Oblivion!

  As my grandma slowly poured the sesame seeds onto the hot pan and the oil sizzled with the eternal taste of pretense, I laid obediently on the newly earned canvas of righteous freedom because it was noted that this time belonged to us alone.  I could do anything.  I could play the piano I had been dying to play for so long and play Russian songs over it. I could finally feel the little bottle of magnetic sand I got from the beach in my hands and see that they weren’t ashes this time. And how cool is it that we all dared to paint with the color red after all these daunting war-feared years? It’s a captivating red sunset sheltering the anonymity of the groovy moves of the floating clouds. It’s framing the remaining houses as if it’s a modern Starry “Dusk” . Has it always been this beautiful? The flying birds and swaying fields, buildings so layered and afar, young girls playing so safely on the streets, and a group of kids discussing philosophy—I wish I could eavesdrop on...

The heavy blow of ambience so captivating seeks shelter in your window  filled with resilience and words of thriving scars alike.  Situated amidst your tapestry of life, and within the heathers some time I wished to be burnt, within the pages of notebooks better torn, and within the sheets of overly craved ransom  somewhere mystically befalling the unknown.  I stand with you, darling.  Amidst the roses of no colors, the emptiness in you sulking the life of mine too,  and with the gaze of the eyes sheltered in the anonymity of lifeless paradise. Hunger is there,  and there is the warp of time fueled with trepidation, standing along with you feels like a crime.  A crime so subtle, it takes away the essence of criminality, you seek the prison like your home,  and make me a guard. I recklessly, accept.  You make me humanly sublime, take my words for the bereavement of the hefty presence  you wished was never there.  You walk to me,...

  I heard the slither of her jewels as they caressed her hands in beauty,  the expression of her nails as they were painted to mystify  the scar she had on her fingers, I heard the smile of the red ballgown, and I heard the music of the  stockings she wore as her skin constantly reminded her,  “It’s December, honey!” She smelled like lavender, spoke like an angel; and the way her cat snuck closer to her on the winter evening,  she looked like a fairy mother.  Oh how dearly she wishes to dance it all out,  the words of liberation, and the tunes of freedom,  how dearly she wishes to let go of the hair bun to finally  let them sway their own way.  The delicacy of loose hair, and the nude lips, the laughter that hides beneath the sweet smile.  She wants to laugh it all out.  The little peek at the campfire she cherishes,  the fiery illusion of loving things from afar,  as the garden lushes with tomatoes and olives,...

  I could see the little droplets making their way into the world. Slither epiphanies and the earthy smell. Oh, how delicate! The parades of freshly washed peaches across the street; the chirrups of beetles, the fresh breeze swaying onto the black road, and how lovely, how wise the leaves look when they unfold. The muddy stains on the silky roads, the beauty that arises with the misty haze of the evening. So raw, pilfering the clouds of their void is the narrative of a window that sweeps off the domain of whimsical, melancholic and a deprived soul all at once. Is this what a beginning feels like? Is the life so majestically withdrawn from silent vows of the nature just a beauty to cherish? Or a memory of love to perish. The love story of a green stem and the purple flower, the rain embracing the utterance of the bodies so connected, so intertwined. A suspect can you not see; a ruse of darkness that enchants with its own little lies. Oh, rain! How clev...

Life is a parody, and in a more divine way, living is a paradox! Life is love. It is the unidentified connection to the self. It is the certainty of the minute links that paints the canvas of our void with eternal colors. It is commitment; it is passion. The words of the mirror saying, “You look good today.”; the cool way we jam to our music taste; the morning sip of the strongest black coffee and a piece of the dark chocolate -- that’s life, caring of the self. Life is a futile destiny ending at the seams. It’s not about existence; it’s about being present. It's a redeemed reality. It’s like a plane mirror, we (the images), most of the time, aren’t even real. Life is fear. It is waking up to infinite problems we don’t have the solutions to. It is being assigned a favor of cruelty to our dreams and ourselves. It’s that disappointment of not living up to the aspirations. Life is a football match. Sometimes, someone else gets a free kick and we get kicked, right in the faces. Life is...

  “Define yourself.”  But, you see, the thing about definitions is that they are absolute, inacceptable of change. My life is quite the contrary, so, I don’t think I have a definition. But that’s where the philosophical thoughts step in. The 3 AM “when your dog eats your philosophy homework” vibes. Reading crime books and then confirming “well, at least that’s not my definition.” Finding peace in something I am not. And, watching self-motivation movies because you feel really low. That was what “define yourself” did to me.  But on the brighter side, that was how I got to know about the movie “Dead Poets Society.” I honestly watched it just because it has the words, “dead poets”, the two words which I love separately . I still watch it whenever I am down, and it surely has the same impact. But the thing that stayed with me after the very first watch was a part of the verse mentioned in it:  “... the powerful play goes on, And you may contribute a verse,  What’s y...

आज म तिमीलाई उनको कथा भन्छु।  विचित्र छन् उनी ! को हुन् उनी ? उनी, जसको लासलाई सिढी बनाएर कदम चालेउ तिमीले, जसको आदर्शमा टेकी लिपिमा रगत छरेउ तिमीले, उनी, जसको मर्यादाको चिहानमा आज तिम्रो दरबार उभिएको छ,  जसको बिनम्र चित्रणमा तिम्रो मपाईंको भोग चढिएको छ।  उनी, जसका लागि यथार्थले अपराधको मोड लिदैछ, जसले प्रारब्धमा बनाएको सिसाको महल,  आज बिहानीको सुर्यको किरण संगसंगै टुट्दैछ।   टुट्दैछ आज सपना तिम्रो हरेक कदममा।   कस्तो कदम हो यो तिम्रो ? सभ्यता नै डगमगाउने ! उनका शब्द शब्दमा झल्किदैछ मानवताप्रतिको गुहार,  बोल्दा बोल्दै पनि अबोध बन्न पुगिसकेको छ उनको चित्कार,  "न्याय भोली" को आरम्भमा न्यायको बहिस्कार, आश्चर्यचकित यो तिम्रो कोमल माटोमा जननीको धिक्कार ।  उनी केवल हाँस्न सक्छन् ! तिमी सोध्छौ उनी किन हास्छन भनी ? त्यो घब्राहट को मुस्कान हो,  विजयको बलिदान हो,  त्यो हार मानेको मानिसको शान हो ! मस्तिस्कमा प्रलयको प्रतिबिम्ब गाँसेर हिँड्छन उनी,  आफ्ना काला नयनले कालरात्रीको कल्पना गरि बस्छन्।   सोच्छन उनी,  सोच्...

The fall of a sunset, it wonders: What if the world never ended? Barbaric melancholy, it drowns in the feathers--- a hefty chunk,  sucking a wild mirage in the desert. A sight of horror.  It transcends  the bitter,  bereaved love of unfulfilled masters. Brooding the agony,  fretting the despise, carving the rocks,  a puppeteer it stands, craving the dolls.  "Unite" it says, to a chunk of dust. Hidden under the walls of a haunted fortress. Let the shadows be called. Let the colors be called. Hovering  the towers, a prick of sunlight, a howl of a beginning. Let the scream of silence be called.  Let it fly! The cage stands still, a creaking door opened.  And this flight ends with a bang. Let that embark the beginning of peace.

Emancipation! A claim was brought- plowing through the deeds of a broken chain. The shook future, a numb utopia— a silent franchise with dead sequels got to the light— the light of fear. The light of tears. A hitherto black eye, piloted disgrace. Pivotal is the man who tries to break the cage. An empty vase is the life he lives: a surging pass of a life unlived. A sanctuary spitted on, grave of grace. A lie lives a better life. A hidden tale of the sun, and somewhere beyond he preaches the gun. The world of slaughter, stained distress, a slaying paradise, a weapon unveiled. He lives. There's a weapon by his side. What are you going to do, big guy?