Revisiting Past


Revisiting our past is bewildering. We lean on to moments that hang on to the supposed sky we don’t know the distance of. Though blurred and inaccessible, we still believe that they are emotionally involved with us and someday will be possible again. We are so sure that we still connect to them by a thread, and we have a firm grip on it. But we fail to comprehend the fact that it is cut loose and will always be beyond our reach.


She will be gone

Yesterday, the trouble seemed so far away

for yesterday she was all upon me,

Her breath was warm enough to let me survive

in her clear blue eyes, where I could see

Me and her, a possibility

Yesterday, her presence was the reason

for my dreams to sketch arrows at her skin

She would take me places, holding hands

luring me to think impossible with a hope that’s been

For life before death, an inevitable

Her witty performs and million thoughts

I would drink from everyday,

and the blurred images

she created, every time she was pushed a heart away

From love to hate, an unexplainable

Yesterday, it was me, her and us,

Today its me, us lost in those dots of light

She has been forgotten, ruined by few

and soon in this dust of burning air she might

be gone, taking us with her, though avoidable

(here ‘she’ refers to mother nature)

All the way

White lines emerge on the verge of the first slow sight

that my eyes are released to

those rays deepen slowly as I open up

with the world of colors that the sky belongs to

A gush of wind push them with a sense

of existence of actual living songs

which our ears will barely notice

with no air touching the eyes of filling the lungs

Sounds those strings reverberate

pokes and pinches every skin we expose

stalls every imaginations and voice inside

and smothers that only our heart knows

I hate to believe that life is felt

on hours of uninspired text reading

rather we depend on those wide smiles

and a warmth of a company we sit in ….

(Inspired by the music of  “All The Way Down – Once”)



Death is a word we love to play with, use it in emotional ventures but avoid in reality. Death can be insensitive sometimes and reason for few to pour down the wreckage that they’ve been holding for ages. Death is difficult; death is what we believe is an end.

The clock picked 10 and 30 while I was in my pre sleep comfort zone. Dreams had been weaving around my only space of imagination which for sudden was violated by a ghostly cry that enumerated the night’s atmosphere. Like in horror movies, the sound pierced through the weakened heart with a wicked flow, scared is how I replenish it. I was in no mood to stick my bones straight, so instead took my smart phone expecting people to reply to my hellos. Though how hard I tried to avoid it, the resonated cries, and then of many, dragged my attention to the place where this episode was taking place. I had to get in the scene. So, I pulled up by half pants, and forgetting how chilled the night had gotten, took a step out.

It was third time in a span of 4 months that I had participated in a death ceremony. Like always, there were women lined up outside of the house of the one who had finally embraced death. They were all soaked up in tears, and like a Buddhist chant, had been repeating the cry sequence calling out the word that meant their relationship with the dead. “Yha maa !!… Ya Hajurma !! … Ya Tari ma !!… Yaa nini !!”  .. so were the cries that had been hung in the throats of those. Looking at them, I kind of doubted if they actually meant what they were doing. Were the tears they were shedding for that old dead woman had any meaning? Of few, they might have poured their hearts out, but rather I could see many pretend. Ah .. society!! Only if there were no one staring at them, they would have secretly smiled and thanked god that finally the old woman left for good.

Palas arrived, and everybody took some sort of formation to let them in. They got inside the house, and brought out the lifeless body. Covered in faint creamy white colored clothe, the body looked more like a sack full of old cloths. Palas swung it upon the wooden bar and the husbands of the daughters of the dead body slowly carried it in their shoulders. And like some kind of parade, in a line, everybody moved. Women were in front crying in the loudest voice, then the son-in-laws carrying the body, the relatives behind them, and finally the neighbors carrying bunch of materials that would be used to burn the body.

I had heard how unlucky had she been like a year before to not die even after falling from a third floor of the building. She was already too old to do anything, and had started to lose memory, and nervous activity. Life was pretty hard for her, was too for her son. So, the death would have been a relief, was what many spoke about when she fell from the third floor. She did not die then. Many even said that the reason for her to survive that fall was that she had to suffer more for the sins she had done in her life. I don’t know much about her, or her past life, so I have always believed that life has been cruel to her.

The tiny drops accumulated and hit the floor in a bang. We were moving in our pace, and the rain was the last thing that we had expected. Rain was no way good. Things were starting to get wet, and we needed to hurry. Then again I thought, unlucky her. To burn the body as quick as possible, dry straws were required, and then with rain, they were wet. We hurried a bit, and finally when we reached the place where the body was to be burned, the rain stopped. We did what we had to and quickly returned home.

In a way back to home I started to think of people around me and imagined each one of them dead, one by one. A string of emotions punctured my heart. Imagining things hurt that bad, what if it happened in real, how would I react? My imaginations are inevitable, it’s just that I’m not so sure that I will live to see them happen.

The world will die someday, the life too. Only if those emotions could die sooner…



It’s a belief that we’re stuck in, though the rays of its pattern is same for everyone, we observe it in many different ways. It’s not the fault of the thing that lets them in, but the quality of it that limits the amount of those inside. And followed by it, is the inadequate mass that keeps us in top of the animal race. The way it is molded, is the way those entered rays are refracted inside with variation in angles, causing interpretations. This angle variation differs from one to other giving rise to fluctuations in the perception of even a same thing. Belief is a dangerous armor that we let out eyes deal with. It’s one big world but is a million, diverged by ways the people look at it.


The sun rests and the sky turns itself off

only letting the distant spark

fill them as white cosmic spots

certainly something that won’t trouble eyes

The colors of sun that painted the sky

drag themselves down the horizon

along with the heat that blows away

till it gathers in an edge inviting death

Frogs pronounce their presence

accompanied by crackling continuous sound creators

dogs express their inner-selves

with a quick howl of outer demeanors

Any voice will spread around

a melancholy to those that gets them

foams that ease out parts

and sanctuary will be inbound

There are those times, when in dark we dream colors

and in pitch silence we create sounds





Irritation refers to a situation where one is irritated for a particular reason. An insect bite can create physical irritation, which could swing few people’s mood. But when this word directs humans, then it is simply annoying, and it deals with both emotional and physical features. People get irritated of people. Few bear them and few avenge them. Irritating peoples are ignored, and they simply let it go.

I have a grandmother who has a weak ear. She can barely hear us. So every time I converse with her, I have to use the highest possible pitch of my voice in really slow tone to make her understand each word I speak. She has also been a believer in evil kinds. Every time anyone gets sick in home, she starts blaming other people, with all her created stories, imaginative actions, and curses that sound so bitter that though we know she has a mental disorder cannot help but burst out and ask her to keep herself shut. And these times, when she does not hear what we say, the irritation level reaches the max. Knowing her situations and the limitations she has lived her life through, there are multiple times when I feel pity for her. After all she is my grandma, I am indeed a quarter of her, and we share blood. It is total obvious for me to feel pity every time people start acting irritated of her and try to ignore her. But irritation is a heart disease, totally unbearable. I have tried hard to not get irritated when she starts on me, but times I have lost my nerve, times I have calmed myself.

This is how the world looks upon my grandma, an irritation creator.

Those who irritate aren’t actually one. Too much sugar will taste bitter, too much food will get you sick and too much of love will start being irritating. When love fades, whatever the love offers, we get irritated. New is always better and old is irritating. Same goes with people, new people will touch your heart with same words, while older ones will affect less. And when that love becomes the one, for everything that love does or speaks of will increase one’s temper and make you want to strangle that love to death.

These days, when I look up in the sky and see the dark clouds bonding together hiding the sun away, I feel nothing. I have kept myself low with the heavy heart that I have had till now. But my grandma smiles to this weather, for she then can expect rain sooner. Anyone who is out for work and has forgotten umbrella will surely curse the weather, same goes with people planning to sun bathe. And a nature poet will be filled with pitch of romance, and will pour out the exemplary artistic exhibit to describe the cold but warm nature that the weather offers. It’s the same weather but difference in the eyes.

Same goes with the ones who are considered irritating.

At present, I have become one of a kind like my grandma. Thus, I have realized that irritating people is never intentional. Maybe there have been times, when I have tried to, but those do not matter much. The ones that matter are times when we try our level best to offer help and be replied with an acknowledgement of annoyance instead. These are the times, I think twice before I say something. The brain speaks one, and heart does another. The pulses that command us to act in certain ways are generated by our brain cells, but by the time those pulses travel through the heart, it is re coded and I tend to act different. And as said before, when things that strengthens the bond weaken out, you can do nothing of it. The heart will be heavy and people you meant best for will get irritated of you, of me.

It is quite hard to live without people, but is death-like to live for a person who hates you, being their irritation when instead you offered love. If I was being irritated I would avenge. In this case, since I am one, the only thing that I can do is let it go.