The Clock

The clock I see before me always ticks... never stops... unless the life of the battery runs out. The 3 hands.. of varying lengths and sizes.. move only towards one direction. Clockwise.. we call it.

The second-hand moves faster. The minute-hand moves a bit slower. The hour-hand is the slowest. They all stop by 60 times at 60 points.. covering 360 degrees... in their never ending, unrelenting quest around the pale face of the clock.

Time... is intangible. The clock is tangible. How can a tangible thing represent something intangible? We depend on clocks to tell the time. We depend on watches to tell the time. We depend on clock towers to tell the time. And many others. If by any chance.. they all stopped working... at the very same time.. on the very same day.. all across the globe.. does that mean... the time has stood still?

Despite all clocks stare in stupefied gaze.. in their frozen state.. will not the time still move on? And if the time still moves on... what is the purpose of having a clock? Then the clock and the time are not related at all.. not relative at all.. not compatible at all.

Then what could tell us the time? What could move on without stopping? When the entire world comes to a standstill... who would move along with time?

Only time can tell... who or what is most suited.. to represent time.. at all times. It ain't the clock. It ain't a human. It ain't anything tangible.

Then it should be something just as invisible as time.. purely elusive and inevitably timeless. Perhaps.. it could be the mind.. the mind.. that is invisible.. elusive.. and intangible. Mind does not age.. and hence.. it is timeless.

Mind who surpasses all known norms.. will tell you the time you need to know... without the 3 hands... without the 60 dots... without the pale face... and without the echoing tick tock.

Sunny side of Life

On my way to work.. some months back.. I used to intently scan this heartless gloomy garage filled with metal scraps and old dusty vehicles. I looked for my motivator. The happiest dog in the whole wide world, who'd cheerfully greet his masters skipping on just 3 legs. He peacefully slept outdoors, went for morning walks.. somewhat far from the garage. He was carefree and high spirited despite that conspicuously painful handicap.

For the 2011 CSS contest, I made him my protagonist. I continued to look for him daily, in the same gloomy garage, for months on end.. until about 4 months back I noticed him always sleeping in his favorite spot. The next month.. he was not there.. and the next... and the next.. until it occurred to me... I'll never see my motivator again.

And so.. this is my story which I wrote when he was still alive.

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In the wee hours of morning when the world was sound asleep, old Simon started sweeping.

Shhh, shhhh, shhhh...

The sound of his jagged ekel broom echoed throughout the empty road and the Children’s park. Suddenly he heard a loud screeching noise from the bend and a sleek white car zoomed past him. Simon stared at it and slowly bent to pick up a rotten leaf.

Just then he heard a low groan, coming from the middle of the road. Simon closed in. The sight was so shocking that he collapsed on to the ground. Curling himself up he cried, for the sake of the creature that lay before him.

The skinny dog breathed heavily. Its front right leg was bathed in blood. It wriggled in pain.

Simon wiped his eyes and stood up. He ran into the park and returned with a worn gunny sack. Then he carefully placed the dog on it. While carrying it like a baby, Simon rushed to the nearby three wheeler park.

He shook the red tuk tuk and woke the lad who was dozing on the back seat. The lad grumbled but after hearing the painful groans, he agreed at once.

“Gramps, I know a vet nearby. Let’s go see him.”

The tuk tuk raced to the house of Dr. Jerald, a famous old veterinarian who lived in this suburb. As soon as the vet took the dog in, the lad waved at Simon and left.

Despite his age, Dr. Jerald was swift with his treatments and soon the dog stopped groaning. When Simon peeped over, he saw the skinny brown dog sound asleep. The injured leg didn’t bother it anymore, for it had been removed... completely.

After he freshened up Dr. Jerald offered Simon a warm cup of tea. Then they had a hearty chat. Old Simon painfully smiled, showing his brown teeth. After a while he got up to leave.

“The dog’s going to be fine.” said Dr. Jerald with a bright smile. “He’ll come see you soon.”

Four weeks quickly passed. On one sunny morning, old Simon sat on a bench in the corner of the park. A sleek white car pulled over and a young man in a fine suit walked up to Simon. He then placed a rich fat rice packet on Simon’s hand. It was full of tempting aromas.

“Today’s my dad’s first month alms giving.” said the young man, forcing a smile. “You know he had a stroke that day. I... had to race my car to the hospital... and on the way I think I hit a dog... right around this park. Ugh... felt so bad... had no way of stopping... my dad was unconscious and...”

“Young master,” interrupted old Simon. “Look over there.”

The young man was surprised, but instead of asking why, he turned around. Not too far from them were a bunch of kids happily running about. The boys were throwing a frisbee in turns, throwing it high up and far away. Whenever they threw a frisbee, everyone screamed in chorus,

“Browny fetch!”

Three excited woofs and a dog dived out of no where, almost flying after the speeding frisbee.

“Browny, come here!” shouted Simon with a chuckle.

The dog rushed to old Simon, skipping on its three legs while gripping the frisbee tightly in its mouth. Simon emptied half of the rice packet to a tin plate on the ground. Browny sniffed it excitedly, tossed the frisbee away and chomped up while wagging its tail.

“See that young master, isn’t he doing great?”

The Mobile

During the times of terror.. few years back... I heard this true story from my sister. The visuals popped in my head.. and then they became words. 

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A big crowd rushed into the small ward. The domestic patients were moved out while another set of patients were moved in. Their clothes were blotted in crimson. Some were conscious and twisting in pain, others hardly moved. 

The doctors, nurses and attendants were summoned. Clad in green, they went from bed to bed treating the wounded meticulously. Some had to be operated, but the hospital didn't have a proper theater room. All the surgeries were performed in the same crammed ward. The folks gathered in the corridors started chattering.

"... and they couldn't stop it."

"a truck loaded with bombs?"

"they were all Navy soldiers heading home"

"how could they attack unarmed soldiers?"

During this commotion a nice music was heard. It was a ringing tone of a mobile. No one paid attention. Everyone was busy attending and treating the patients. When the uproar started fading the ringing could be heard a little louder and it became a nuisance.

The burly head nurse shouted at a young nurse to search for that mobile and turn it off. It didn't take long for her to find, for it had fallen off a trouser pocket of a patient nearby.

This patient was breathing heavily, his heartbeat was irregular. The doctors and nurses were doing everything they could. His pale face was turning blue and his clenched fists showed the signs of acute pain he was bearing.

Still the mobile kept ringing. The young nurse, with trembling hands, tried to turn it off. Suddenly the music stopped and she was relieved.

"Daddy, daddy... can you hear me? I've been trying to talk to you for a long time. Where are you now?"

The ward came to a pin drop silence, as if the time has frozen. Everyone wore an expression of surprise and stared at the mobile the young nurse was holding. To her surprise the mobile wasn't turned off, instead to her haste she has pressed the hands-free button. It was a voice of a little girl they heard through the mobile.

"Daddy why aren't you answering me? I'm getting hungry now. Mommy's shouting at me, but I told her I won't eat till you come home. Where are you now?"

The patient's condition was turning critical. Doctors had to give him a heart massage, but all was in vain. His eyes were deeply shut and his face became paler. His clenched fists loosened a bit and his head tilted to a side.

The young nurse gasped. Everyone in the crammed ward was in teary eyes, as they felt sorry for the little girl who was still talking on the mobile, without knowing her dad's condition.

"Daddy it's OK if you're getting late. I'll be a good girl and have lunch with mommy. So daddy, come home safely. We are waiting for you..."

A beep sound came and the mobile turned off automatically. As if by fate, the battery lasted only to deliver this final message. Tears were rolling down and everyone went speechless. The valiant soldier who was lying in front of them has already left this world.

His painful expression has turned into a faint smile, with tear drops shining at the corner of his eyes. Silently expressing his contentment hearing his little daughter's voice, at the same time expressing agony having to leave them without saying goodbye...

(Un)controlled

 There are times that you feel you're so powerless.. you're imbued with negativity... you've run out of all ideas.. you feel desperate for a change.. and then... you catch that faint light... the light at the end of the tunnel? Nope.. the teeny faint feeble spot of light at the bottom of your heart.. that says.. you've not tried.. not just enough.. there's more options.. hundreds of them.. if you just believe.. and look around. 

360 degrees = 360 ideas!

PS: that's mathematics for dummies. ^__^

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The society is a strange thing. It has such an impact on individuals, whether we like it or not. It seems like the society is controlling us.. pulling us with invisible strings.. like how the puppeteer controls his puppet.

The puppet has no choice but to play along their roles.. as and when the strings get pulled. The puppet needs to remain heartless, brainless and mindless and let the puppeteer stage the show. Add a ventriloquist and the puppet becomes completely mute.. unable to voice his opinions anymore.

The show goes on, the viewers are happy, the puppeteer receives money. The puppet.. gets thrown into a dark corner of the closet. If broken, the puppet gets replaced. It's the same model, same costume, same skills, the individual puppet has no unique value.

The society is such a scary thing. But.. strangely the puppeteers are all made up of puppets. Each getting controlled by their superior, until the hierarchy hits the ceiling.

Going in a rut, doing the same thing daily, mechanical greetings, emotionless smiling, shallow conversations, empty promises.. isn't it high time for the puppet to brush off all the dust and pull the strings out. And stand up on his own feet and voice out.. even in a soft whisper.. if not so loud.. this isn't fair.. this isn't what I want.. let me be me.. am I not a human.. after all?

Irony of fate

I recall no particular incident for this inspiration, it was totally random.. but maybe some early observations of my favorite and not-so-favorite arthropods triggered its concoction.. passively. Nevertheless the intricate patterns of a neatly woven web (not the world wide web), never fails to amaze me. 

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As the morning dew becomes pearly beads

and roll down the edge of a leaf

The sun rays filter through a thick canopy

and silhouettes a webbed masterpiece

Bound and gagged by the fibrils so delicate

a forlorn fly wriggle and cry

The plight unbeknown to a merry Monarch

flutters to a milkweed nearby

The boughs budge and the branches wave

as the gust blows right and left

The starving hunter closes in

and finds dangling fibrils instead

On the ground teeming with rotting leaves

the cocooned fly twist and twirl

Trying to set itself free from pain and grief

for being stuck in a fatal murk

The wind blows hard on our little Monarch

who whirls and drops on a web

The spider gives no chance and wraps it up fast

while the butterfly wriggles in pain

The fly on the ground break out of cocoon

and shakes off its fear and fatigue

It soars to the sky, passing by

the hunter and the prey.. in a blink

A poet... one of a kind

During the times I was glued to Japanese drama, there was this one particular drama that made me all teary eyed, on each and every episode. The name itself says so.. Ichi Rittoru no Namida (One Litre of Tears). The story was based on a true story of a poet - Kitou Aya (1962-1988), a teenager who suffered from an illness with no cure. Through her umpteen times of suffocation, she wrote a diary that inspired millions. This is a tribute to that poetic heroin, who left the world way too early.

.............

In the world unknown to her

Enveloped in a wall sky high

She encountered...

Smiling faces,

Watery eyes,

Stuttering voices

And the sound of wheels

Her fate stole all hopes and dreams

Making her past... a cherished dream

Her present... a battle of life and death  

And her future... all dark and indistinct

A mountain of things left to do

A mountain of things left to say

Yet the cruelty of her fate

Took all that away

And all that awaited

Was nothing but death and pain

Bedridden and mute

Yet with a smile that never fades

Her trembling hands scribbled

Encouraging words

Day after day

A ritual she performed

Since she was fifteen

Until she bid farewell

At the age, five and twenty

Her words brought life and courage

To millions of people, drenched in pain

And to this day, her name lingers in their hearts

As a savior, a hero... who was born through pain

The Maestro of the Street

Think I wrote this after seeing a street performer.. not so new of a sight in this part of the world. But sadly those who appreciate their efforts are no more.. or visibly less.

...... 

In the corner of a dust covered street

Under the scorching sun’s heat

Amidst a throng of sullen people

He’d willingly take a seat

Pulling out a few instruments

From a safely packed bundle

He starts playing a pleasing tune

For this gathering to listen

Switching from flute to harmonica

While playing the violin

He performs a mini orchestra

Accompanied by a tambourine

 Time to time people glance at him

Awaiting their buses to arrive

Slightly tapping their feet to the rhythm

‘Cause his music can mesmerize

They’d forget the scorching heat

They’d forget the stress and tension

They’d forget the anger from waiting

They’d forget all worldly problems

Before long their buses arrive

And the crowd leaves one by one

Only a few willingly offer him coins

While others offer him none

Yet he’s content with what he gets

As he happily counts his collection

And packs up his belongings

To set off in another direction

From street to street he wanders

Far away from his home and family

Trying his best to cheer sullen people

For he’s a true performer of the street

S.M.I.L.E.

This will be the teeny space to hatch those random inspirations I get from time to time.  So here goes the first.

S - seemingly unrelated.. insignificant
M - moments... captured gracefully by the mind;
I - in the nick of time.. a
L - language unspoken.. interprets itself.. and
E - etches its trace.. permanently... in the heart.