Tag Archives: inspirational

The Pandemonium of Life

Living isn’t always an easy task. Life by the same means doesn’t always look like a bed of roses. But can we cease to move on?

As I watched a blind couple helplessly staring at the young adults in the Metro asking for a privileged seat, I asked myself – How far have we gone in the pursuit of our desires? Is this the image of God which humans have inherited?

Irrespective of the numerous depictions that one can carve about Life, it can not be denied that it is a soar sight! We often fail to recognize the sadness that our happiness entails for others. For every person dancing away in glory there is always a depressed heart running into desperation and misery. For every successful man climbing on the social ladder there are always a number of heads lying at each step over which s/he must climb. For every blessing that paves your way there is always a lonely beggar watching your path and cursing his/her fortune. With such a presence of sadness, grief, jealousy and pain – doesn’t life become a pandemonium where each of us are our own oppressors?

Yet, surviving lies not in lamentation but action! Movement is the synonym of Life and hence we grow, mature and blossom with every failure and success that we achieve. But is mere surviving enough? Can we dissolve the balance of our Pandemonium?

I believe we can!

If movement symbolizes Life, Feeling symbolizes Living!

To live is to feel and to feel is to realize the depths of our humanity. Every person dancing away in glory CAN destructs the pillars of his/her pandemonium every time s/he extends an open arm to the one succumbing to misery. Likewise every successful person who climbs through social ladders with the others breaks through the same shackles of his mental prison which every person who shares a part of his blessing with the lonely beggar feels by the end of his journey.

One may wonder, can it be done? But then we must never forget that even before we could try, every task seemed an impossibility.

So, the only thing that matters is –



The Elegy of a Man and Stray

Even though I have never been blessed with a four-legged friend, I felt like dedicating a word to their companionship.

In the cold, all light and grey,

The story of a man and stray.

No thing can give the warm bed

To the one left alone at birth,

Than what he gets from crumbs of bread

And a wooden, shiny hearth.

Owning just a tea shop

The Man himself is not unbound,

Family of four lovely lives

Comfort, though is not profound.

In the world all large and held,

Two lives that strangely dwelled.

Give life to each other at dawn,

And meet daily in a phantom lawn.

Thus, the bodies of godly love,

Chat under the sunshine dove.

Complement each other’s new start,

And all these talks are just in hearts.

Yet the two solitary loons

Tired of life, meet at noons.

Eat food and share with each

In a language no one can teach.

Dawn of the day soon ends,

And as dark, the moon sends

The Man begins to leave for home

His humble place, his only dome.

Funny though how he waits

In the cold that kills and shakes.

To farewell his four-legged friend

As he comes from the farther end.

Giving the crumbs the man proclaims,

“We’ll meet again” to whom he tames.

After dinner they leave again,

To end their life’s new begin.

Thus this way the two stay,

And ponder my pen as dawn’s gay.

For is it only life that lays,

The love between man and strays?

Or is it in the times of need

That men can find stray friends indeed…..

A Memento

It is often in the most grievous storms

When all the trees lie down

That one little sap, in solitary gloom

Smiles wide above the ground.

It smiles because what winds couldn’t shake

Holds him firmly by its feet

It laughs because what the sun couldn’t break

Protects him while he chuckles his teeth…

In the gush of joy, he wildly sways

For the hopeless has found a hope

Like a drop of dew that wanders to the flower

To hide its bloom and elope.

The Deserted Banquet Hall

You have been here a long time now, Gertrude. What do you recall looking at the patch of the dark sky which reaches your eyes through the concrete forest?

He sighed. It was indeed dark and the thought of the arrival of an evening mosquito swarm (for that is what the people graded it to be) broke his meditation. So he said to me, “I can’t believe I am talking to you again. But then who else do I have to fill my company, it’s not as if people have friends anymore. The last conversation I ever had was with a Chat Bot that talked like a woman. So to answer your question, yes I try to recall a moment, years from now when I did make memories.”

From days of your father to this moment, Connecticut has become alien to you and unrecognizable to me. In the farthest East upon the barren surface of the Great River the sun did shine yet it didn’t glow in your company but burned you with itself. And as I looked ahead, the far dimming lights of New York City which shimmered at a distance your spirit could never achieve instigated disgust for the odour of its coxcomb life. In this ever ambitious world here you sit everyday within your part of the sky looking on to the darkness as the constant reminder of the life today.

He motionlessly looked on the sky bereft of stars (as he would say) but which was hidden behind the dark clouds of dust as I could see.

It had become a matter of everyday now. Gertrude’s lonesome seating on the roof provoked my intrusion for in the silence around him I heard afflicting thoughts from the time past. In the month of October when leaves did rustle under his feet, I lingered today to hear the presence of nature’s daughter around him. It was between this chasm of then &now, where I got lost every time he looked at the far and familiar night sky. And to my agony, I could not reconcile him to find acceptance in a world he thoroughly unaccepted.

You should probably go to Martha. You are again sinking in yourself ————-Before I could say more, the above said Martha, the sole living companion of the only un-automated house in Connecticut, poked into view bearing her usual face with which she hinted that she didn’t quite understand his behaviour and got irritated with her ignorance.

“So you peeping into the sky again, lark?” she ejaculated.

“Not the sky, doll”.

I tried to evade her.

“Dad, you know you don’t have to lie to me”, was her protestation.

“But my dear, with your face covering my view, how do you expect I can be looking onto the sky now?”

I generously smiled at her stamping feet with which she often indicated her helplessness in rescuing his humour from her innocent anger. And as she would have it, soon I and Gertrude were back in the “petite” apartment he called his house. It had been carefully maintained to be as antique as possible. It was thus that it had the old ceramic paint coatings which now withered from time, were majorly covered with portraits of Connecticut that he drew from my memory. He enjoyed lying at the stitched bag of sponge he called a “couch” while Martha began her persiflage.

But today was different. For a reason I couldn’t identify, Gertrude lied down on his sponge to look over at his oldest painting which he saved as a bearing by his father. The painting never took my attention for it couldn’t instigate my love for art which was lost in my transaction with the Present; but with Gertrude it became somewhat like a gadget to which he drew back every hour of the 24. It was contained in a wooden frame which was cracked at corners and the picture presented the image of a young boy in mid twenties standing in the middle of an empty banquet hall. The glance of the boy seemed to interest Gertrude. Even with the tears that rolled down his eyes the young boy curved his lips to smile looking at the maple leaf crafted on the hall’s floor.  Within minutes of meditation, the painting of the mysterious boy flushed Gertrude’s face until a tear held with cold embrace his heated cheeks.

But it seemed I wasn’t the only one who noticed the deluded weight, for Martha exclaimed as haughtily as a child used to do in 21st Century pointing at the picture, “Is he experiencing another of those modes you call “emotion” papa? I wish Mr. Brudge taught us that in the class of Humanology.”

Gertrude just smiled.

“But is he sad or happy, papa?”

At this question of the little Martha I felt a deep hollow in my heart that numbed my thoughts. While I had no weight (for such is my constitution) I felt burdened with a load I seemed to be familiar with. To all I experienced Gertrude sat frozen at the face of her who didn’t notice his fixed gaze.

But Martha frivolously observed, “He looks happy to be sad, papa. I think he’s smart like Treck”.

He didn’t bother to hear the gross details that Martha went on to provide of Treck’s intelligence, and got up on his feet to face the painting he mused over. For in a moment of Martha’s persiflage, he stumbled over his only inheritance.

And he spoke in my ears –

I remember how my father sang to me, though the words I can’t recall

Yet its music reaches me now, of the song sewed with “pleasures in all”

It spoke of shallow reach of joy and the faithless showers

Afar did the freshness reach of the splendid flowers?

Ah! Its morning opens its gates and now its climes I do I see,

Affection drawn from sorrow is the truest there can be. *



*Gertrude is referring from Thomas Moore’s “In the Morning of Life”

Little Happy Things

The smallest, merriest things are they

Looking at you, I suppose

Your charm be equal to what words of play

A poem or a goofy prose!

That little squirrel pecking her tail

Slumbers as i look and laugh

I wonder how you changed my pale

When compared to my books you’re half!

I glare at the moon and its mangata

I’m assured like begets like

As it shaky curves upon the water

Draw a curve on my face as a smile!

The swirling wasps and swinging bee

Present a choir that I see

While my nearest neighbour, the ‘mosquito’

Won’t stop buzzing the chords to me!

The giggling tree consoles me

Happiness is but such small

Its ladder grows towards peace

Flourishing at the cusp of pall.

And even though nothing makes sense

Life and its troublesome caricature

But yet it will someday when you know

Only in bedlam is Nature…!!

Chapter Four

I don’t know what to do! M. has not been playing in the sand today and He doesn’t even look at me. What would have mother done? Would she have hugged him to sleep or stayed by his side? As I picture her here with us, I see that she would have cried for M. But what am I thinking? She can do much more than that! So, what if crying is the best thing that life has taught her? I am sure she would have done something more creative. What could it be?

Such was the turmoil in her mind as she looked at M. lying still over his long green leaves, barely moving and feebly breathing. She sat down right beside him but fearing that He might see her troubled, she slipped herself behind his back. No thing about the condition of the sleeping child could be seen from the place where she sat. She could not hold his hand or check his temperature or even look at his face as it flushed with red at the onset of the granulated sea winds. “What a waste!” She thought, “I do not know what I must do nor do I know how I must pass this time. If only M. could speak”. But the sick boy, by now red as a cherry and frail as a cotton bud, did not move a muscle. “How can He ever know what I am going through. It’s not him whose to sit still looking on at thin traces of life”.

“Un….Deux…..Trois…..” – Practicing the French alphabet on the sand was indeed very difficult. But with M. lying in the front it became an even more cumbersome task. She had to do something else. As the time passed the violent tussle between the still world around her and the noise of the thumping ocean took her away from her un-physical friends and stopped her eyes at the stiller body of the boy. How could he be lying motionless for so long? “I thought He would never tire away. But it seems that the sickness of the soul soon takes over from the weakness of the body”. Then, could he be dead now? Maybe, maybe not! And in case He DID happen to die, would I get to keep both the teddy bears? And what about the flowers mother got to them every week? Would she get to keep them too? It was an alluring thought. But, what could she possibly do with both of the bears? She detested the brown colour. And yet she would have to look after the brown teddy if HE DIED! No! He has to wake up and take responsibility of his teddy bear. She could not let him run away from the people who waited for him.

A giggle – or was it? Did he crack a laugh? Can he do that at such poor health?

Suddenly the boy moved. His red face was slightly brighter now, or maybe it was the sun which had glazed her eyesight. But, his round brown eyes shone with a tear of mist that made it way round his cheek as he giggled and turned his face towards her. She did not seem to understand him one bit. Can sickness make somebody crazy? She contemplated on that last thought a little longer. Uncle George did look crazy as he caught the “sickness of argument” from the “House of the Bounderbys”. And, Aunt Christi literally walked with heels over head after her night at the Mansion Party – “She sure did look mad” smilingly She whispered. And here was another Gramplean Heir knocking his wits off! She couldn’t help asking about his funny matter of delight.

“You nearly scared me with your stunt there M. And now you dare to laugh it off! Give me one good reason why it is so funny”

He almost choked in his breathe and huffingly said, “Didn’t you see that? Mr. Crab over there has stranded himself in the midst of the ocean!”

“So? What makes that funny?”

“I think it is a funny joke. The ocean did not need to swipe poor Mr. Crab off his feet. Look at him! For all he knows the world around him is merely a painted canvas. Would his being at sea make any difference to him when he never knew the shore. For all I know Mr. Crab might be singing “Heave-Ho! Off we go…..!!! aloud to the fishes. You can’t possibly threaten someone to their life if they’re already dead M.”

“This sounds funny coming from a person who was dead himself a while ago. How I delighted to think I might get all the flowers mother would bring”, she said with a pretentious sigh.

“I can’t be dead M. I am with you even if you are not with me.”

He turned over and She watched him resume his “death sleep”. While the granulated winds now rushed past her ears and brought the red of her younger’s face to her unsuspecting cheeks. Was it the silence of the warring elements she could not tell, but in that very quiet she found death and life together – for once!


In the splashes of colours and heap of clay

In the bowers of water, in the rays of day

The only thing you’re bound to see

Is the life and breathe of Beauty!

It wraps itself in the innocence of a child

And resides in the profound silence of the wilds

Smiling as the rain it never seizes to be

The ever so wonderous Beauty!

It lives in the wrinkles of an old face

In the bed of the ocean finding its solace

Shining as the sun, all merry

Dances forever, the soul of Beauty!