Tonight, she's mine.

The day has passed,
And here comes the night.
Adorned by the cluster of stars,
Topped by the crescent Moon,
She makes a way into my heart,
Into my world.

Tonight, she’s mine.
She’s mine, and I am, hers.
I’ve let myself get lost in her Jet-black color,
Amazed at her hollow, yet heavenly countenance.
She is, beautiful.

The day did part us,
The blue sky never making it up to me.
But the twilight ended my wait for her,
As she painted the blue sky orange, and then dark.
The darkness, is what I love.
Her darkness, illuminated by the faint diamond-like stars.
And her Pearl, the Moon,
I love.

She was not meant for me in the day,
Nor was I.
She was on the other part of the world,
And I was alone, facing the sun, busy.
But she’s arrived now,
Silencing half of the world in their beds.
Apart from me, who waits for her, yearns for her.

Tonight, she’s mine,
And the world, it’s all gone quiet.
The stars, they’re witnesses,
Oh and the Moon, she’s the charm,
Of the love, I and she have,
Of the bond, I and she share.

Tonight, she’s mine,
I am, with her, through my dreams,
Even the sky isn’t my limit.
As I float into her,
Into her Jet-black beauty. :)


Solitude

Its one of those rainy, monsoon nights... Damp, humid and cloudy. Cloudy skies that contain and curtain the stars and the moon.
I hate those clouds... I do. They separate me and make me feel lonely and vulnerable.
Lately, I've developed an used-to-ness with being lonely. Its not that I like being alone, its just that there's no other option.
I am, yet to discover myself... And I do it in strange ways. I even doubt how many people completely understand themselves.
I hate my loneliness, even though I belong to it as much as it does to me.
I hate not being to express my loneliness.
'cause No one pays any heed.
'cause None will stop and ask.
'cause None will bother to peep into the troubles.
I know, this all just feels like a random input... But if you ever have felt alone, it will all make sense... Even the chaos... the randomness.
There are some feelings that can never be conveyed through discussions, or talks, or conversations. And if you do convey them somehow,
A display of emotions,
A show of kindness,
Some sweet words,
is all that you might get.
But is it worth?
I'm tired honestly,
To play the gentleman, when you're craving from the inside like hell, for someone to satiate your lonliness.
To be as non-exposed as possible, afraid that it would reveal your vulnerability to the one you're dying to share things with.
'cause deep down inside, I'm afraid. Afraid that if I really open myself up, I'd lose my worth.
'cause there are, frequent times. Frequent times, when I crave.
I told you, I haven't completely discovered myself yet...
There are times when I feel disturbed. Disturbed to the point where I feel my mind getting crushed over, my heart getting pumped out, my soul being ripped off...
I crave. I crave for a healer.
But I'm afraid, as I told you. Afraid that if I ever find anyone such, I'd become addicted.
Afraid that if I'd be so frequently lonely and vulnerable, I'd die of the absence of the healer.
But then, who doesn't need....?
Those motherly eyes..
Bonding in directly with the panicked kid into you?
That sweet voice..
Able to charm out even the deepest troubles out of you?
Those warm arms..
Which could make you forget everything, but the love that they contain for you?
Those soft fingers..
Which would trace into your hair and caress them softly to calm down even a Tornado rising inside you?
Got lured, didn't you?
But its not always so simple, so sweet and so satiating...
How I wish it could be, though.
The Question really arises when this same one advantages your vulnerability.
And yet,
I crave. I feel my soul getting torn.
I... feel... alone.
But this loneliness is something that brings me closer to the ink and paper twin.
I wish it'd be the same for me...
Ink and Paper are like twins. Both together, make up everything. Both as individuals, are nothing.
But then,
Even ink blots on poor paper.
Questions arise everywhere and so does loneliness. The thing is, how one survives it all.
And yet, one can't write with just Ink, or just Paper.
A healer would make it all so easier for me.. easier to put my jigsawed soul into the right order, to warm me against the chill, or simply cover my vulnerability.
As it is,
It is never too easy to be in the gentleman's shoes and play it so well.
And,
Being good is never worth it, if it becomes so easy.
Loneliness comes and goes.

A Sunday Evening

The Sun is setting into an Orange Hue,
Making the horizon a breathtaking view.
But lazy is the Sunday Evening,
Lazier is me.

A slight drizzle is in the air,
A cool breeze accompanying it, fair.
And yet, lazy is the Sunday Evening,
Lazier is me.

Night’s near, Dusk at hand,
Twilight already being set upon the land.
Too tired to think about the night though,
As the laziness in me doesn’t let go…

Owl City’s tuned on,
And I smile.
Twilight’s long before now gone,
And I miss it already for a while.

There’s work summoning,
There’re my books beckoning.
Don’t know when I’ll answer ‘em,
Don’t know when I’ll join ‘em.

Birdies are making their way back home,
The dusk’s illuminating their outlines.
The sun’s on the horizon like a dome,
The breeze’s playing like a light chime.

I’m on the pen,
Inking this all the same.
But lazy, I am,
And thus I let it all go damn.

The ink thus spills, the pen thus falls,
But I don’t bother to clean it all.
‘cause lazy is the Sunday Evening,
Lazier is me.

Wake me up some other day,
For now, I won’t let my thoughts fray.
‘cause lazy is the Sunday Evening,
Lazier is me.

Son of a Farmer

Rains whip the soil: silent yet strong.
Rains cover for my tears, from all the stares.


I can’t spare myself from the stares completely, though,
I can’t leave everything and run away to the farthest place, though,
I can’t be courageous enough to face everything, too, though,
Because I am, the Son of a Farmer.

So I sit.
I sit and I think.
I think and I recall.
I recall and I cry.
I cry and I run into the Rains.
Rains, that cover for my tears.

My Father, The Farmer.
The Farmer who made it sweat and blood to green the fields.
The Farmer, who worked endlessly to feed him and his family and even others.
The Farmer, who never mastered the skills of trade.
My Father, The Farmer, who thus succumbed on his own.

That year, the Rains weren’t bountiful.
It resulted into a severe draught.
I missed seeing the green fields so much,
But The Farmer, had greater worries.

The Draught was merciless.
It provided no crop to reap, no grain to gather, no harvest to sell.
No sell, and No money.
No crop, and a hell lot to worry…

For there was a loan,
A loan to be repaid.
And there were aspirations,
Aspirations of My Father to see his son grow big, and grow literate.

But the Draught had other intentions.
It made The Farmer plead to the Landlord.
It made The Farmer beg to the others for money.
It made The Farmer defamed, and cursed, and hated.

None helped My Father,
None granted Money or even support.
And all those wicked Kings men and Landlords,
They took away the fields, the home and the dignity of My Father.

For The Farmer was claimed to be a Drunkard,
A drunkard who lived on loans for his habit.
“DRUNKARD” was written on the walls of The Farmer’s home, his face colored black,
And was cast away from the village,
The Village thus claimed to be prevented from undesirable people.

My Father, The Farmer.
The Farmer who fed the village.
The Farmer, who was now undesirable.
My Father, The Loser.

We all went away from the Village with The Loser.
The Loser and we stayed in cottage by the outskirts,
Devising and thinking of methods to repay the loan,
And make The Loser, The Farmer once again.

But it never happened,
The Loser hanged himself a day later.
And took My Father, The Farmer, with him.
All hopes shattered, I ran for the Rain.

And Rain came at last,
Not from the heavens, but from me.
It poured down through the eyelashes, down on the soil.
Silent, yet Strong.

I told you, I recall, and I cry.

It’s been a year,
And the draught is over.
The Rains are not greening the fields,
And are covering for my tears.

Rains whip the soil: silent yet strong.
Rains cover for my tears, from all the stares.

I can’t sit and think and recall and cry, though,
I can’t grow big and grow literate, though,
I can’t fulfill My Father’s aspirations, though,
For I’ve Mouths to feed and Money to earn,
For I can’t be anyone else apart from this,

Because, I am, The Son-of-a-Farmer.

Wisdom or Words?

I read a thing today in the Newspaper in the “Appointments” section. It said that the company needed several individuals for different posts in their technical field. This might have made no mention here, if it wouldn’t been for the last line. It stated “Only those fluent in English should apply”.

This fuelled me up.

I don’t know what, but I got sort of infuriated. Why only english-speakers? What about those who didn’t know English, but were the better ones in the technical field than those fluent in English? I know, this argument of mine will sort of feel a stupid thing or an overreaction. Even I gave another thought over it: What if the individuals that finally got the job had some serious use of English in their work? What if they needed to interact around in English? But then I re-read it, and it stated “Technical Field”. I didn’t get since when people in the Technical Field had a language restriction.

Maybe I’m wrong about this account, but the world, atleast India, is full of such examples.

A person fluent in English is always rated over the one not-so-fluent-in-it. Then though the latter one be more skilled, more trained and more experienced in that particular job. I know, being fluent in English only adds up to the Personality, the first Impression of an Individual. But these aren’t the real factors for the ultimate job, as per my opinion. Don’t factors such as being efficient, hard-working, experienced, skilled count?

Do not agree? Have this…

A person not knowing English, or being tremendously poor in English, is always laughed at. I’m not talking about those who try to show-off their English-speaking skills, only to fail later. I’m talking about the sincere, honest guys who try to learn the language, in order to overcome their shameful lacking.

But this is it. Not knowing English is considered to be a lacking, a shameful thing. “You’re of 17, and yet you don’t know English?” This question is really irritating. I accept that being poor in English is really a great drawback, but the way it is looked-upon, is totally wrong.

About 78% of the people in Europe don’t know English. They only know their Mother-tongue. And yet, would you say they haven’t progressed? Europe was the cradle of the Industrial Revolution. Europe brought in the various ways of Transport and Communication. Europe has produced many of the finest Artists, Architects, Doctors, Alchemists, Scientists, Poets, Rulers, Craftsmen and Navigators. How many of them were great English speakers? Remember, Europe doesn’t constitute of England and all the English such as Churcill, Victoria, Shakespeare, Newton, alone. The major part constitutes the Non-English provinces, and the people there are proud that they have command over their own language. They do not require the means of English to tread the paths of progress.

Even 85% of the Chinese don’t know English. But that doesn’t halt their progress, either. I do not need to supply with the examples of the Chinese progress, I guess. An example of half of the electronic devices and gadgets, plastic materials, crockery items in our households being “Made in China”, is enough to prove their dominance.

But there’s even another side to China’s story. Thousands of Interpreters fluent in English and well-acquainted with Mandarin (Chinese) are recruited by China to help it reduce that 85%. The interpreters are even paid tremendous salaries (I even considered of being one :P) for translating just some pages of Mandarin into English, or helping people know English better. The condition of China in English is so poor, that while the Olympics were hosted there back in 2008, the Chinese Govt had hoisted huge posters showing a Human face labelled with its organs in English, on the streets. They didn’t even know what a Nose meant back then.

But the Chinese people who know English well enough don’t laugh over the ones who don’t know it. They’re learning and gaining in the language at a rapid speed, without taking Mandarin off the top spot.

I know, this thing of mine will sound as if I’ve gained some statiscal data from somewhere and cooked it all up over here, but it isn’t so. Many of the facts in this article were already known, just that they all found a stream and suited here, in the right place.

I even know, that by writing this in English, it may seem that I’m contradicting myself.

But it ain’t so.

All I mean to say is, Not-knowing-English doesn’t equal to Not-knowing-Anything. One may have a great knowledge and a great command over any Non-English language, and might as just be equal to, or even better than the one knowing English. I love English. But that doesn’t mean I don’t respect Marathi: My Mother-tongue or Hindi or any other language or the ones knowing only those.

A language is a language, and no one of it is better or worse than the other.

What is being conveyed, taught, acknowledged or simply thrown light upon is that which is important and is that which is supreme. The mode of communication never is so important, unless you understand what the other intends to convey.

I hope you all get me, and do not laugh upon the ones who put up sincere efforts.

Words are never greater than Wisdom.