Friday, April 19, 2013

Today somewhere someone...

Somewhere, someone woke up today and started his journey to see someone he loves

Somewhere else, someone woke up today and went to kitchen to prepare the favourite lunch for someone she loves

Somewhere, someone woke up today and dressed up herself in pretty pink to meet someone she loves

Somewhere else someone woke up today and kissed someone he loves on the forehead before he left to office. 

Somewhere someone woke up today and texted to someone he loves “Nearing dear. Only few minutes left to see my girl.”

Somewhere else someone woke up today, kissed someone he loves on the forehead before he left to office and said, “I love you”

Somewhere someone woke up today traveled a long distance and finally arrived in the city to meet someone he loves.

Somewhere else someone woke up today and kissed someone he loves on the forehead before he left and said, “I love you. I will come early in the evening. I will take you to lakeside and we will talk lot”. And she replied “Love you too... Here is your lunch. It will be a surprise.Have it fully” without forgetting to say, "Drive safe.."

Somewhere someone woke up today hastily crossed road to meet someone he loves with a bouquet of pink roses and a note on top of it. 

Somewhere else someone woke up today and dressed up in pink and waited near the bus stop to meet someone she loves. 

For the very last time....

Somewhere someone woke up today morning and carried the lunchbox given by someone he loves to office...

Somewhere else someone woke up today morning and traveled a long distance to meet someone he loves...

And today...
Somewhere on the roadside there laid the blood stained roses and the unopened lunch box. Both had a note attached, “I LOVE YOU...”

Somewhere someone woke up today but won't wake up tomorrow..

P.S: Life is too short for tomorrows. Pick up your phone and tell them that there is so much of love...

Wednesday, April 3, 2013

To a Shabbily Dressed Writer...

   One day I will die. But life will be remembered. I know I will be born again,again on the lips of a story teller who narrates my story standing in the middle of a campfire. In his whisperings around that fire, I will be born again.  

   Yes...On a cold night, I will come back to earth as an idea born on the fingertip of that writer who is shabbily dressed and uses a black framed spectacle. He will tell you the flashback trying to unveil the mystery. He may write pages about the life I live. He will talk about my friends and lovers. He will talk about my parents and grandparents. He will talk about the places I live and die. He will happily revisit to those places to collect my left overs...

   My books and diaries will bring him a smile unknowing that some of its pages are torn. While pondering them over and again, he will know that there are lots of questions left unanswered.Romantic enough to write about my first love, he will beautifully narrate about the kiss happened under that twilight. Photographs may fetch him lots of details and he will have series of them to examine my changes happened over years. He will narrate to you, how my skin tone has changed and how the wrinkles have born. Not once but for a number of times, he will look into my eyes to capture the stories hiding inside them. And he will write it down, "the lady had pretty eyes but they were melancholic". 

    Writing down all, he tells to his wife once again that women are the weirdest beings on earth. Yet without a pause he will continue with his inquiries of this lady,curiously asking to himself and others, ‘what a woman really wants’. Lonesome nights with lots of beer bottles and cigarette ashes will pass by. His wife will begin to make a lot of noises. She yells. She screams. She murmurs.Yet the man will not stop thinking about me. He will hunt for more frames but everything ends up with rarer details. Lots of men will pass over the story including sinners and saints, criminals and monks. Each woman character he comes over will weave again a new tale within the tale.

    On a fine evening, walking to the paper mart to buy more sheets of papers and ink-bottles, he will start thinking of its end and learn to know that he is falling in love with the lady of this story. That night he sits under his dim lit light trying to write but shedding his first drop of tear for a lady,unknown and unseen.Began as an epic, he knows it is going to end up as a myth.  When the evidences fail to give him a twist of my tale, he will try to peep in through windows for more. 

   And then, he will arrive here. Yes, this place where I bury my tears and smiles; accumulate my love and hate; and medicate my hurts and wounds. Keenly sitting down with his beer glass before him, he views these posts written by me one by one and attempting to read between my lines. When the eyes inside the black framed spectacle reach to this corner, he nods his head with a smile reading to what I write.  A pain may evolve on his chest but I know he still smiles with a wink because he is born to write. 

   "My dear shabbily dressed writer, your black spectacle is awesome. 
 But can you read my story with that?
Can you write the climax?"

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