Ethereal

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When the shimmering beams of sunlight,

Traces its way down,

To the vicinity of their world,

Lightens up her face with the morning beauty,

She curls up in his arms,

To hide an unexpected disturbance.

 

To her wonder,

He holds her in a curious warm embrace,

Like a kid,

Holding on his favourite toy,

As if to allow no one,

To take her away even in those unconscious moments.

 

Giving away her chastity,

She hasn’t lost but gained a world she had never dreamed before.

A world where,

He stays, she lives.

A place where,

He says, she materializes.

A room where,

He orders, she pursues.

A time when,

He departs, she cries.

An abode where,

He loves, she worships.

 

The moment when she gazed at herself in the mirror,

She discovers how his touch has glistened every bit of her.

How his care has adorned her existence,

How his ethereal love has enamoured her disposition.

At this juncture,

She cannot help but smile,

And thank the lord,

To embed a gem forever in her life.

 

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Last Night

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Last night was entirely sleepless,
A sleep deprived body,
Seeking shelter in changing sides.
Clothes of last night smell shame and regret.
Felt hard to breathe,
In hope to find tranquility,
Tired and uninspired,
Initiated a discourse with past.

Past said mockingly,
“You chose to walk away”.
Present said miserably,
‘Don’t dwell on what went wrong”.

A voice I heard,
Let me breathe a little more,
Let me quench my arid heart,
Oh night..
Wipe away these faint scars,
Let me sleep once and forever.

It is indeed a dark night,
Having lost all the flavours of life,
Emptiness is tearing apart,
Every inch of this existence.

A life full of regrets,
Is already empty.
A body without life,
Is already fire.
A soul without peace,
Is already departed.
A heart so numb,
Is already dead.

Soulmates…

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Love, Gratitude, Respect,

Might be mere beautiful words,

For you or people in this world.

As per me, these become my conduct

For thee, who is an honoured soul.

 

They say true love is the one,

Which is lost.

As per me, losing you is also love,

For I lose myself in you everyday.

Neither hurricanes can move,

Nor cyclones can wash,

Neither earthquakes can demolish,

Nor thunderstorms can broom,

What I bear inside me,

Is an ocean of sentiments,

For my honoured soul.

 

I may write verses in your praise,

But words can’t really do the justice,

To a heart which is so pure,

To a soul who is so virtuous.

 

My playfulness often seeks shelter in your arms,

My heart drops its worries in thy thoughts.

Since years I have been waiting,

To mislay my soul in yours,

Whom I call an honoured soul.

 

 

 

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I’m part of a rat race.

And I refuse to believe that

I’m what I am.

I  realize this may sound different, but

“Being different isn’t a bad thing”

Is an illusion, and

“Running will make me happy”

So in thirty years, I will teach my children

Their growth is not the only idea.

My children will know that

My aims are straight because

                 Running

       Is more valuable than

            Being the best.

           I believe

         Once upon a time.

        Schools were great.

But this will not be true in my era.

This is a profit bound society,

         Experts tell me

Thirty years from now, I will be on the verge of drowning,

I do not acknowledge that,

I will be responsible for my own condition.

In the upcoming time,

Running for profit will be the motive.

No longer can anybody say that,

My contenders and I care about teaching values.

It will be apparent that,

The upcoming generation is self interested and greedy.

It is erroneous to count on that

              There is Hope.

All of this will come true unless we reverse it

Note: Inspired from Jonathan Reed’s ‘The Lost Generation”

To Mother

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Dear mother,

Have never got a chance to see you, but this one is for you.

 

 

For the months,

You tended me inside you,

Safe, unhurt and sheltered,

For the times,

I unknowingly hit your womb,

I bow in front of you to hoist a burden like me.

 

 

There is a bond between a daughter and a mother,

Which for my life, I could not bring together.

Mother, till now I have never thought of you.

It’s the first time ever,

I’m truly craving for you to be here,

To hold my hand, to kiss my forehead, to wipe my tears,

Just like they do for all others.

 

So many things, Mom, I miss,

Your gentle hug and the tender kiss.

I can only imagine,

It must be an absolute bliss.

 

Wish you a Happy Mother’s Day

 

Lies we told…

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The lies we told
As if to behold
The moment which is spent
Not much is left
For us to repent.

Quite shiny it looks from outside
Gestures of these young lovers.
Hiding, are they?
Or just acting under cover.

Tracing the steps of love
Follows hatred to its door.
Perceived it to have died,
Causes the removal,
Of sentiments from the core.

Once together and entwined,
Heart ceases to live, to crave and to be satiated.
And that my friend,
Causes the love to be a liability.

The Buried Life

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Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet,

Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!

I feel a nameless sadness o’er me roll.

Yes, yes, we know that we can jest,

We know, we know that we can smile!

But there’s a something in this breast,

To which thy light words bring no rest,

And thy gay smiles no anodyne.

Give me thy hand, and hush awhile,

And turn those limpid eyes on mine,

And let me read there, love! thy inmost soul.

Alas! is even love too weak

To unlock the heart, and let it speak?

Are even lovers powerless to reveal

To one another what indeed they feel?

I knew the mass of men conceal’d

Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal’d

They would by other men be met

With blank indifference, or with blame reproved;

I knew they lived and moved

Trick’d in disguises, alien to the rest

Of men, and alien to themselves—and yet

The same heart beats in every human breast!

But we, my love!—doth a like spell benumb

Our hearts, our voices?—must we too be dumb?

Ah! well for us, if even we,

Even for a moment, can get free

Our heart, and have our lips unchain’d;

For that which seals them hath been deep-ordain’d!

Fate, which foresaw

How frivolous a baby man would be—

By what distractions he would be possess’d,

How he would pour himself in every strife,

And well-nigh change his own identity—

That it might keep from his capricious play

His genuine self, and force him to obey

Even in his own despite his being’s law,

Bade through the deep recesses of our breast

The unregarded river of our life

Pursue with indiscernible flow its way;

And that we should not see

The buried stream, and seem to be

Eddying at large in blind uncertainty,

Though driving on with it eternally.

But often, in the world’s most crowded streets,

But often, in the din of strife,

There rises an unspeakable desire

After the knowledge of our buried life;

A thirst to spend our fire and restless force

In tracking out our true, original course;

A longing to inquire

Into the mystery of this heart which beats

So wild, so deep in us—to know

Whence our lives come and where they go.

And many a man in his own breast then delves,

But deep enough, alas! none ever mines.

And we have been on many thousand lines,

And we have shown, on each, spirit and power;

But hardly have we, for one little hour,

Been on our own line, have we been ourselves—

Hardly had skill to utter one of all

The nameless feelings that course through our breast,

But they course on for ever unexpress’d.

And long we try in vain to speak and act

Our hidden self, and what we say and do

Is eloquent, is well—but ‘t is not true!

And then we will no more be rack’d

With inward striving, and demand

Of all the thousand nothings of the hour

Their stupefying power;

Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call!

Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn,

From the soul’s subterranean depth upborne

As from an infinitely distant land,

Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey

A melancholy into all our day.

Only—but this is rare—

When a belovèd hand is laid in ours,

When, jaded with the rush and glare

Of the interminable hours,

Our eyes can in another’s eyes read clear,

When our world-deafen’d ear

Is by the tones of a loved voice caress’d—

A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,

And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again.

The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,

And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know.

A man becomes aware of his life’s flow,

And hears its winding murmur; and he sees

The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze.

And there arrives a lull in the hot race

Wherein he doth for ever chase

That flying and elusive shadow, rest.

An air of coolness plays upon his face,

And an unwonted calm pervades his breast.

And then he thinks he knows

The hills where his life rose,

And the sea where it goes.Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet,
Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!
I feel a nameless sadness o’er me roll.
Yes, yes, we know that we can jest,
We know, we know that we can smile!
But there’s a something in this breast,
To which thy light words bring no rest,
And thy gay smiles no anodyne.
Give me thy hand, and hush awhile,
And turn those limpid eyes on mine,
And let me read there, love! thy inmost soul.

Alas! is even love too weak
To unlock the heart, and let it speak?
Are even lovers powerless to reveal
To one another what indeed they feel?
I knew the mass of men conceal’d
Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal’d
They would by other men be met
With blank indifference, or with blame reproved;
I knew they lived and moved
Trick’d in disguises, alien to the rest
Of men, and alien to themselves—and yet
The same heart beats in every human breast!

But we, my love!—doth a like spell benumb
Our hearts, our voices?—must we too be dumb?

Ah! well for us, if even we,
Even for a moment, can get free
Our heart, and have our lips unchain’d;
For that which seals them hath been deep-ordain’d!

Fate, which foresaw
How frivolous a baby man would be—
By what distractions he would be possess’d,
How he would pour himself in every strife,
And well-nigh change his own identity—
That it might keep from his capricious play
His genuine self, and force him to obey
Even in his own despite his being’s law,
Bade through the deep recesses of our breast
The unregarded river of our life
Pursue with indiscernible flow its way;
And that we should not see
The buried stream, and seem to be
Eddying at large in blind uncertainty,
Though driving on with it eternally.

But often, in the world’s most crowded streets,
But often, in the din of strife,
There rises an unspeakable desire
After the knowledge of our buried life;
A thirst to spend our fire and restless force
In tracking out our true, original course;
A longing to inquire
Into the mystery of this heart which beats
So wild, so deep in us—to know
Whence our lives come and where they go.
And many a man in his own breast then delves,
But deep enough, alas! none ever mines.
And we have been on many thousand lines,
And we have shown, on each, spirit and power;
But hardly have we, for one little hour,
Been on our own line, have we been ourselves—
Hardly had skill to utter one of all
The nameless feelings that course through our breast,
But they course on for ever unexpress’d.
And long we try in vain to speak and act
Our hidden self, and what we say and do
Is eloquent, is well—but ‘t is not true!
And then we will no more be rack’d
With inward striving, and demand
Of all the thousand nothings of the hour
Their stupefying power;
Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call!
Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn,
From the soul’s subterranean depth upborne
As from an infinitely distant land,
Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey
A melancholy into all our day.
Only—but this is rare—
When a belovèd hand is laid in ours,
When, jaded with the rush and glare
Of the interminable hours,
Our eyes can in another’s eyes read clear,
When our world-deafen’d ear
Is by the tones of a loved voice caress’d—
A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast,
And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again.
The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,
And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know.
A man becomes aware of his life’s flow,
And hears its winding murmur; and he sees
The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze.

And there arrives a lull in the hot race
Wherein he doth for ever chase
That flying and elusive shadow, rest.
An air of coolness plays upon his face,
And an unwonted calm pervades his breast.
And then he thinks he knows
The hills where his life rose,
And the sea where it goes.

By
Mathew Arnold

Heritage Exhibition

Nowadays I’m teaching about Indian heritage in my History class. While describing the events, monuments, traditions and skills of olden times, I was thinking if I could give them a deep insight into the topic by going beyond the textbook.

One field trip to the museum would have helped but not much, one round of audio-visual clips would have triggered interest but not till the depth of the topic. There was a constant need to touch the things and feel it.

The thought struck me when we started discussing the skills of weaving and spinning. I was discussing different fabrics with them and then I realized how nice it would be if the students could actually touch the fabrics and realize the difference in each of them. After all, fabrics are meant to be touched and felt, not just discussed. This thought made me think what can be done for this by staying within the four walls of classroom and still exploring the beauty and glory of past. I wanted to surprise my students with something they didn’t expect their teacher would do on just another day.

Somebody once told me that we all should spend sometime thinking over the steps we want to take so that we’re able to deliver better.

Some words can get you started. I began to execute my plan. For me, it was a step ahead than the traditional. It was just a small effort for my children because they are special.

I collected different variety of fabrics, embroidery and thread work from different sources. Arranging them was a bit of task, but colleagues supported enough to get it done. A small exhibition displaying different fabrics, embroidery, other thread work, pictures and artefacts of ancient time with some encyclopedia were kept to enlighten them with something tangible and new. The heritage walk was followed by a feedback session in which I asked the students about what things they liked, what they remember and what changes they expect.

The outcome of the event is that now they look forward to the History class. There comes a time when being an educator we start over-preparing even for the not-so-important things, for we know someone is expecting more from us. The best thing about this Heritage walk is that the slow learners learnt few things out of it and I saw some new hands being raised in my History session which was a moment of proud for me as an educator.

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I don’t know, since when,

Holding your hand and walking beside,

Turned into clinging and forced you to divide.

You would be happy to know,

I somehow learnt walking alone,

Yet feel strong.

About happiness I cannot say much,

For you never count it with smiles and gestures.

The story of happiness is such.

The journey might become cumbersome,

Gardens might turn graveyards,

And barren would be the paths.

The more I tried,

The more I kept losing.

The more I took pains,

The more I was treated with disdain.

Once you were the twinkle of my eyes,

The voice in my words,

The calmness on my face,

And my footprints’ trace.

Such is the history of love,

Incomplete, obsolete and discreet.

 

A letter to Darry…

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There are days,

There is time,

When I need the blessings,

The blessings to climb.

It took a lifetime,

For me to know,

How it is to be a parent,

And may be not just a parent, but to be someone like you.

A parent who never gives upon you.

I feel like the lark,

That enjoys the freedom in day.

And an owl at midnight,

That cries under bedsheets today.

Gone are the days,

When the word Papa,

Was the solution of every squeak.

Gone are the days,

When holding your finger,

I could walk miles.

Dad, you are the shining star

I want to see everyday.

You are the medicine,

Of all my squeaks and strains.

Separation might have taken you away,

Your teachings will always find their way.

With love on this Father’s Day…Love you Papa!