Lucknow Jam-min'

Lucknow Jam-min’

It took me over a week to compile this article. Sorry, but I haven’t been keeping well, and I still am not well. Anyways, reporting back to the day when I was stuck in the jam. I was on my way to Charbagh to see off some of my relatives and I had to wind up an important task that day on my way back. I had to see my doctor who was kind getting bugged up of seeing me everyday.

We left at 4 and generally it takes around one hour to reach the station (Charbagh) but at 6 I had the so called appointment with the doctor. It was some ‘rally’ that day. Don’t worry, all the above text is just an invocation. Here goes all the happening things of that day:
Time: 5 PM
Venue: Gemini Continental Road (Still 6 kms away from Charbagh, thanks
to that traffic jam)
Meanwhile, signal received, cell phone beeped, who else she could be other than Aaishwari (hey you remember we were talking about something very interesting that day) and for those who don’t know, 70% of my inbox is filled with her SMSes. Anyways, that’s not the thing.

Suddenly a man on scooter next to our car reminded himself, “Oh aaj to Mayawati ki asthi-kalash yatra hain, fass gaya!” Perhaps he was too loud reminding himself. Another politically correct guy from somewhere (I just heard the voice) analyzed and corrected the first gentleman, “Arrey, Mayawati ki nahin, Kanshiram ki!” Overhearing this, a guy with her girlfriend glued to him on his bike retorted, “Saala Kanshiram, marne ke baad bhi pareshan kar raha hain!” A Neta Ji, who was keen on grabbing this opportunity (I am glad he was there in the cloud, because that species is highly explosive when mixed with crowd like this) and said loudly, “Agar Mayawati ek-do baar aur aisa kar de to iska to saara votva (UP word for vote) hi saffa ho jaye.” Ummm, certainly an opportunity captured.
It wasn’t about the woes only. It acted like a ‘Mini Kumbh Mela’. It is famous as a re-discovery spot, thanks to Bollywood. I heard a man on my right side screaming out to a man on my left, “Arrey bhaisahab, aap bhi yahan?” Wow, the best example of comment coated with surprise. The receiver, obviously embarrassed, “He-he-he (artificial one), aap bhi [go to step one] He-he-he (artificial one)!”, but I heard his heart saying it loud, “Ab yeh kameena pakayega”. The other question from the right side which was in the air went like, “Scooter? Zen kaha hain aapki?” The reply, “Arrey mujhe pata tha jam lagne wala hain aaj”. Great! Sir, kindly report to BCCI at the earliest. We need you there terribly. His heart yelled, “Amma, petrol kya u bharwayega?”

Some of them even enjoyed the Jam. They parked their cars and got something to eat from the near by bakeries, nice idea, indeed! It was never before when some volunteers came to the rescue (point noted your Honour, where was the traffic police?) and traffic started moving at snail’s pace. It was no longer that the snail transformed into a tortoise. One man came up to me and out of sheer sarcasm said, “Abhi tak aap yahi pahuche ho, I left you at the turn 15 minutes back”. I replied, “Oh now I know, aap wohi ho (as if I cared at that moment)?” Strange city, as if everyone knows everyone. I am sure, if we would have landed up at his bakery, he would have greeted us with some chocolate pastries. “Idhar kaato (turn), udhar nocho (word for scratch and dent)”, the voices were screaming these religious word all over. Thanks to my driver that I was familiar with this terminology otherwise I would have confused it with some horror movie starring Emraan Hashmi.
Anyways, everyone says, all is well that ends well. We reached Charbagh at around 6:30, my relatives missed their train and I missed my appointment. Got to know one more of city’s untouched face that day.

For the first time in 19 years I have seen that thing, rather, I was matured enough to enjoy that and trust me I have fallen in love with that face as well. However, I noticed that we stand united, at all times. It was heard everywhere and every mouth spoke about it. No matter the volume was low in some cases, but, every mouth (I mean it) said, “Saala Kanshiram, $*&^$#!&$#% Mayawati!”

P.S. : “I would like to pay my tribute to the debarred soul. May your soul rest in peace dear Sir. This was just what we all went through. It’s strange that you could not keep yourself away from the hands of some dirty politicians even after your death”

Writing Credits: Piyush Singh
Editing Credits: Aaishwari Chouhan

Untitled

Date – 14th August 2006
Time – Around 10:30 PM

When I barged into my flat still glued on phone with Shikha, I saw my flat-mates in the other room trying hard to work out a party that night. It wasn’t too late to party if you are in NIFT and the next day being Independence Day. I moved to my room, as if least interested in the party, and asked Shikha to get back to me in sometime because I needed to slip into something more comfortable.

The phone rang and Coldplay’s Yellow (My ringtone then) ended too early to be Shikha’s. It was an unknown number but I wasn’t curious. Moreover I was quite enthusiastic since the number started with +91522…, Lucknow, that’s right! My mind started looking for similar phone numbers. I was just wondering that who could have called up from a landline in Lucknow other than my family members. I couldn’t even scan the complete memory and the phone rang again, the same number. And here goes the conversation:

Caller: Piyush?
I: Yeah, kaun bol raha hain? (That’s my peculiar style and accent!)
Caller: Arunima!
I: Haan…(Still trying to figure out which one she was but she clarified it before I could have asked)
Caller: Arunima, Poornima’s sis!
I recognized her immediately, for Poornima is the key. Poornima was the lady who had tremendous command over my life. She made me what I am, a major contributor to it. She was more than my real sister. It was just like that I wasn’t in touch with her for quite a long time because of professional ups and downs along with some personal turmoils. I hardly had any idea that the biggest one awaited me.
I: Haan didi, boliye, kaisi hain aap?
Caller/Arunima: Tumhe to pata hain naa Poornima ka…?
I: Kya pata hain? Mujhe nahin pata.
Caller/Arunima: She is no more.
I: Kya? Aap mazaak to nahin kar rahi hain naa?
Caller/Arunima: Tumhe kya lagta hain?
I: Kaise? Kab?
Caller/Arunima: 26th June 2006, she committed suicide (biggest shock ever) at her residence(In Noida where she was living alone).

The conversation didn’t end right there but there is no point putting up all of it here. It was strange that the lady who had been my strength and had been an example of courage could ever commit suicide. She was 8 years older to me but I always addressed her with her name without the suffix ‘didi,’ still missing. My biggest critic, biggest well wisher and when I heard this news, I felt as if some unknown hand had smashed me to the ground.

I still remember the very first letter I got from Poornima. It was about one of my very first poems published in Hindustan Times, to be more precise on 24th August 2002. I was 16 then. She was an expert at surprising me every now and then. Despite, I knew her long before the time she actually posted the letter all the way from Kanpur. Just like me, crazy, she went all the way to Kanpur and posted that letter from there. There were a couple of lines which she borrowed from a gazal and mentioned them in the very first letter:
Ban jayenge zehar peete peete
Yeh ashq jo peete ja rahe ho

Kaash yeh ashk sach mein zeher ban gaye hote Poornima. Life had changed since that day. Now I regret not talking to her when she was calling me up on 24th. I was shocked when I hung up Arunima’s call. I switched off my cell phone and stood in the verandah. Everything flashed by in front of my eyes. I made her wait at certain occasions and sometimes she had to drag green (now she must have said “dark green”) kinetic for kilometers and kilometers. She did everything for me, right from arranging psychology notes to every damn thing. I spoke to her about love, relations, poems, expressions and perhaps what all I am doing today is just a tribute to her.

She kept on craving for a treat. Every time she would call up and say “Please courier the cake”. Huh! Cake, gifts, treats, what all and what not. Your treat is still due Pornima. Please come back and I promise I’ll do whatever you say. Your treat is due naa, I' ll take you out to Aaryans, you always wanted to go there. I have so much to tell you now. You always listened to me patiently, let it be about Deepa, Sangeeta, in that case, anyone. Please come back, I want to tell you about Shikha, Aaishwari and Roli, wouldn’t you help me out now? Aren’t you going to make things easier for me to understand now? Please come back.

I hope she can hear my voice. Here I am, no one and all alone. Landed up at my home this vaccation to find the cutting of the news paper where I dedicated ‘Seasons in the Sun-Westlife’ to her on her birthday. I was still there and the sound of the party was getting higher in the next room in my flat. I tried to escape, my room all locked and I still stood there in the verandah. Somewhere around 3:30 in the morning, amidst the hells and the screams of the party, I heard some voice from far away singing –

Chitthi na koi Sandesh
Jaane who kaun sa desh
Jaha tum chale gaye….

Writing Credits: Piyush Singh
This post required no Editing!

Here I'm, No One Again

I don’t know why but I find winters damn romantic and now, I think, is the right time to romanticise with my long lost ‘words’. People were wondering, some even mentioned, ‘Blog is dead’. It happens. I was getting into a shell and that’s when the most beautiful pearl is formed. The shell fades away from the memory but the pearl is there to stay.
Welcome you all, a whole new world of…..Naah, wait a sec. the world is same but the things related to me have changed. Coming to winter once again, I couldn’t help adding the adjective ‘romantic’ to it.

Despite of everything ‘odd’ that has been happening with me, I m having a good and pleasurable time with all the loves of my life - melancholy, pain, words and craving. It’s so easy for me to say that I’ll rise up again but at the bottom of my heart I know that I am defeated. Lets make the set of words more perfect – I am fighting a battle which I know I m going to lose.
Anyways, everything else apart. Since love is in the air, what?! Did I hear anyone say ‘No’? Whatever but the fact will be a fact, IT IS. Winter just acts as a catalyst to it. That’s my approach to chemistry, never mind! Winters were on the prowl, second week of January and temperature was 2ºC below zero that day in Kanpur. I borrowed my team mate’s cell phone to make a call since I wasn’t carrying mine. I knew she would be right there next to the phone waiting for my call.

I : Main Piyush bol raha hoon.
She : Pata hain, kahan ho?....Maine kabse khana bana kar rakha hain….
I : Aa raha hoon baba, abhi abhi free hua hoon.
She : Jaldi aao, maine subah se kuch nahin khaya hain, jab society mein entry marna tab call kar dena aur yaha tumse milne ke liye bahut log baithe hain…
I : bas aa raha hoon !

Within 45 minutes, I was there in her society and phoned her when I entered the gate. She said that she would be waiting out on the road as it was virtually impossible to find her house which was numbered 450 & 451. I was in my car which was comparatively warmer than the environment outside. There she was rubbing her palms together and clad in a white sweater. Dedication, I must say, at that point of time I wouldn’t have waited for anyone like she did out in the open. Now things have changed.

Smile on her face almost killed me and I wasn’t able to figure whether it was a dream or a piece of reality till her warm hands touched mine for a hand shake. She guided me to her house all the while holding my hand and I can see the joy flushing on her face while my chauffer and team mate followed. There in her house, her Mom was waiting for me at the door and her 5 or 6 friends waiting for me at the couch. I was greeted with aroma of fantastic food as well.
Its not that I hate crowd but for that particular day, I just wanted to be left alone with her for some time since she already made a soft corner in my heart confessing her love for me 18 days back to the day of our meeting. She kept me forcing me for lunch at 5 in the evening; we (I, my team mate and she) finally compromised and settled for some hot tea. Her mom went to the kitchen. She took me to her room while my team mate entertained her folks singing one song after another.

There at her table I found the most pleasing collection of my poems, my cards (which I have sent her as a friend) and letters (wherein I would tell her stories, a new one every time). I sat on her bad and kept on staring at the floor. She took a seat on a couch next to bed. Although, I couldn’t see her but I could feel her near me. It was me who broke the silence by asking her whether she meant what she said 18 days back and if she was serious. The answer was yes and I still have got that frame frozen in my mind. It was foggy outside, foggier inside when I felt the dew drops roll down her eyes and touch the ground.

The tea arrived. I took the glass and kept it on the table. No one spoke. Eternal silence. She was trying to hand over the glass to me and accidentally our fingers touched. I realized the warmth of love is far more better than any other thing in this world. I wanted to live that moment through out my life. I so badly wished for the first time in my life that the time would stop but it's always been a traitor to me. I sat there admiring her face when the yellow light from the bulb projected a glow on her face; it might be love which made her glow. I asked her for a photograph of hers and she obliged. Time flied away like anything and I had to leave. Those were the best 40 minutes and I could make out her silhouette till fog engulfed it all while she stood there bidding by to me and car moved.

It’s been four years since this happened and I still regret that I could never confess what I felt for her and I know I would never get an opportunity to do that. Every time I think about her tears would roll down and I seep in to an unknown world where all I can see and explore is that face. I am unknown eternity since she had gone and people came and changed me as they pleased. The winter is knocking at my door again and all it brings is the fragrance of that lady who is far and far away in a distant world, in a distant entity. I stand up here at the terrace with my arms open embracing the cold winds hoping that one gush of air would carry her warmth and hold it on to me.

Writing Credits: Piyush Singh
Editing Credits: Aaishwari Chouhan

Suicide : My Remedy for Pains

Every other day starts as if it is just another day. You never know what is going to happen at the end of the day. You wake up normally but everything depends on the turn of the events. There is a condition to everything, whether the previous day ends or it never ends, it goes into eternity. This is said by me and you’ll get to know the meaning. Read it till each fragmented words sinks deep into your sub conscious mind and composes a image there.

So, all the days are same. Before going into the details, I would like to say that everything mentioned in this article bear no resemblance to any person living or dead (if dead, then it wouldn’t have been here), and if it does then its pure co-incidental. Just another day in my life. I never knew I would be so close to lady of my dreams (refer to: Getting familiar with Acme, www.cafe-xpression.blogspot.com) by the time clock would have struck 12 of the night. I still could feel her presence, sitting next to me draped in a black saree and sitting in the most gracious posture.

Her cold hands are holding down the pages of my diary so that they don’t bother while I am writing. I could feel her long black tresses flowing and falling on her smiling face as well as mine because of the gush of the wind which was trying to turn the pages of my life’s diary. I am not scared of her presence around me. For those who don’t know, she is Death, personified and what a beauty she is.

Aaishwari thinks and mentions that I am ‘insane’, but it’s just her perception. I am addicted to pains. Now, I can feel those pair of the prettiest eyes looking into my diary, as if she could read whatever I am writing down. This is my third meeting with her and she is not saying anything and I don’t want to look at her because all the stars embellished on her black saree are getting me momentarily blind on every single glance.

Psychiatrist will refer to my condition as ‘hallucination’ But, I’ll say that it’s just the portrayal of the picture your heart draws and I guess Suvarna agrees, heart to heart, right? Even if it is hallucination, I m in love with death. I know that it is a mere coincidence that when the freezing fingers of death are running through my hair, Aaishwari must be feeling the shiver run down her spine. Its all in your mind’s game. Addiction to pain is not really very painful as the pain is, addiction just makes it tolerable. In any case, I am not trying to influence the way other people think.

It’s been a couple of days since this incident took place. It’s about a guy; blessed with a wonderful sister, lots of love and everything he could even wish for. The smile he wears is a fake one, even he knows that. To put things better, I’ll place myself in his shoes (no objections please, Roli and Aaishwari). Here it goes. I sat there while a perfect set of songs was aired on the FM and those lines were fading into reality which went like:
Kehte hain sabhi
Yeh zindagi gam aur khushi ka woh mel hain
Par humko to aaya nazar
Ki yeh zindagi who khel hain
Koi sab jeete to sab koi haar de
Apni to haar hain yaar mere

Yaar….mere……. Sitting at dining table, I was all in a state trance and craving, craving for pain. Everything started fading out, the voices around me, the sound of the channels being changed on the television, the riffs and rhythm of the songs being played on FM, the vocals, everything. Eventually I could hear the ‘tic-tic’ of the wall clock and finally all I could hear was my own heart beating aloud and saying to me that I could do it. That was one heck of motivation. I picked up a knife from the table, placed it gently on my wrist and throughout I was flooded with self realization. Started dragging it with a little pressure and soon I was through with it after leaving a cut of about 2.5 inches long.

Even before I could have placed the knife back on the table, I could already feel the blood oozing out, drop by drop. It rolled down my palms, through my finger and landed up the white marble floor, smearing my fingertips and nails with a dark red colour. I sat there silently, staring blankly at those dark red (rather maroon now) drops of blood on the white floor. They were still accusing me of conspiring against them. Slowly my sight was turning black, everything faded and I couldn’t keep my eyes open for long. As soon as I closed my eyes, I felt the ‘thud’ when I actually fell down on the floor.

I don’t know but now I could hear some different voices and sounds all together. I heard some big machines on my left (that’s where the sound was coming from) saying regularly at continuous intervals ‘Beep…Beep…Beep…Beep…’ I heard one familiar voice saying, “Abhi zinda hain, zaldi aao”. I gathered the courage to open my eyes against the white fluorescent lights and could see faces all around me nervous and crying, ‘What For?’ Before, I could have said anything my sight blurred again and black dominated the frame again. I closed my eyes and felt the voices fading away. I heard someone say, “He is sinking” and after that, I heard the machine beeping more ferociously, ‘Beep..Beep..Beep..Beep..’ and then an eternal ‘Be..ee..ee..ee..ee..pp..pp..pp..pp.’ which never seemed to have ended. I don’t know whether it did or it didn’t.

Writing Credits: Piyush Singh
Editing Credits: Aaishwari Chouhan

Freedom : Pause and Play

Things are never as simple as they appear. It is a feeling euphoria that is seeing me through all these days. The official and the unofficial vote of thanks should go to a bunch of amazing musicians and add to that list an amazingly cool friend (Randeep) and perhaps the most enchanting song writer and vocalist, Sarab. Last two weeks have been damn good for me professionally while I am still trying to cope up with a lot of things personally. Let that stuff for some other post in the blog.

I read in one of the most famous and much hyped book called ‘The Alchemist’ that the most simple things in the life are the most extraordinary. It is so true. Two of my decent ‘friends’ rocked my city and my people while I was in the bliss of strange melancholic ecstacy. Prestorika was good, they performed better than my expectation and parikrama was even better. Catching up with the people, chilling out, setting up the drums, though I wasn’t supposed to handle that show but still couldn’t help assisting Robert and that poor soul was having tough time doing it all alone.

This time, the moments I spent with parikrama were more enriching than the ones I have spent earlier and somehow I was keen on experimenting with different genres of music. Couldn’t satiate my hunger with all that I had and the ‘heard over and over again’ type of songs so ended up asking for music here and there. Suddenly while refreshing my mail account I saw this mail by this guy called Randeep Singh and I was surprised to see that mail. He sent me song titled ‘The Doll Is Mine’ by some ‘Blonde Redhead’. That’s not the issue anyhow. The name of the person who sent me the mail did the trick and I recalled, Oh Cool! Even this guy has a band called Menwhopause (MWP) and I fortunately I had their first album Home on my PC. I have heard it several times before and I have conveyed my compliments to the band as well.

There was something strange that particular night. The breeze carried the fragrance of someone I love and then I felt my eye lids getting moist. I was at home but yet far away and all of a sudden a voice, mingled with melody started singing –

Home
Mother, I’m waiting
Patient, you’ve been so late
I’m alone
Son, you’ve been gone too long
I’ve been waiting
Say that you’ll be
Home again soon
Home, is where, where I’ll be
HomeIt’s been raining shadows
The sun’s out
It’s clear enough for me to see the light
And I know it’s right for me to be moving on
I’ve beenLosing the battles I’m playing
With my mind
I need to let it go
Let it go
Move on
Home, I’ll sing a song, I’ll write a tune for you my
Home I'll miss you, I'll miss you
So someday soon
My home
My home
Home
My home
My home

It was Sarab and I knew I have heard these words earlier but I just wasn’t getting them. I started listening to them and I was taken away by the same breeze itself. I landed up at some place which I don’t even know. That had no name and it was located somewhere with red walls around. All I could make out was that I am somewhere in my own heart and trying to recover. I was trying to recover from the hope, despair and melodies which added many unsung tunes to my memoirs.

The play list progressed and so the songs. I was lost in time and space. I wanted to move but sat there on the chair like a lifeless carcass. The music took over and I am perhaps the biggest admirer of the band now. I rushed through the trees, I swam across the biggest of the oceans, I jumped into the river and the music made me do it. Free, Sarab filled the vocals with soul and life and I never ever wondered ever before that free is such a powerful word. I then realized that even if I am nothing, the worst and the ugliest person, I know what I have got and I can cherish that for the lifetime and this is Freedom.

Receding down my own self and then I suddenly felt the pain which I knew that it has been burning deep inside me. With a Shotgun, I wish I would wake up one morning and would find myself dead someday dead. While she weeps on my side with a shotgun in her hand. The body that’s no where to be seen, with blood strained sheets of clothes is now flying high in the skies of eternity. I always knew that death is beautiful but Sarab made me realized that it has beautiful manifestations as well.

Things were going fine and then all of a sudden something come up which was so me and if someone deep with in me have been telling those things –

Little boy you've been dreaming too long
Don't you know I laid a path ahead for you
You're fooling with your funny dreams
Aim higherDon't you know I need you to

Born again, my little one
You're squealing but I got a song for you
Go sleep until you're fresh enough
Awaken now, you've got to face the blues

I, have I been wasting time?
I, have I been wasting time?

Been wasting all my time on you
Been hoping you would learn a trick or two
And now you're walking up to me
You're saying you don't know if I have you

I, have I been wasting time?
I, have I been wasting time?


I wish I can write the band’s name high on sky. I just feel like a flower in the desert rain and I know I can’t stay for long. The aura of the members speaks volumes and this is by far the best band I have heard and trust me, I have heard a lot of them. Parikrama is an exception though. Randeep has always been a good friend and he finally managed to get me tripping over the words like “Sahi Hain” and “Kaafi Sahi”. This is one piece of dedication I would like to put forth to these guys. I feel so helpless compromising at points when I want to paint the sky red and blue with their praises. I have mailed the song to over 400 people in last three days and I m still counting. The reason is that I cant help myself making others to listen to that awesome track.

Randeep thinks that I am helping them out with their PR, but this is just a token of respect, love and friendship I share with these people and all those basics Sarab taught me about the Ad World and ‘ideation’. I wish I can climb up the tallest building in India and scream out your name. These guys with their music have re defined my life and I dedicate my life to the feelings and attitude these guys have instigated into me. Way to go MenWhoPause and yeah, Randeep, as you say play and pause are the part of one single button. So now you know what to do, eh?

Writing Credits : Piyush Singh
Editing Credits : Aaishwari Chouhan
Image Credits : MenWhoPause

A New Canvas and Vague Themes

I know that I’m quite late in writing or may be late in reacting to this but as one of my friends said “Do Not Forget and Do Not Let Others Forget”, so I think that this delay is quite justified. I am not a social custodian neither the self proclaimed curator of the art that we have lost and at the same time, I am not the one who holds some kind of authority in context of the Indian Society but nevertheless, I want to write about it, even if my words go unheard.

I am shattered to see whatever is happening around me. No… no… I am not talking in context of my personal or professional turmoil deep in me. The smoky streets, the terror struck people, the bloodshed and let me get a little harsh out here, The Massacre. I believe, it is important to keep the memories or experience of what they call it as the biggest terror attack so far tucked away in the minds of individuals but at the same time, it is equally important to break that shell and live for another day.

Yeah, it’s true that we shouldn't forget it and shouldn't let other forget it as well but what plays the role here? Pictures are worth a thousand words but how long do you want those words to live? Honestly speaking, being a photographer, I know the importance of pictures but I don’t want to look at those pictures or something similar for the rest of my life. You may conclude it as the impact of the pictures or may be a flaw in my insane might. But, I conclude that the real story extends beyond those flashlights, mega pixels, shutter speed, exposure and 35 MM format. These stories perhaps have no words at all. And, the Creator neither gave us the skills nor the rights to fill words in those innocent mouths.

What started as a deadly dance of death is going to end as some important people are getting a bit too involved while they are pulling the strings. I am sorry, but this was not just a dance of death. To many, it meant the life. It is also true that it changed life. Changes are not always negative. Think about a news reporter who has been dying to get a good story so that he can save his job in this horrific time of recession. This whole 60 hours of live ‘action’ spelt success for many of the people I personally know. It came in as a big opportunity for a reporter who was desperate for his job, for someone who wanted to explore a new arena in terms of his job aspect and for someone who wants to make a movie out of it.

What’s the use of reliving those 60 hours of terrorism? Is it the terror based theme of the movie that it will make it a box office hit or the star cast where we are expected to see all the leading names in the industry dramatically vying for the eyeballs in a recreation of Taj or Oberoi and making fun of the martyrdom of Major Sandeep, ATS Chief Hemant Karkare or top cops like Vijay and Ashok Kamte. Not to forget, there will be a romantic angle to this whole thing where in the cops might have met their respective wives and girlfriends before leaving in a melodramatic sequence and much more. If you are reading this Sir, then please no movies on this. It will be a matter of shame for the Indian armed forces that while they were inside, the LIVE coverage which was just a TRP strategy, provided lead to the terrorists of what is happening and what is not.

I am not a Mumbaikar or a Marathi Manoos but have been staying here for 4 years now on the mercy of Mr. Raj Thackrey. Yeah, one thing more, I had some respect for this guy who had the whole of Maharashtra under his influence but was nowhere to be seen when it came to Non-Marathi Manoos saving his city. If the sight of about 700 Non Marathi and Non Mumbaikars and the SMSes and mails saying the same failed to disrupt the law and order of this city then how would be by any chance, Mr. Kamal R Khan and his movie Deshdrohi would have done that. There should have been a clear divide. Those who are Pro MNS shouldn't have watched the movie, as simple as that.

Many of us are talking about the anger, spirit and resilience of the city but have we ever pondered that Mumbai is like that? The spirit of Mumbai comes in the scene, not because of the will of the Mumbaikars but for the simple reason that we aren’t left with a choice. We are forced to hit the offices for work the very next day because we have to. No one would like to take a risk of skipping a day and end up starving at home along with the entire family. Ideally, I think the phrase ‘Spirit of Mumbai’ shouldn’t be taken as granted thought it means nothing for a man who is running fast, changing his train at the overcrowded stations rushing past through the metals detectors quickly enough so that the security personnel don’t even hear a ‘Beep’.

A blast was reported in Assam, within a week of this attack. I guess, terrorists are pretty eager to the share the responsibility and the initiative of ‘not letting the others forget’. I tried to catch up with loads of people, over the phone, over the internet and, no offense, the ones who were there were proud to have been there spotting the convoy, the grenade, the guns or the smoke more than they were sorry for this loss which shattered hundreds of homes.

Someone recently asked me that why didn’t I go to get some pictures of the Taj burning down or clouds of smoke hovering over the monument. For a while, I did regret that I didn’t go to click pictures but then I realized, how a person would feel if he is being clicked naked and there is not much he can do to cover himself? As a photographer, I would have got a great picture with emotions, drama and all but as a human I should have covered it and should have even destroyed all the evidences that he was naked once.

The person in question is none other than our country, India while she is wailing trying to cover herself up with whatever is left out of the bombed, torn apart and blood soaked of her garment. We as her kids, are rejoicing, praising the commandos but everything is in context of the trauma she is going through and she can never get out of it if we keep on looking at the pictures that show the wounds on her face and discussing that it would have been either you or someone you know.

Take a new canvas and paint what you want your mother to see. I know that is not all, so take a step with your actions in that direction and bring that picture to reality. Turn it into a reality and this is the only way you can help yourself and the country.

God Bless Everyone!
Peace Out

Piyush Singh
www.piyushsingh.com

On Your B'day, Dad!

This goes on and on as a gift to my beloved father. It is something I had never done before. I never wrote him a poem or song when he was alive and since he is no more, there is an array of thoughts, added to which is a rhyme and rhetoric, comes in the scene. I wish I would have said all those words to you dad, when you were here with me. All those gifts which i gave you over the years are now meaningless because I had to gift fire to your pyre when you lay there motionless and, probably forcibly quite. This is porbably one of the gifts I have to offer which speaks beyond the volumes of materialism, because, I know I will be waiting with the candles on your birthday cake, till the candles doesnt sinks in the soft chocolate or may be blown off by you, or may be I will just wait endlessly beyond these two clauses. Love You and Wishing You a Happy Birthday, Dad!

Words deep inside,
The grave that is mine.
The echoes fail to reach him,
The tears so dry.

I waited for a prick,
To shatter the nightmare.
I saw the wrinkles so fresh,
And the deadly scare.

The last rose,
That I gifted to you.
Is been shedding tears,
Crying on its fate.

On your birthday, Dad,
I cry so hard.
My heart skips a beat,
And the veins bleed out.

I sat there screaming 'Foul'
While time played on.
Looking back at the moments,
A name among the dead.

The wishes that I'd ask for,
And the things that they were.
The pain goes deeper,
And burns under my skin.

I sail across the sea,
Hoping to see you there.
The hugs and the gifts,
And the moments to share.

On your birthday, Dad,
Been feeling the blues.
The destiny goes on,
And i follow the rules.

On your Birthday, Dad,
I miss you so.

Yours:
Piyush