g's world

She was standing in the limelight of the 77th annual cine awards, her sketch being portrayed as perfectly as ever. She stood there smiling blissfully with her teeth of pure white, her flexible skin elongating to produce a perfect upward curve. She had been plastered with a silky white gown portraying her clevage and strapped to 7 inch stilletos that she had never been comfortable with. She was a woman of strong moral fiber, at least she had been so, until she was forced to act because of her stunning radiance and sharp features. A girl of 16 she was, when the first opportunity of playing a modest role in a tv series came her way. She was least interested as she had been doing exceedingly well in her academics. She had already set her goals of becoming a chartered accountant, unlike her mother, an actress of the 1970s, least successful and in debt, a drunkard who couldn't make it till her 60th birthday. She was very disappointed in ending up the same way her mother did. She ...

When I was a child I would think to myself seeing the beggars on the streets why are they not like me living in a house? Why are they wearing dirty clothes and why are they so downtrodden? But as I grew up I discovered that the cause of the projected poverty among the beggars were the lack of a piece of paper which is popularly called as "money". I gradually consoled myself thinking that they did not go to work like others did so they do not have a place to live in or good clothes to wear. But one day, I pondered upon this once again. This "money" which is a medium of exchange for buying and selling things has become a way of life for each and every human on earth except the enlightened! Something which we invented for OUR comfort, which was merely a piece of paper has been placed with such a lot of importance that every single person in his life is running behind. This paper currency has become so significant in our life that most of us reach the ...

It was not long back when the conservative lot, mostly comprising of huge producers, firms and individuals in India embraced westernization with open hands. In fact, they were very happy to let go of the Indian concept ‘reuse anything till it expires’ and adapted to the ‘use and throw’ culture. A decade back, whenever I visited any temple, I used to get back home with a small cup made of a huge dried leaf most popularly called ‘donnai’ in tamil filled with delicious offerings to the deity.  Whenever I accompanied my grand dad for a weekly shopping, he would carry a yellow cloth bag to deposit the groceries inside and if a mineral water bottle was purchased outside, the empty bottle will be carefully brought home for further usage. Presently, this traditional method of reuse has started to deteriorate and westernization is taking place at a larger pace than expected. The ‘donnai’ in temples have been replaced by plastic cups, shopping bags have become strictly  plast...

I lost my way in the woods, there is no sunshine to caress, no rain to melt with, no green to rejoice in, yet a jungle. I lost my way in the woods, with no guffaws of the hyenas, no chatter of the monkeys, or the roars of a lion, yet a jungle. I lost my way in the woods, with no pearly falls from the mountain, no mountain at all, no chilling breeze cutting through my sweat, yet a jungle. I lost my way in the woods, with not the music of the bamboos, not the trot of a deary deer, nor the melody of a cuckoo, yet a jungle. I lost my way in the woods, with not the hunters killing for food, with not the saw men cutting for good, nor their intent very pure, yet a jungle. I lost my way in this wood, where there are concrete all around, bricks that overlay the fertile land, gummy tar that nullifies the greens of the ancient past, yet a jungle. I lost my way in this wood, where there is no land to plough, no soil to seed, no shoots to water, yet food ...

One tiny ray of the boundless star, peeped through the curtains, into my room, I curled up beneath my blanket, arching my spine to a bend. The sparrow on the banyan tree, had flown down to my sill, it resounded a shrill call and looked in, to find me rolling on my soft crib. The heavy breeze of the morning tides, rushed through my window, to pat me to wake, I covered my face with my arms. My mom's prayer bells, gonged with its metalic song, thronging into my ears, I used a pillow to cover them all. As I was happy in sleep, having surpassed all the calls, my alarm screeched its gut out, panicking me wide awake into the dawn.

What happens, in the winning of a conquest? What dwells in the victory of a name, over the bloodied mutilations of your men? The silence of a cut-throat, staggering past the bombed, in anticipation of a blast or a bullet, or blazing fires in the camp of the wounded, The pain of a blasted lith, it's owner shedding tears of dread, of his unthinkable morrow, overcast with sorrow, The fear of a suicide bomber, prepared for his plight, for you to fight for his rights, after his body lies in a shamble, The darkness of the blinded, because of chemical components overturning their vision of truth into the prison of the dark, The sagacious fear in me, of your children's minds, that shine pure, because of your lure, may not endure your crude intent, "What do you gain, of their fear, the dark and their pain? What do you conquer, the rights of the silenced?" *Dust thou art and, *unto dust thou shall return, with your name, fame and glory, wi...

FEBRUARY 15th, 2012        What writing means to me... As lonely as a cloud, as boring as boredom itself, I was. I grew up as a typical child at school but a very hefty one, I am still the same. I managed to cheer people with my innocence but did not manage to make happy friends to last a lifetime because of my gross physique. I couldn't play as I had no playmates at home and my only hobby was to sit and watch tv. When I was studying in kindergarten, I used to visit a nearby shop with my dad. My dad was busy shopping for groceries and I engaged myself in observing things around me. The people who had mixed emotions that outshone on their faces, an old man cycling with a lot of strain, probably getting back home, the lady vendor with her dirty saree pinned up to her waist and squatting on the floor, selling vegetables, the autowala bargaining with his potential customer, the green trees which arched high with its countless leaves...

I am underneath a mountain of deeds, heavy and with grime it is, insects teetering  on it with their antlers held high. There is a little gleam of the jubiliant sun, hard on the plains, but never seeming to look at me. ever glowing like the fireball of faith. Not able to put down the mountain, Not able to enjoy the sun, I am, Not able to rid the insects that scurry into me. As time passes by, the mountain arches high, burdening me down into the earthen plains. The beings I meet, heap more trash onto it, they ride down with their valleys, after a maniacal laugh. they riot into my life, plunging deep into me, bringing the thousand insects in me into light. while their's crawl right onto their faces. The song-like breeze riding gently on the plains, pat me to a smile, dampening my woes. While I plunder into my thoughts, beseeching for the lost memory in time, I find nothingness, sheer nullity. My happiness is lost in mere faith of seeing light, th...