An ode!!!!!

When loneliness accompanies you to dreamland,

To a star less sky in the midst of sand.

Where the moon stands sentry, all bright and gold,

Therein resides in repose, the beauty to behold.

Where the breeze rushes to seek her presence,

Where the rain beats down to wet her essence.

Where the flowers sway craving for her fold,

Therein resides in repose, the beauty to behold.

Where the birds chirp drunk on her fragrance,

Where the milieu smells heavy of her innocence.

Where the heart frequents stories unheard, untold,

Therein resides in repose, the beauty to behold.

With bated breath I wait, skipping countless beats,

Another moment, another life, I live through deaths,

The wind has her, the trees have her, even the sky, the ground,

But nowhere is she to be seen, nowhere is she to be found.

In a blitz, dark goes the robe of night,

Magically rises the mist with darker insight,

The moon plays truant, hiding out of sight,

Gushes in the breeze, mocking at my plight.

Through the haze, The SUN shimmers in the moon's reflection,

The stars twinkle beneath those hazel ocean.

Serenely she stands, staring, a reality mired in illusion,

Untrammeled, unrivalled, an epitome of perfection.

A thick rich auburn adorns her mane,

Teasing the cloud, flowing insane.

Brighter she shines like the yellow of bloom,

The moon turns pale, wearing a halo of gloom.

Ensnared I stand, feasting on the divine delight,

With enraptured vision, filling in my craving sight.

Her countenance a home to countless expressions,

Some piercing, some probing others unbridled emotions …

For once she turns to find me staring,

Coyly she looks, her smile flickering.

She looks for a while then retreats gently,

Blushing behind the veneers of modesty.

My senses benumbed, my mind conquered,

My heart pounding, my feet foundered.

Rain danced, the wind stood testimony,

Time froze, in the sweetest moment of agony,

In a moment I had lost my life's treasure,

letting in, in turn, the pangs of pleasure,

Dream moments ago, desire a few later,

Destination moments ago, destiny a few later.

Repeated song syndrome....

"Music is zenith", so says the Orkut profile of a dear friend of mine. I could not have agreed more. I would go to the extent of admitting that they are as animate as our own selves. Is it not the shoulders u cry on when u heart is full and absolutely choked??? Is it not the embrace u snuggle up to when ecstasy strikes you big and hard??? From the days of DD and its immensely popular and eagerly awaited bi-weekly Chitrahar and weekly Rangoli, it’s been a long journey to the days of MTV and B4U music. And not to mention the ubiquitous youTube and MetaCafe. It’s been a mushroom growth for music industry. Change is good. But then not all things change.

And one thing that has stood the test of time has been my love-hate relationship with music. Love, I it, with all my heart, but hatred it has always brought for me. I of course love music for all it has to offer, but there is one more strange reason I love it for. I simply never ever could come close to learning any musical instrument, how so ever hard I have tried. And let me shamelessly admit that I m too bad a singer even for bathrooms. There are two types of bad singers. One who think they are the Gulzars and Javed Akhtars in their own right and put all the fanciful words they can think about every time they open their mouth. Thankfully they tend to get the tune right. The second category has those people who render different tunes with the same lyrics everytime they start crooning. Meet Mr Rahman! That is how masterful they are with creating new tunes. There is something worse still, those who are bad at both. And I m the proud member of the last. In a nutshell, I m a hopeless singer. And I genuinely regret that. Next life and I would want to be born as Shreya Ghosal. I simply adore her. I do not know how many times “suna suna lamha lamha” has taken me to endless joyrides in its own magical world.

What might surprise u, it unfailing surprises me every time, is the fact that I tend to develop fancy for those songs all the more which I cannot sing a word of. It is rather common to ask someone their favorite song. When faced with this question, tone-deafs like me tend to mutter some incoherent words in some out of the world tune. Reading a prose would have sounded better. It's a predicament in its own embarrasing way. The audience claps merrrily. Happy at the realisation that there is someon who is worse off than him/her.

On a serious note it is a gift of expression I have been left bereft of. Just imagine the helplessness of a guy who has heard a song tens of thousands of times and not a word of it he can sing. But I have found smarter ways to ward off such predicaments. Make an Adnan or a Reshammiya song your favourite one.

The kind of music I develop taste for is another thing I have always been ridiculed for. I tend to develop particular liking for songs others would just give passing ears and never care to waste energy wanting an encore. Not that I hate this, and still not that I wish to change that, but if only friends could understand that. But I wish things stopped here. I have this habit of listening to any particular song of my choice in an infinite loop. Whether i do it intentionally or it just happens with me is something I have never been able for figure out, but that is incosequential here. But that habit of mine has not gone well some of my friends and has flared many a nerve. At least, definitely, of one colleague of mine. Right from my college days I have been taken to task for this habit of mine. Even by my close friends who had likings pretty similar to mine. But I never seem to be giving up this habit. Nor do I plan to. In fact I believe I have some solid reason not to relinquish this habit of mine.

It is impossible for me to work without songs playing in the background and at the same time songs can be a huge distraction when you need to concentrate hard. So that is when the tried and test repeated song syndrome lends a helping hand. No grey cells get exercised in teasing out the meaning of a song heard a thousand times. Its meaning and lyrics are clearly registered in your heart and mind. No extra grey cells get exercised to interpret its meaning. At the same time it, by virtue of being your favourite song, soothes your disturbed psyche. My college friends hardly found any substance in my arguments, just because they were my college friends.And why would they let go of a chance to push me against the wall. Not that they had no other issues to pull my leg, but then an extra one was always welcome. But I believe the highly erudite bloggers would find some salt in my arguments.

The New Princess of Roland Garros...

Many a fairy-tales have been staged on the Phillipe Chatrier court. Some relegated to a corner of history books, others imprinted indelibly on innumerable hearts. History was once again waiting to be re-written, one way or the other, for at its door steps stood two immensely talented tennis-pros, both in their early twenties, competing for their first Grand Slam title. A befitting finale it may not have been. Nevertheless, it was definitely one for the heart.

What would you say about a girl who looks stunningly beautiful in her bright pink outfit?

That she is exceptional in her shot making with that near perfect forehand cross court. That she plays that impeccable double handed backhand down the line, leaving her opponent breathless. That, she at 6’1”, stands taller with her sheer grit and attitude. That she goes for her winners whether it is a break point she is facing or a match point she is going for. That she has that child-like innocence that belies her temperament beyond her age. That she has that impish tint about her grey eyes that keeps you glued to the screen for hours. That she has this compelling simplicity to write home about. That she is the new queen of Roland Garros. That she’s been the princess of many a hearts before Roland Garros crowned her the QUEEN.

That, she wins you over with that cute, heart rendering smile which brightens up her face every time she comes up with winners. That she amazes you with the sameness of expression that remains constant on her visage, be she in whatever stage of the game. That she genuinely feels sorry for her opponent if a shot of hers grazes the net-chord and spills right over, when many others prefer pumping their chest on similar occasions. That she neither throws starry tantrums on unforced errors nor does she speak a mouthful at incredible winners. That she has her own graceful way of egging herself on and pumping her fist. That she leaves u gaping with the sheer femininity of the manner in which she goes about doing her job. That, she is honest to the extent that she ruled a ball in favor of her opponent when the chair umpire had ruled against the ball landing in service court. And that too in a grand slam final. She lost that final but won my unconditional and unflinching support, for ever. That I have remained loyal in my support for her is a mere testimony to her abilities rather than of my standing on my words.

The morning rain, the evening rain....!!!

Temperamental, they are, aren't they, the Rains; wet they would someone deep down while leave others high and dry. When millions go cloth-less with frenzied excitement seeing the first cloud hover, from million others it(rain) mericilessly takes away the only piece of clothing they have had for ages.When the firmament opens up in all its splendour to wet down the essence of earth, it is blissfully unaware of what would come back. Brickbats and boquets bundled together is what they get back. That's how it's been for them, almost always. Fate, all one can say!!! It would be too gory a tale to delve deeper...let it be a story untold.

The recent spurt of non-seasonal rains in Delhi have hit me hard, though with a stupid question. Is there a difference between an "evening" shower and a "morning" drizzle. A year back, and I would have said rains are always fun, what morning, what evening. I do want to say that now as well, but can I, with the same conviction. Perhaps not. Actually not.

The rain is beating down hard and strong in the late evening and there I stand in my balcony with my colleague, sipping some hot coffee. Leaning against the wall, we talk of all the good times, remembering all the beautiful seasons we spent together in our college days. Hours later we retreat back to our bed, to be up in time for office next morning and with child like innocence he says, "Alok, let's keep all the windows and the door open, it is such a beautiful weather." I am only too willing to accept. An "aah" erupts and rainy dreams take us over.

Mornings never came before 9 and 9 was never too early on office days. And it is raining still. "Hey, Bhagwan, even the raincoats haven't dried up" I scream and the rains, it is raining as if it were never to stop. The is perhaps the agony of being rain. No natural phenomenon ever elicited such juxtaposed emotions and such widely varied one at that. If in the evening those tiny inncouous droplets of water falling off the leaves took us on a ride to the sylvan greens of our college campus, they grow monsterous by the morning clogging roads and overflowing the sewage. Negotiating a heavly clogged stretch with a wide frown on my face, I asked, "How would Delhi ever become a world class city?" Not at least with rains playing havoc in the "morning".

The evening air seems all pleasant and soothing. Intoxicated by the presence of water droplets in their fold, it blows ubridled, caressing the trees and temple-tops on its way to its unison with the clouds. Swing it plays to the tightly held hands of two lovers in tow enjoying their first rain of togetherness. Come morning and the breeze has all gone heavy and dustful hitting hard against your raincoats and still searching for something more non-plastic to wet. These morning rains, they never did anyone any good, did they?

There can hardly be few things more fulfilling than savouring the enchating aroma emanting from the soil in the evening. It fills up ur senses with contenment, leaving an indelible mark on your heart. The morning rain leaves a mark too, of a different kind though, on ur shoes, ur clothers as u make ur way through the dirty, stinking rivulents left as a testimony; A testimony to the wonderful time the "evening" rain had brought about; A testimony to the ill-designs of the morning rain; A testimony to my ever so increasing hatred for the morning rain..............!!!!

Dream Debut

Cricket's been just a game for me, but Sachin, He's all I have gained by wasting those innumerable hrs in front of TV, and perhaps many more singing his praises. The kind of satisfaction I get when he reaches a milestone can be compared to any I have had at my own achievements. Nothing more would I want out of cricket if I get to get a glimpse of His majestic self in flesh and blood.

A non-descript day brought with itself an irresistible pass to fulfillment of a long lost desire. A desire, which had always bred itself in the corner of my heart without ever forcing itself to the fore. A desire, which I knew would get fulfilled someday, but that the Day had come calling on me so suddenly utterly swept me off my feet. A stroke of luck all I can say. This opportunity had fallen from heaven directly into my lap. Only a fool would have let that go. And when it comes to Cricket, I am no fool. Thanks to Abhinav, off I was with four colleagues(Akash, Chaya, Sandip and Namrata) to watch a D/N IPL encounter between Royal Challengers, Bangalore and Delhi DareDevils, the debut match for me. The kind of excitement it brought along on our faces was something words cannot express. It was a fairytale for me. And the princess awaited me. To meet the Princess, the Prince had to cross “the seven seas”. We too had to. A sea, it literally was, of people, all waiting to get their share of the Princess. Pushing and shoving would not deter us nor would the canes of security personnel. Time was running out and the match could get underway any moment. Pre-match events were already nearing completion. Colorful confetti flowing all around, sparkling crackers brightening up the sky, deafening music flowing from all over the place and incessant huge roars coming from inside the stadium made us more aware of what we were missing. And there we were, stuck in a blind alley, standing in the middle of a non-ending serpentine queue, unaware of what fate held for us. A match or no-match. We were steadily losing hope. Things sped up, we do not how, as we inched closer to the main entry .We did manage finally, but not without great discomfort, in hindsight I should say. But then, if dreams materialized so easily, would they be worth their salt??? Through with the security check in a flash, flying, we were all inside the stadium in a moment. Few stairs and there we were…….

It was a different world altogether. How was I to believe what stood in front of me? A world more pristine than any of my mundane thoughts could ever carve. It was all too perfect to be true. With unflustered gaze, I stood there filling in my ever-craving senses, but the visual splendors on exhibition were too many to be ingested in one go. To remain unfazed with what lay in front of me was beyond me. Beautifully lit stadium, outfield all bright and green, rocking Bhangra, cheerleaders, maverick fans screaming atop their voice, who would not love this sight???? I would be belying my true feelings, if I do not admit how mesmerizing and fulfilling the first glance was. There was this unabated surge of excitement oozing out which literally had my body and heart swaying and swirling. Dumbstruck we all were to speak and perhaps we all wanted to say the same thing as one could read out from our palpably excited faces.

I had been stumped before a ball could be bowled and so were my colleagues. How amazing it was to be with people all united by the passion they held for the game and equally intoxicated by the mirth and fervour it had brought along. It was a moment when I, of all the people I, was going to be a part of the history making. When people would ask me, did u see the match between Royal Challengers and Delhi Daredevils, how proud I would feel to say, I was there in the stadium itself watching it unfold. Suddenly it dawned on me that those watching live feeds, with all the comforts of their rooms, actually had a cast-off experience, being fed on things discarded by the stadium-spectators. After all the stadium-spectators had the unwritten right to first use. They, I thought, were mere passive spectators incapable of scripting a twist in the tale. And those present in the stadium, yelling despite their parched throat, could very well dictate the course of the match. I had heard of ‘standing ovation’ being given to players. It proved out to be so true, and why not when people would not rest their back even for a second for the entire duration. There can be endless arguments about which cricketer the world loves the most. I love Sachin, let there be no bones about it, come what may. But what do u have to say when for every shot a Dravid or a Kallis played, people merrily swayed and chanted Sachin’s name. What more would a die-hard Sachin fan want. Sachin….Sachin…Sachin, all one could hear. It started with our group leading the way but gradually caught with, arguably, the whole of East Stand. To be standing in a 10 meter proximity to an international cricketer is a celebrated achievement in its own right, so what if the player happened to be Wasim Jaffer. Wouldn’t have I fainted had it been Sachin? How dearly I wish it were Him, the little maestro.