy when nobody is ready to take fancy at your wagging tails and rein a velvet chain around your ever ready protruding neck in exchange of liberally advanced praises and encomiums. Does it mean that the good boy like me has no takers?
Boys are as a rule, for the keeps—more than ready for domestication and up-keeps for a song. To own them you need to be inviting and to posses them you ought to lure them with promises of cuddles and of course cook mouth watering foodies or even the tidbits as feeds.

Sunday, 27 January 2008


At times, we preferred to head for the darkness to find the meanings of life we missed in our exasperating days full of lights. Perhaps the dusk till dawn times were nasty and perplexing, for we found to our amazement laced agonies that it robbed us all of our dreams that we nourished so meticulously thinking them to be real and realizable.
The darkest nights are the times when we find the easiest means to live, suspended in enchanting surrenders and no fears of being alive in pains. The pulverized desires turn into fathomless flickering stars atop the roofs when we remain mesmerized and limp in that tepid embraces, soon fated to turn into torrential affection, faceless and shameless. This is when we whine to mutter the truths that have no meanings. In the darkest corners of our hearths we than open our eyes to discover, all that we could not in the days. But than we become innocent corpses near each other, till the daybreak.

Wednesday, 16 January 2008


It is a polemic, for which there could be most probably, no answers as well- yet I kept on asking it and she, feigning ignorance often threw back the gauntlets nonchalantly at me. On other times we preferred to remain in a pond of ours, alternating for meanings in faraway lands of unreal sorrows.
Can I someday cause sprouting; I thought on the lands of my longing and become a mendicant, thereafter to atone my sins. She apparently wanted to play hide and seek to resurrect a secretly cultivated desire in vain and then sulked to a fate thought to be otherwise.
Though we never needed each other for years gone by, we nevertheless believed a day has suddenly arrived to lift our sagging spirits to heights from where we would only fall to the depths of desired agonies and a hazy relationship. To be able to lend the spaces we owned, it was better to invite insecurity for the rest of the togetherness by the familiar maxims, of the time but to no avail.
Yet, we kept on asking and inventing the questions for which as we know there would be no answers.

Monday, 7 January 2008


The picnic-on-winter for today was what I waited for long; to go to, along with my would be friends, to an unknown destination to somehow feel assured of being alive and may be to be rediscovered of being loved- for I knew that one can love others rest of the days of the year, except in winter. I eagerly agreed, thinking that it would bring me a new-found freedom that I have been waiting for so long.
The early morning winter chills and rusting relationships of mine gave me enough reasons to get ready to cheer-up and remain expectant of the promised places that would someday shelter me, like this today’s evening. This is why, I decided to be extravagant and sleep away from the others I knew, to taste the intoxicating scenic ground out there in wait, probably.
The other friends, my companions of the picnic, though turned out to be the traitors, somehow treated me sumptuously with meals that we cooked quite leisurely amidst lurid songs and invented camaraderie that perfectly befitted the mirth of the soon ending time. Like them I had to be also extra-helpful and holy near the aromatic yet gruesome foods near that stinking brook and a brittle hillock, while the hungry villagers of the nearby scenic spot gazed us in awe. Probably, they knew what awaited us and them, in that gradually freezing noon. It was the end of my picnic and I was preparing to nauseate soon in the privacy of my secluded world, the familiar one in which I have been living for so long as a near disciplined soul.