everybody, even a coyote has his day!

the price of being worthless.....is surprisingly high!

darkness ... the face....

A flash, murmurings, a scream, piercing noises the ones you usually hear when your neighbor's kids pretends to be a cop with a realistic toy gun.. how is it.. looking around in the dark hall seeing smoke and a masked joker face. How..? baam.. pain searing through his body.. groping in the dark to check for his friends.. feeling bodies some breathing some damp.. am i.. is this... end?.. slipping..slipping into darkness a much profound one than which he was leaving..

“mom can i get the batman balloon?!”  his mom smiling down on him “oh ok.. i will get you one!. C’mon we are getting late”. Mom and the kid hoped off hurriedly into the crowd as it swayed towards the hall doors and the face of the batman bubbling  up and down among the many heads... lights dimmed and the starting credits rolled into the movie..scared of the dark he holds his mom’s hands,she pats his head reassuringly... a flash,a smoke, murmurings, baam baam , screams , the kid clenches the hand, never came the pat, nor came the whispered reassurances.. through the smoke he saw a mask.. a joker...  he lay their shocked to silence clenching his perforated batman balloon and his mothers fingers in his two little fists...... 

tu bole glass adha khali... main bolu adha bhara...

some of the most simplest of the sentences conveys the most complex of the feelings..

Mr. Edward Magorium: [to Molly, about dying] When King Lear dies in Act V, do you know what Shakespeare has written? He's written "He dies." That's all, nothing more. No fanfare, no metaphor, no brilliant final words. The culmination of the most influential work of dramatic literature is "He dies." It takes Shakespeare, a genius, to come up with "He dies." And yet every time I read those two words, I find myself overwhelmed with dysphoria. And I know it's only natural to be sad, but not because of the words "He dies." but because of the life we saw prior to the words.
[pause, walks over to Molly]
Mr. Edward Magorium: I've lived all five of my acts, Mahoney, and I am not asking you to be happy that I must go. I'm only asking that you turn the page, continue reading... and let the next story begin. And if anyone asks what became of me, you relate my life in all its wonder, and end it with a simple and modest "He died."
Molly Mahoney: [starting to sob] I love you.
Mr. Edward Magorium: I love you, too.
[picks Molly up, sighs heavily]
Mr. Edward Magorium: Your life is an occasion. Rise to it.

a land of disappointment...

To start with, there are ample no of things one is disappointed about ,it might be as huge as the book about understanding woman (which is seriously absurd, but nvm, that's a topic to chatter later about) .. i for one have constructed my topic of disappointment to the degradation of vacations.. 

Thinking back to the time of school days, the word “vacation” in itself made all kinds of ideas flood in.. and no, it had nothing to do with mobiles, facebooks, going to malls,etc..  known as the “kuda vali (garbage collector)” of the house due to a quirk of picking up and keeping boxes, bottles, pieces of thermocol, cardboards.. all had a purpose behind them.. the ultimate utilisation of their existence during vacation time. (inspite of ma’s valiant attempts into invading my room and clearing off my precious collections!) sitting down amid this weird garbage collection i planned my vacation around them.. many times my projects were failures and in the end i used to end up making black stringy things out of pieces of thermocols and with a hot knife and burning myself.... but it was a swing at creativity.. if not spending time on the wealth from waste agenda (which almost all the time was uglier from waste) there used to be grand planning of a picnic with friends(though, it was about a flimsy bedsheet  tent which was adamant on flying off with the glorious wind)

My disappointment comes to the part that somewhere in the growing up part those innocent creative surges have been lost.. now, my vacations are mostly spend on summer trainings and studies, at times i sneak off some minutes just wee seconds before sleeping for some reading for that's the thing which somehow makes me hang by the pinky finger by the cliff which was the land of “let the hand fly and there shalt be a picture”. The part where it’s no longer thought well enough for going on these make and catch the bedsheet afternoons is a whole lot of sadness..

 A voice for the kids of now.. who i never see enjoying these hols by going off for picnics nor for a morning fresh air cycling.. see the world out of the window and you shall never regret the days you spend down with the sun..

p.s: It might sound full of self-pity. But i do hope that you see past it and see the way bigger picture i am trying to show..

each strike of the hands have a story to tell...