Tuesday, January 15, 2008


"By night an atheist half believes in God."
-Edward Young

The crawler makes its way,
through the grey road.

The darkest of it's kind,
creates a magic spell on each leaf,
that flutters in the silent wind.

The moon shines,
with an unusual glory.
It's a glory of mistrust between the two worlds.
One that seeks to live and love.
The other that fights to seek an existence.

The calmness of the night,
was stolen by the dark envy.
An envy that robs the,
trees of it's right to live.
And the right to greenness.

Small pieces of the night,
stitch together and weave magic to a pungent perfume.

Floating limbs of evil forces,
grasp the melancholy of the earth,
to liven the damn spirits of

Nott remains unsuccessful,
in her attempts to bring her night back.
The Wiesel guy,
penned it down what it was like.

It was a night of happier things too.

The rickshaw-puller smoke his lustful pot,
and for once he relaxed,
to the tunes of the Baul that hummed in the record player,
left by some guest the other day.

It is also when people,
discover each other.

The trees communicate in silence.
And talk of welcoming the rains,
and bearing the pains.

The night shelters itself in a vast expanse,
pretending to be some kind of a treacherous beast,
that makes prophecies or wars and crimes.

Night is when the people rest,
and the dreams work to make him,
alive next morning.
Night is when man is what he becomes the next morning.

The sun paints the canvas,
and plays with the colours a little later.
It weeps and departs and promises,
a revengeful return.

(Nott is the Norse Goddess of Night,
Elles Wiesel is an author who wrote a book named "Night",talking about the Nazi treachery)

Wednesday, January 9, 2008

Station Story

The wind,
the stale wind,
blew with an unusual temptation.
The bitter taste of rekindled happiness was gushing by.

The sound of the engine,
(the very engine that killed a farmer yesterday)
split the uncommon silence;
in two halves.

The desolate paddy grounds,
danced to the beast's song.
The water-channels trembled with,
the chill of the sound.
And also of the evil night.

A night that bore women's cries,
and the men's laughter.
The one that,
hides the stars in it's thick blanket.

The empty moonlight,
mixes with the,
billowing smoke of the engine.
And creates a supernatural being.


The small,
nearly negligible railway station,
shook to the beats of the chuffing engine.

The rusted plates,
gallantly read the name of the small place.

On the lone concrete slab,
sat a boy.

The sight of the monster,
was greeted by a brilliant gleam
in his innocent eyes.


The moor,
the dark moor,
which was on the other side of the station,
gently hummed.

The rail lines vibrated ,
at the eerieness.

The glow-worms flew about,
in the infinite darkness,
pretending to be messengers of God to show light during perennial darkness.

Silent echoes of the,
Great War rode in the confused air.

The village ,
across the dry paddy fields,
slumbers on the modest,
cold clay floor.

The houses are apparently,
prominently marked.
Lamps light on the window sill.

One stood dark,
with a weeping lady inside.


The boy in the station,
sat in the shimmering cold,
acknowledging the arrival of the loud train.

It was that time of the year again.
For the jawans at the front it was,

Another false hope.

The gentle giant roared by,
infusing life in the otherwise dead station.

The boy trudged home,
crossing the narrow brook,
which carried the black water from the village.

The sun was playing hide and seek with,
the distant mountains.

Hope and Despair,
tossed the small family in it's gruesome palms.

The tale continues every full moon night.


The cold flame,
lights up the dormant hope each night like this,
The hot wind created,
in a jiffy,
sucks the flame,
into the ifinite silence.

And the boy,
The boy trudged home,
crossing the narrow brook,
which carried the black water from the village.