Passion -Most people in this world have hobbies or passions! But for me there are only a few who can actually call it a passion. This poem is more about the rarity and exclusiveness, even pleasure of discovering that one thing that we all love to do. Unfortunately most of us live through an entire lifetime without finding it ( including me), which I find tragic but true!

24 AUGUST 2013, 05:06 PM Imperceptible, unreachable
Too deep to be probed
Too dark to see
Too heavenly to experience yet again,
A passion-wordless...
Ha! What are words but
Mere human inventions...
Invariably fallible.( this sarcastically ).
One chance, one ray of hope
Is alone offered to us mere mortals To experience that forbidden fruit. Forbidden, yet desired!
Pleasure that would last a lifetime... A lifetime of that love.

Wisp O' the Wind

02 AUGUST 2013, 06:36 PM
A long forgotten dream
A memory
That's almost a dream
A haze, a mist
Is all that remains
A blurred line between
Reality and virtual reality
Whether it was
Benign brightness
Debilitating darkness
A thing of the past
A memory
Long lost in the
Swirls and mists of
Ever flowing Never stopping
Time
Never forgotten
But never remembered
Eternally present
But never there
And all that remains is
A wispy O' the Wind.

My Current Life-status

28 JULY 2013, 06:31 PM

Lately life seems too uncomplicated for me. Whatever anyone does doesn't surprise me anymore, it's like I am a spectator, not one of the actors, nor one of the helpers, just a spectator who looks on with an unstudied nonchalance , uninterested if not slightly amused and someone who has ceased to be surprised a long time ago. I feel like a mere onlooker over a balcony, a balcony that has ceased to provide amusements but over which I look because there is nothing else to do, because there is no other choice. I am like a statue, cold and unfeeling, emotions do not affect me now, and when I see others speaking about their feelings, it disgusts me.

But then I also believe that emotions are not meant to be spoken about, they are supposed to be felt, not put into words. And when people do that, that is, put feelings into words, it successfully if not completely destroys the magical effect it is supposed to have. And that I believe is why I feel not a part of this life. All around I see people doing just that, in consequence making me expect nothing outwardly but the same instance again and again. Consequently i have desisted to expect otherwise. Some things in life are better left unspoken. Precious memories, emotions, moments of stolen pleasure or instances of serendipity,are better left locked in that private place in our minds. Lost to the world but forever cherished . A private joy, a secret pleasure!

Nothing, no ploy can be more successful in destroying the worth of an experience than trying to put it into tedious words.

Why the Wind Screams...?

22 JULY 2013, 09:20 PM

The night was a little rough, yet enchantingly beautiful. The wind hummed and carried that infamous scream of a woman- full of pain, feeling, a haunting melody full of life. The night was yet young. The wind howled and echoed in the background. And gradually the inklings of a tale started rankling in my mind. The wind was some fearsome today. It howled with an unusual ferocity today. Although the night was still young, not a single star peeped out through the cloud.

There lived in the mountains a young rich widow who after the unfortunate and untimely death of her husband had opted for a life seclusion in an old bungalow belonging to her late husband . She had two servants-one middle aged woman who acted as housekeeper but lived in the village eight miles away. She came everyday at about six in the morning, let herself in using her personal keys to the house and promptly left at six in the evening after making the dinner. And the other was a security guard, very old and wise in a way that makes some people appear with age. Although he lived in the village he mostly spent the whole day and night in the bungalow's out house and only occasionally went to visit his grandchildren in the village home.

The bungalow was surrounded by mountains and pristine forests and the nearest civilization was the village eight miles away where the rich widow was infamous for her generosity. The young widow often found solace in long solitary walks that sometimes lasted for about half a day. As her days grew longer so did her rambles through the forest. After a particularly tiring and long walk she reached home after six and found that the maid had gone home and the food was growing cold on the dining table. Pretty soon the security guard came in to inform that he would be spending the night at his home in the village on the occasion of the birth of another one of his many grandchildren. The young widow expecting another quiet night readily agreed and bade him goodbye.

The evening gradually descended into darkness. The people of the village would later recall the utter blackness of that fateful night and the sheer lack of heavenly bodies. All that the village heard about the rich young widow was that night the wind screamed, or rather it seemed it carried a woman's screams. It is said that those were her last desperate cries for help, her calls for some much needed help.
The next day revealed the aftermath of a dark stormy night. Tress lay broken, the hounds had howled all night long and it was said that the dead walked through the streets last night. The maid as usually and punctually reached the bungalow at six a.m. and let herself in through the door with her keys. The scene which lay before her stopped her cold in her tracks. The blood ran cold in her veins. All material things which had been so adored in memory of her late husbands lay scattered around, but what her eyes seemed fixated on was the big pool of blood lying right in the centre of the room and from which were leading a pair of footprints right out the door she had just entered through. Screaming bloody murder she ran all the way back to the village and reported what she found. The men of the village formed a group and along with the sole policeman in the village set out towards the bungalow. Upon entering through the front door they found a similar scene as to what the maid had described. A search of the house revealed that no body was present whether living or dead in it. Upon closer inspection the footprints were found to be delicate and resembled that of a female. The rest of the house was found in similar disorder. With the directions of the sole policeman of the village the men inspected the surroundings of their benefactress. On finding no incriminating evidence against anyone and assuming the blood to be the widow's they concluded the investigation and put two sentries on guard. As the days passed no sign of the young widow was heard.

As the days passed into months the villagers realised that the wind through the mountains had now a haunting melody added to it, a woman's desperate screams. Soon the story became a legend, a thing of the past, a superstition. And gradually the incident was forgotten like so many things are lost into the folds of time.
And that my dear friends is why the wind screams!!!

Why the Wind Screams...?

22 JULY 2013, 09:20 PM

The night was a little rough, yet enchantingly beautiful. The wind hummed and carried that infamous scream of a woman- full of pain, feeling, a haunting melody full of life. The night was yet young. The wind howled and echoed in the background. And gradually the inklings of a tale started rankling in my mind. The wind was some fearsome today. It howled with an unusual ferocity today. Although the night was still young, not a single star peeped out through the cloud.

There lived in the mountains a young rich widow who after the unfortunate and untimely death of her husband had opted for a life seclusion in an old bungalow belonging to her late husband . She had two servants-one middle aged woman who acted as housekeeper but lived in the village eight miles away. She came everyday at about six in the morning, let herself in using her personal keys to the house and promptly left at six in the evening after making the dinner. And the other was a security guard, very old and wise in a way that makes some people appear with age. Although he lived in the village he mostly spent the whole day and night in the bungalow's out house and only occasionally went to visit his grandchildren in the village home.

The bungalow was surrounded by mountains and pristine forests and the nearest civilization was the village eight miles away where the rich widow was infamous for her generosity. The young widow often found solace in long solitary walks that sometimes lasted for about half a day. As her days grew longer so did her rambles through the forest. After a particularly tiring and long walk she reached home after six and found that the maid had gone home and the food was growing cold on the dining table. Pretty soon the security guard came in to inform that he would be spending the night at his home in the village on the occasion of the birth of another one of his many grandchildren. The young widow expecting another quiet night readily agreed and bade him goodbye.

The evening gradually descended into darkness. The people of the village would later recall the utter blackness of that fateful night and the sheer lack of heavenly bodies. All that the village heard about the rich young widow was that night the wind screamed, or rather it seemed it carried a woman's screams. It is said that those were her last desperate cries for help, her calls for some much needed help.
The next day revealed the aftermath of a dark stormy night. Tress lay broken, the hounds had howled all night long and it was said that the dead walked through the streets last night. The maid as usually and punctually reached the bungalow at six a.m. and let herself in through the door with her keys. The scene which lay before her stopped her cold in her tracks. The blood ran cold in her veins. All material things which had been so adored in memory of her late husbands lay scattered around, but what her eyes seemed fixated on was the big pool of blood lying right in the centre of the room and from which were leading a pair of footprints right out the door she had just entered through. Screaming bloody murder she ran all the way back to the village and reported what she found. The men of the village formed a group and along with the sole policeman in the village set out towards the bungalow. Upon entering through the front door they found a similar scene as to what the maid had described. A search of the house revealed that no body was present whether living or dead in it. Upon closer inspection the footprints were found to be delicate and resembled that of a female. The rest of the house was found in similar disorder. With the directions of the sole policeman of the village the men inspected the surroundings of their benefactress. On finding no incriminating evidence against anyone and assuming the blood to be the widow's they concluded the investigation and put two sentries on guard. As the days passed no sign of the young widow was heard.

As the days passed into months the villagers realised that the wind through the mountains had now a haunting melody added to it, a woman's desperate screams. Soon the story became a legend, a thing of the past, a superstition. And gradually the incident was forgotten like so many things are lost into the folds of time.
And that my dear friends is why the wind screams!!!

Dreamland

22 JULY 2013, 12:08 AM
Dreams in vain
A fine line
That separates
Fantasy and reality
Blurs,
Disrupted sleep
End of a story
A journey of love
Of safety
Of deepest untold desires
Of a world of our making
A safe haven
Of wishes fulfilled
Of everlasting happiness
Of joy
A land I yearn for
A land for searching
A quest
evermore.

Airport Tales

03 JULY 2013, 03:33 AM

It seems a mundane enough topic. But the thing is journey including an airport can turn out to be incredibly fascinating but much more amusing! One gets to witness a lot of extremely interesting and vivid live action little amusements being formed. Of course thee is that other possibility that you are so bored everything suddenly starts to make you laugh. For example there are the really witty but mostly cheeky guards that on noticing that a foreign tourist doesn't speak English decide to get a little fun out of the situation. This decision is quickly followed by jests of no English?!', "You Chinese", "You German"!!! Much to the amusements of the natives around. Turns out a little harmless teasing goes a long way in the art of amusement.

And then there is the sitting on the plane. Fortunately mine was the aisle seat(for me the perfect seat, the window seat is just suffocating while the middle one, should I say anything more) and all the time I kept praying that please don't let the person sitting next to me be overly fat(no offense to anyone), or one of those persons who have to put their arms on the armrest and things like that. But turns out both the seats next to me were unoccupied....Ah the irony of life!
But the highlight of the journey would have to be the freaky turbulence. Over the many flights I've been on this was the only one had extremely frightening turbulence. At least I succeeded in not having my tea spill all over me.

Not only airports but every journey can make for a good story. Of course there is that little thing called 'paying attention'.

Signing out,
With hope for more future great tales,
Anj