Friday, 28 November 2014

Overbridge...



The traffic under the over bridge seemed liked a never ending sequel of punishment. Horns, beeps, cries, squalls, sneezes,coughs,yells all mixed up with the smoky air gave the city life it’s identity. 

Drops of irritation settled near the curled corners of the hair started to dribble down making the jam much more pathetic.Disgusted Ananya looked out of the window to find them sitting there at the same spot as all other previous days and all other previous years, patiently seeking a penny. 

Frowning lines on her forehead slowly vanished away, patting her on the back and whispering near her pearl studded ears “ you may not reach on time but at least life is fair enough to gift you with a home to reach”







Acknowledgement : Google Images

                                            

Tuesday, 28 October 2014

That Day....

The tinkling of the temple bells reverberated around. Waking up sleepy eyes. Dragging lazy souls. Compelling stubborn ones to get ready. For school. For colleges. For offices. For hospitals. 
For life. And for livelihood. 
That's how the day began. Almost every time. Showing minimal chances of changing. But this is life . It can change. Any moment. Any instant. Without giving the slightest hint.
And that's what happened . On a Monday morning. After a steamy cup of green tea.

The clouds slowly drifted apart. Giving space for morning rays to fill in. The dark brown curtains gently brushed aside with the crimson colored book rack. Books new and old peeped in for a loving glimpse of their admirer, their friend, their beloved. Who finds peace inside their pages and life along with them. 
At a distance. Bit far. Smoke rose up. Building circles in the air. And also curiosity. There sat someone basking in the morning sun. Trying to ward off chilly winds. His eyes fell on him. An old man. Homeless. A regular in the locality. His vision traveled a bit far. Towards a roof. With half built steps. A broken doorway. Languishing alone. Just like him. He thought. Making a creaky sound with every undesired move.
The vision traveled still afar. Crossing the coconut tress. Crossing their curvy bodies. Ignoring the play of sunshine between their leaves. Just giving it a thoughtful moment like a soft caressing.
It traveled further ahead. To a land unknown. Or known. A land concealed. Or revealed. A land that existed or may be not. A land where stood a beautiful house. With walls painted. Like the colors of a rainbow. Purple. Red. Yellow. Green. With stripes of white adoring it. At the edges and near the window sills. With a small balcony on the first floor. Not too small indeed. Enough for spending sometime. Alone. Without a company, neither to question nor seek answers. A corner. Peaceful one. Bejeweled with flowers. Same like the walls. Purple. Red . Yellow. And leaves, Green. Hanging freely on the pots. That seemed to enjoy the company of the breeze. Swinging in and out, along with it. Carefree. Unworried. Jealousy engulfed his mind. Questioning. Why is he trapped inside the never ending world of success and failure. Seizing his every moment. Clutching him. Unlike the flowers.
“A gift awaits you” someone spoke. “Where” he asked
“Within”.
And he sat down. On the bamboo chair. Relaxing himself a bit. Feeling the air around. Feeling the sunshine. Blank sheets of paper chuckled on the table. And the silver colored pen rolled nearby. To feel his finger tips.

“Abhi” a voice floated from the other room. “I think you are getting late”.
“Not today” he mumbled “at least” with a curvy smile that drifted his lips slightly apart, creating a dimple below the lower one.
And the tinkling of the bell reverberated around. May be from a land that exists. 

 Pic : Google Images

For Write Tribe Wednesday Prompt " Creativity " 


wednesday prompt


 “Imagination is the beginning of creation. You imagine what you desire, you will what you imagine, and at last, you create what you will” – George Bernard Shaw
 

Thursday, 18 September 2014

As The Sleepy Night....

As the sleepy night,                                                     
Creeps into deep slumber,
Reclusive obscure thoughts,                                             
Awaits to get unveiled,
Through poems through fables,
Through fictional stories,
Reliving their lives,
Rinsing off old worries,
They commingle together,
 Linking up unknown strands,
Filling in colours on canvass,
As if blessed with a magic wand,
Rhymed unrhymed,
Facts concealed in fiction ,
Display unmatched flair  ,
Words drenched in emotions,
Words drenched with care.



                                                 






 Pics : Google Images


Linked up with Write Tribe Problogger 


Wednesday, 17 September 2014

Waste to Wonderful....



Few easy to steps to make a ready to use pen stand from waste.


Step 1.




Step 2  



                                                             Step 3

                                                                 


Step 4


Final Step and we are now ready to use the pen stand.....




So, how is it....hope you guys like it :):)



Tuesday, 16 September 2014

Nowhere....

 Parents…
“You have to go back, that’s your home now” they pleaded.

 In Laws…
“Don’t  ever show your face again.”
 Young Woman…
 “But where would I go, isn't  this my home”.
 In Laws…
“Go where ever you want, we don’t care”they declared their final decision.

 Police…
“Ma’m where’s your home ?”

 Young Woman…
“Nowhere”  



                                     

                                         




Pic : Google Images

Linked up with Write Tribe's Problogger 

Monday, 15 September 2014

Explore....

Why are we bound in confines,
As if committing a horrendous crime.
Do look around,
And explore,
The trees sway,
The clouds galore.

Asking us to never relinquish,
Our dreams our aspirations,
Our honest wish.



Pics: Sushree


Linked up with Write Tribe's Problogger.


Sunday, 14 September 2014

Unspoken....


                                                        

Sudhir ran with full speed but it seemed as if he was destined to be late. The car had already left the campus leaving behind a trail of memories that filled his heart with happiness but at the same time snatched away his beloved Smriti.



The book dropped from his hands as a grief stricken Sudhir broke down in pain for not ever being able to speak of his innumerable emotions that he hid behind his subtle smile.
The book lay there on the floor untouched, ignored like a lost love feeling helpless and baffled waiting for someone to come for it’s rescue when the canteen boy’s eyes fell on it and within no time it found itself surrounded by numerous others on Park lane, famous for old books.



“As in books so in life, it’s not about the hours but the feelings that binds us…. Your’s Sudhir” were the lines written on the first page of a Nicholas Spark’s novel with the date of their graduation, that Smriti discovered on one of her expeditions for old books in the city and an unexpected celebration filled her heart with warmth speaking out unspoken emotions that Sudhir wasn’t able to.


Linked up with Five Sentence Fiction and Blog Adda's WOW.

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

 



Writing is its own reward.....

The  room was filled with books arranged in a neat manner. Speaking not only amongst  themselves but also about the possessor.
A man of thin built and advanced age emerged  behind the curtains after some time.

As he settled down for the interview, the young journalist interviewing him was impressed by his witty replies.
But the answer that really struck her was to this particular question where she wanted to know his feelings after receiving the award.



In a calm voice he answered “What can I say about my feelings after receiving this award, when writing is it’s own reward.”




Image: Google Images




For Write Tribe's ......


I am writing after quite some time and this quotation simply speaks out for me. Thank you WT for being the constant inspiration for bloggers :)

Thursday, 11 September 2014

A Poly(thene) -Tale....

Packed in a bundle,
I moved alone,
Mercied at the hands of my fate,
Filled with gravels and stones.
A mere tiny cluster,
That’s what they thought,
When they stumbled upon,
My body ain’t made of gold.
Perplexed I was
Regarding my  fortune,
Which never seemed to be,
In rhythm or in tune.
Lying down uncared along the dusty path,
Every single day I faced the sun’s mighty wrath,
Drenched in the monsoon rain,
Or chilly winter nights,
Nobody ever bothered about my rights.
Everyday’s not the same got proved that evening,
When a young lad touched my body,
And jolted my inner strings.
Awaiting to get trashed,
Or being blown up by someone,
I never did except to be picked by him,
A man of dirty  attire,
But a heart so clean.
With gentle caring hands,
He took me in his arms,
As if recognizing me in just one glance.
Happiness spread across his rough rugged face,
Making me feel more worthy,
Than a silk ribbon or a lace.
Worthless they had proved me,
After a single use,
Coz thousands surrounded their riches,
To get adored, to get mused.
Of different shape and colour,
Of different texture and feel,
At the end it’s the utility,
But nobody understands it still.
The moment I was picked by that lovable rag picker of mine,
My worthless plastic body did get a golden shine.
It’s not the place or riches that we all crave for,
But a simple caring soul,
That gives us our worth,
And our deserving whole.


                                      



                                            




Source : Google Images

Sky, Sand & Sea.....

Get lost , In me... Forgetting, The pain, Forgetting,  The spree... The sand, The skies The gravel The pebbles, It’s y...