A Plea

A thought lost in thy thought…

A mind hovering over thine.

Yet, my message comes unanswered;

Sends a chill down my spine.

T’was a horrid folly, I profess

That has made a penniless outcast

From thy abode of unswerving love;

Like from the throat, cough is cast.

Oh my girl, but prithee see;

What  the womb of my folly was ?

Too much love breds possession.

Oh! Forgive the effect for the sake of cause.

Thy love by nature strong is;

Riding on the chariot of truth;

Forgiveness thy weapon be,

That gulps down many a folly ruth.

Oh! Then let thy weapon be my scourge.

The apt messenger of my salvation;

So that I be in purity reborn

To love thee again in perfect rarefaction. 

---Sauru

                     Yet !                      

He has been there for some time.

You know him well though!

The one who sheds a tear and wears a smile;

yeah! The one who is blind and old and garrulous….you know

whose poetic ramblings have been in want of a rhyme ;

With words like heart and soul and sweet and honey,

The fool dreams of composing a poetry sublime !

With a zeal unabated and reason, the most uncanny.

When a poem rhymes, my dearest ,

People call it a song !

To rhyme, a line echoes the line nearest.

And lo! Together, they sound as a symphonic aplomb !

The rhyme dwells on paper, but symphony, an abstract !

The earthly has to rhyme to beget the unearthly!

Isn’t a newborn, a sweet remembrance of the contact

Unearthly, which the mother enjoyed, so very dearly ?

The song of my life needs a rhyme, my dear.

Yet, you denounce the words as being weak and frugal ?

To translate your sentiments, they stand nowhere near !

Isn’t a weaker human, a base or regal,

Capable of meeting the divine ?

Won’t you say, that could our love befit ?

The intentions, being very clear in my line ,

Say your line, oh my dearest , do say it !

                                                                                      -----Sauru

I am Sorry......

To a dear friend who means the most to me.......

I wish I could love and breathe
in this small room of mine
with circumstance at my nadir
and emotions the zenith.
Yet, all it takes but an err
in curbing love's inundations
to deprive me of my spade and scythe

O my friend! My hope! My meaning!
My tears! My shadow! My loneliness!
My Contemplation! My only Salvation!
The thing which turns the tears to smiles
O my dearest alchemy!
Yet, you foresake me for a drunken blasphemy?

O how could you not see the reason!
The very craving to see you smile
does lead to a paucity in thought
and nudity in action!
A friend's smile, the only elixir,
to digest the venom of lonely transgressions

O dear! please do not misunderstand,
this poesy to be cajolement;
but rather a full-fledged confession
about the vanity of my remark,
that pierced your noble heart,
as judged by my own guilty thought

And now, the guilty begs forgiveness
at the feet of a friend, he considers best
The satisfaction of saying a sorry,
soliloquy won't partake.
With my friendship at stake
and my saneness in jeopardy
O my friend! Speak! Speak to me!

                                               -----Sauru

The Persuasion

Two  of the finest poems of the Victorian era start with the famous iamb "Come, Live with me and be my love". One of the poems is by Christopher Marlowe and is a poem that I have liked the most : http://www.poetry-online.org/marlowe_come_live_with_me.htm

Another one is a bit satirical composition by C.Day Lewis . The poem can be found here :

http://poetrycollector.wordpress.com/2008/07/16/come-live-with-me-and-be-my-love/

These two poems provided enough motivation to compose my very own version :)

 

                                      The Persuasion

Come, Live with me and be my love

And we will all the pleasures prove .

With thy beauty's April and my youthful zest,

Trust would accomplish the rest.

I would sit and stare for hours on end

at thy beauty's perennial abound

And then, like summer tempest, pen thee down,

with words chosen from English's crown.

Would this so naive an attempt be

of pen and paper to immortalize thee ;

Yet a part of thy youth, for ages, would breathe

even if thy flesh decays beneath.

Amorous, though chaste, thy beauty be

but a reincarnation of my darling poesy.

If such poetic delights thy mind may move,

Then live with me and be my love.

Yet While singing of the ephemeral all,

thou would'st help me recall

that the greatest of follies to be dread

is to confuse the maker with the made.

And yet in the Life's darkest hour,

the inner light would be our guiding star.

If such a higher purpose may thee move,

Come, Live with me and be my love. 

                                                    -----Sauru

To dear Sudhanshu...

The whistle is blown.
kerchiefs fly on the sombre air ;
And smiles struggle to clothe,
the dewy eyes, now laid bare.
An adieu that befits all the love and care
alike from the known and the unknown.
Yet how could thou so happy be ?

Art thou happy for the greener pastures
that await thee homeward as thy go ?
The grass is green, you surely know.
Yet, without the sweet smelling camaraderie,
wouldst thine eyes alone embrace the grass ,
when thy nose says no ?
Thine green shrubbery, would but fail to amass
the hay-strewn days of mirthful rapture.

A great friend as I am ;
Yet, why this discordant chord ?
Has my friendship been so poor
to restrict an amiable nod
to the wanting that my friend' heart craves ?
Oh! such such selfishness I bear,
that Bach and Mozart would turn in their graves.
For friendship is but a single soul symphony
amidst the shrill bugles of corruption's cacophony.

Wayward! Wayward! thee go my worthy friend.
If be thee gone and never again ;
Then thy memories as gold I retain ;
Enough for this birth to sustain.
But if be my destiny, my host one day,
I would wish to be thy counsel and thy say
for all births and every day!

                                     ---- Sauru

Lines written on the sands of Jaisalmer

Ice cold winds and fickle sands ;
Death, its worth, demands.
Hope, my feet, my way, the north star,
as the moon shines on this desert of Thar.
How I feel no cold ?
By a lone traveler, so I am told :
This body lodges no soul ;
Of shadow, I am but a ghoul.

Sorrow, but an oxymoron implants ;
Of warmer tears and colder hearts.
How my heart feels so cold and numb . . .
T' is but a graveyard of passions that succumb
to my fate, when it calls in its wake,
when mere existence is at stake,
to just keep walking with questions that mar
my very purpose on this desert of Thar.

Yet, I keep walking . . .
And yet, I keep trying . . .

To imprint my feet on the sands of time ;
only to be erased off by the whirls malign.
How I seek to stop and to die ;
On this very spot, my grave shall lie.
With an epitaph that shall read :
"Of the lone and the morrow, preferred Death instead. "
Ah ! but for that mirage seen during the day ,
that makes it easy to die but tempting to stay .

It's the mirage of an oasis . . .
Full of warmth and shade, the oasis . . .

A little warmth might, my nerves, sustain ;
Might this poor heart start thudding again ;
Might I discover my answers in its shade ;
Then, for this chance, Death, I will trade .
Now, its really left for my fate to decide
between life far away and death beside.
So, my fate, do answer me :
Will that mirage an oasis be ?
Oh ! will that mirage an oasis be ?

                                                    --Sauru

Lines written on the sands of Goa

Oh Arabian! by thy vastness thou betray
my sight;  Yet thou perfectly portray
on thy blue canvas, of fecundity the kind,
in emotions that wreck this helpless mind.

Though thy waters incessantly ebb and flow,
thou never crosseth the golden limits you know.
So are the surges of desire that wreck my tranquility;
Yet they abide by the cultured shores of maturity.

On the line that my eyes sketch, thy waters
run deep I know; So do my thoughts reach
the hell's door,where, to knock, my mind falters.

Oh ocean ! beneath thy blue facade, a world thrives
that the sun knows not; So behind my opaque mask,
do breathe my thoughts, the emotions, that mind derives.

                                                                                           ---Sauru

The Longing

What a singular creature that I have been ;

Born in this thriving house of bane ,

with ears the traitors, silence the sane.

I befriended misery to fathom the unseen.

Emotions though free men, tears but prisoners be ;

For untamed tongues spill out a deceitful cacophony.

With thoughts my food and solitude belonging ;

I scrape through the day for that very longing.

Longing to be with the one very dear ;

Though visage unknown and contours unclear.

Yet, beneath the heavens, my heart knoweth

of a soul, pure and mirthful, it often speaketh.

Longing to kick open the chambers of my heart

full with untrodden corridors dark.

And while thus she sees her lover unveiled ,

I would inturn perceive a new man revealed.

Longing to feel that very first touch ;

And devour it as if life wouldn't offer much.

To feel the chill go down the spine ;

Of souls the union, as bodies entwine.

Longing to hear my tongue obey

the surges of mirth or of utter dismay,

that ever riseth in this human heart.

Though madness I favour, with stolidness I part.

Longing to feel that very longing

when the dearest isn't nearby.

Cursing the void as if feeling

sans her, life's a big tearful sigh.

Longing to behold the destiny's allegiance ;

To my humble longings, the future's compliance.

And now, clinging firmly to faith's icicle,

I meet life headon; whether victory or debacle.

                                                                     ---Sauru

Where Art Thou ?

On this dark grey passage that I walk ;

My heart is filled with void to the brim.

And like the shoal trapped in the net unseen ,

fearing 'the onlyness' my senses run amok.

Contrast my mind, who holds on to a silvery hand.

At the passage end, it says, your prize does stand.

But the end seems like 'the darker' beginning anew ;

O for this mad mad hope, Where art thou ?


Dost thou tread through a similar passage ?

Getting baked and burnt on the furnace of misery ,

with thy only exhaust, this loquacious poetry ?

The veiled garb of responsibilities thy beauty camouflage ?

Do not tarry then, for your frail limbs consent ;

For my arms would suffice for every rise and descent .

This jigsaw would then complete with you as my frau ;

O for this foresaken life, tell me, Where art thou ?


In my dreams, the inner eye, my imagination swirls.

Would thou be this beautiful and fair ?

With eyes hazel and chestnut hair .

I do wish the nymph from all living girls .

O holy father, through all the distress that I have been ,

I have longed for the beauty than 'The most Beautiful' seen .

All fair ladies of this land, Beware !

For ye mirrors would soon wake ye out of the reverie ;

For the lines of envy would surely be seen on ye milky brow .

O for this challenge's sake, dear, reveal, Where art thou ?
    

The Bom Baim !!

She defines passion, she defines an Indian ;
The proud daughter of the stately Arabian .
Beauty in her heart and by nature tropical ,
My mother is, but Asia's financial oracle .
Unlike the bombastic Hong Kong or glamourous Shanghai ,
She is, but India's very own, Mumbai.

She is a city with just today and tomorrow .
For past has only a century to borrow .
Neither saddles, nor halters of history, she wears ;
Past hickups, if any, she hardly cares.
Perseverance her way, prosperity her goal ;
Poor labourer her hand, middle class her soul .

She is the city that runs by the clock.
For her, the old are those who can just walk .
For the one ,who perspires during the day,
Mumbai, at night with him , will stay ;
But the one, indolent enough to accomplish a chore
will find death cheaper than sleeping with this whore .

For the passionate young, she is the tinsel town .
One might find variety even in a night gown.
Its the city of businessmen, sportsmen, poets and fashionists ;
Of actors, singers, hoteliers and educationists.
Mumbai makes one reap as one did sow .
She has the guts to bring a wrinkle on Delhi's brow.

At her very mention, the eyelids enlarge
at the thought of Sachin Tendulkar or Thackeray raj .
With connoisseurs of music in all her strata ;
Every house listens to the nightingale named Lata .
To the sun and to the moon, she can never be the same ;
Mumbai still remains the sweet Indian 'bom baim'

One Summer Tempest

Towards the end of a hot sweaty May,

when the heavenly old pedant had his say;

I was wandering through the market place,

A dehydrated mind and a perspiring face.

And lo! Thrashing came the summer tempest;

A shade in the chaos now became 'The Quest'.



Once sheltered beneath a tea stall roof,

I let loose, my twin spies, though foolproof.

And there they caught her shying, under a young banyan;

A lassie with green eyes and skin so fair and young.



A wet pajama adhered on to her long youthful limbs;

And her drenched top gave my imagination, a glimpse.

A curvy waist befitting an abdomen concave;

Hidden behind hands, tightly clutched, was a treasure to crave.

A small battalion of her luxuriant black, did protect her rosy cheek;

Surely, now, mine eyes couldn't risk being meek.



Wine, such a beauty is, to the 'aesthetically engrossing'.

The twin drunkards were soon captives for trespassing.

"Tame your vagabonds", returned an irate glance;

Virtually slapped, I awoke from my trance.



Body is but the projection of thoughts within; mimed I ;

For a guileless conscience does spell 'beauty' to an aesthetic eye.

Virginity, for the sane, isn't a physical attribute.

T'is for those chaste thoughts, a bodily tribute.

With hands tightly clutched; Dress periodically adjusted;

Visage, in a confluence of chastely guilt and wrath, bathed.

Such a tribute you do offer now, O Virgin ;

For your guilt is only a mimicry of the guileless within.



As my hymns went on, the earth had ceased to bathe ;

And the old crook was out again with his May-day bane.

With a placid smile, she did vacate the banyan shade;

Thanking the tempest, to her, a goodbye I bade.
 
                                                                      ----Sauru

Boys Don't Cry....

Through a familiar doorway, wearily I enter.
An alert pair of searchful eyes, on my countenance, does centre.
"Here comes my boy!" croaks a feeble throat ;
A year-long illness but deceives a merrier note.
A quivering hand attempts to convey a soulful of rejoice;
I greet the messenger, half way, sans a single noise.
There, on that solitary bed, a desolate present is cast;
T'is but a mere ash of a strongly incandescent past.
Now, my creator remains, but of bones, an ensemble;
An army of tears, in two youthful eyes, does assemble.
"Make a truce with thine eyes" comes the reply;
For my dearest, listen, boys don't cry.

I take her palm in mine, and share a loaf of hope;
For t'is the best medicine, against such a malady to cope.
I tell her stories of optimism, perseverance and courage;
Some humourous ones to spread a smile on her visage.
For some of my own stupid indiscretions, she generously giggles and laughs;
For one another such a bout, for days on she starves.
For these moments together, reality she forgets and I deny;
For I surely know, that boys don't cry.

But, whenever she contemplates on her life's immobile stage,
She feels like a bird, trapped in a demonic cage.
She remembers her offsprings as yet men to become;
She has to stand up for young daughters to welcome.
"Why me?" she asks in the most sorrowful accent.
I make her see patience in the realm of her present.
To the immatured young wailings, sermons of hope, I supply;
For I surely know, that older boys don't cry.

After a day of cries and laughs, dressed in a void attire;
I take my leave for the night to retire.
Then, stressed and weary, I elope with anxiety;
And then fervently ask, "Is this really me?".
Upon this, the kind old night mother,
gives me a reason, not to bother.
For, in these life's many vicissitudes, she says,
It's not for a man to be a hermit always.
For when the day opens with a wail and closes with a sigh,
Boys do cry, my dear, boys do cry!!

                                                                                                ---Sauru

शब्दांजली

होडीत मी एकटाच आहे.....


अन शांत ही आहे....


आजुबाजूचा तमाशा डोळे भरून पहातोय


अन त्या अथांग समुद्रात लाटांसवे नाचतोय.






कानांशी किंचाळतोय तो मस्तवाल समीर


अन डोळे पहात आहेत लाटांचे लाटांशीच समर.


विचार आला....मज काय उपयोग या इंद्रियांचा ?


जसा जलास हवेचा अथवा वृद्धांस स्वप्नांचा.






ज्या कानांस लाविला शब्दांचा लळा


त्याच कानांत बैसलाय आवाजाचा दडा.


ओठ ज्याचा जन्म अन कर्ण ज्याचे थडगं


त्या आवाजाच्या दुनियेत काय विशेष अन काय वाउगं .






हो ! आवाजच तो नव्हे तो शब्द .


जया पायी हात जोडून द्वैत अद्वैत स्तब्ध .


शब्द हाच परिचय हृदयास हृदयाचा


जसा नवजात अर्भक स्त्री च्या मातृत्वाचा .






विहीरीत फेकलेला दगड कधीच तरंगत नसतो


अन हृदयी जन्मला शब्द कधीच विरघळत नसतो.


शब्द म्हणजे ओठांवर जिभेचा आघात


जणु स्वैर कुंजरावर माहुताची मात.






सागरात ’श’कार अन नभात ॐकार


अवनी वरती शब्द रुपी भगवंत साकार.


वायूत ’उ’कार अन अग्नीत ’चित’कार


जन्मणार्या प्रति क्षणाचा शब्द हाच शिल्पकार .






अंतरीचा शब्द शोधीता मिटले ते लोचन


अन मग शब्दास पुरविले भाषेचे व्यंजन.


संसाराच्या अवघड गुंत्यास अखेर देऊनी तिलांजली


आज विचारांनी भाषेस वाहिली खास शब्दांचीही शब्दांजली.

My Salvation ....

Inspired from a poem by my friend Sajan ....

Once, I had taken up a fight .
There was the "me" against the rest of world.
Injured and weary, I plod my way
on the chariot of unabated will power.
But, my will never ruled my fate;
And neither my destiny to me succumb;
For the very wheels were chopped off
by the vicious arrows of power.


And there I lay in complete disgust
allowing my temper the proverb to devour.
For where lay my will there wasn't a way ;
And about this world I had nothing to say.


As I lay there facing the starry sky.
Thought I......
What would I see the day I sleep.
Would it be a white blank page?
On which is carved the signature of my Fate
with an ink as white and ghastly
as would be the decoction of sorrow.
T'is the only one......
which maketh man leave his own shadow.
Or would the Almighty care write a word or two?


Me thinkst it not right.....
To desire this from the only one.
T'was he who helped me
empty my cup of sorrow.
He himself had half of it ;
And the other half was left for the morrow.


And then it struck me like a lightning ;
The knowledge of the very path
I was to tread.......
Where only Almighty would dare
become my very own shadow.
The path where love carried the sceptre
and death, the bowl of copper.
For I was the chosen one
to drink the poison and reject the elixir.
To take on the arrows of Fate
with a warm and placid smile,
would be my life's salvation.

                                       ----- Saurabh

Lines wriiten on my 24th Birthday!!

I have written a poem on my birthday  November the 7th, 2009....See if you like it :)




Today, as I sit sipping a cup of tea,

thinking about my past, present and future to be;

Better, I think, is the day today

to set my heart loose and mind astray.



I was born this day in the month of November;

And I have years gross twenty plus four, to remember.

Born with a tongue so sweet and noble a heart;

And a scorpion sting ofcourse, for my foes to thwart.



T'was today that the journey began;

The metamorphosis of an inchoate lump to a complete man.

I have observed the virtue and studied the vice;

With the Almighty as the sorcerer and I his apprentice.



A strong believer in action, dreaming was my profession.

To harmonize the two could only mean a fight against procrastination.

For whatever I've got, I have always fought.

even against destiny for the dearest to be sought.



And now, reclining on this cosy chair,

with a sense of hardearned lassitude, I dare

the lions: destiny and future to tame;

And I will be the shikari and my foes, my game.



For t'is only friendship that I abide with and serve.

And if anybody stupid enough has got that nerve,

to befriend enemity and become a perfidious foe,

he would be selling his joys for a disastrous woe.



For, if ever, one ties me into a knot of love and friendship,

this scorpio promises infinite care and companionship.

But if ever against me is taken, the path of animosity;

I would just say "Dude, May God bless thee!!"

------Saurabh

इतुके बोलिले मज श्रीराम.......

काळ्या निशेच्या उदरातून जन्मली एक सोनेरी पहाट

अन् मज कर्णान्शि हितगुज कराया कोठोनि आला एक स्वर

"अंतर्मुख होऊनि ओळख मजला मीच तो श्रीधर"

ते निद्रिस्त कर्ण जाहाले जागे ऐकोनि प्रभू चे नाम

इतुके बोलिले मज श्रीराम !!



मी अन् माझ करण्यात अखंड जातो तुजला दिस

अन् संकट काळी कशास रे मग बोलतोस मजला नवस

ह्याच मी पणास्तव फुट्ती तव मनी द्वेषाचे अंकुर

ह्या मिपणास समुळ मारी नामी भस्मासुर

नामाच्या नौकेत बैसोनी येई इश्वरी धाम

इतुके बोलिले मज श्रीराम!!



देवळात येओनि प्रार्थितोस चरणी ठेवोनि तव मस्तक

बाहेर पड्ताच शड्रीपुन्शी होतोस रे नतमस्तक

चालता बोलता उठ्ता तुजला विषयाची रे संगत

विषयान्ती विकार तुजला आहेत रे अवगत

नांम रथ ई आरूढ हो मज सोप्वोनी रिपुन्चे लगाम

इतुके बोलिले मज श्रीराम!!



लक्ष्मी सरस्वती येतील द्वारी, कर गीतेचे पारायण

गीतेत असे सामर्थ्य वसे, करी नरास नारायण

भक्ति अथवा न्यानमार्गे अंती प्राप्त तो मोक्ष

पामरास न्यानि म्हणाया अनेक जन्माची साक्ष

हे अध्यात्मिक गुहय सांगोनी प्रभू पाविले अन्तर्धान

इतुके बोलिले मज श्रीराम!!



                                                                               ---सौरभ

My plea Mr. Chairman...........

        Whenever I think of entities like ‘greatness’ , ‘virtue’ and ‘principle’, I imagine them as sturdy rocks, nay, boulders, keeping their stand rock solid amidst the flowing waters of the rivulets of fame and honour. I think they have to be so; for when these entities lose their stand and become one with the flowing water, they cease to be themselves in the same way that a river loses its identity when it meets the sea.

        The purpose of giving a long introduction was that, in my mind, there was seated a person, whom I did regard as ‘a great one’ until the time when he was made the chief chairman of Konkan Sahitya Parishad; a designation much eyed by many of the doyens in Marathi literature. “The conservation and upliftment of the Marathi language and of Marathi Manoos” was a tongue rolling topic in those days. The dias of the Sahitya Parishad was honoured with the presence of Mr. Chairman, the paragon of Marathi literature. Lending their eager eyes and alert ears to the dias were the who’s who in Marathi literature. At that moment of time ,what I felt was that, there rested a great responsibility with the dias, and perhaps greater one with Mr. Chairman to design and suggest some pragmatic theories and ideas for the conservation of the Marathi language and culture, which was, as they said, becoming extinct, as the giant mammoth some millions ago.

        Now, Mr. Chairman did rise to the occasion of saving his “mayy Marathi” by suggesting to banish “Madam English” out of Maharashtra. “For the upliftment of mayy Marathi, all the English schools be closed down” was his mantra. On hearing this , I pitied Mr. Chairman. It was really sad, that a well wisher of a language and his people should think of such a solution. When you say you love a language, you actually love the people who have gifted that language with necklaces of their thoughts. Otherwise, any language just consists of some words and some mundane rules regarding the same. When you water these words by strong thoughts, the words blossom out into beautiful flowers, each conveying the fragrance of the thoughts beneath.

        I am a Marathi speaking person who did 12 years of his schooling in an English medium school. For me, Marathi is my mother tongue. My mother has loved me in this language, scolded me in this language and sung lullabies for me in the same one. My culture is Marathi, habits are Marathi and even my thinking is Marathi. When I was a school-going teenager, like any other guy, even I had my first crush. Her name was “English”. I have loved that language Mr. Chairman. If Marathi is my mother, then English is my fiancée. And as you will agree, every guy doesn’t start hating his mom when he marries; not in the matured folks at least.

       As a child, I have enjoyed the nursery rhymes; I have hummed the poems of Wordsworth; I have seen “the Daffodils” from Tennyson’s eyes; I have felt innocence after reading Blake; And am totally ready to say “Death! Thou be not proud” after reading John Donne’s poetic harangue. These are my deities Mr. Chairman; as are you for many a folk in my mother tongue. If we implement the solution that you proposed some years back, many guys and gals like me, would be devoid of the love which English has given us.

       And nevertheless, I get angry when a guy or a gal (especially!!) directs his or her tongue to speak in English with the objective of aping the west. It isn’t their fault; nor the fault of the English schools which taught them. If anybody is to be blamed, they are their parents! Today, the most dominant threat posed to Indian languages, is by the IT culture, which is already rooted firmly in the country. The IT culture (why call it culture!) is more towards aggravating the youth to break the bonds of culture, tradition, language and religion under the false pretext of Globalisation. If parents dump their mother tongue for a language which makes them look bombastic in front of their faddist cronies, then what can you expect from their children?

       Nevertheless, bringing the English schools in front of goddess Marathi’s sacrificial altar is not a path to be treaded; not for Maharashtra at least, which is counted as one of the progressed states post independence. Why become unnecessarily chauvinistic when the root of the problem is not in the language but in people’s mindset. It is the responsibility of every Maharashtrian to guard his mother tongue and enrich it if he can. By murdering English in Maharashtra under the guillotine of chauvinism, we ourselves would be blocking the path of our children to progress, which leads directly to the external world. Now, the ball is in your court Mr. Chairman and the accused “Madam English” in front of you. It’s your decision now as to let her go or to pull the switch.

                                                                                                                           ----Saurabh

Temper , thou be not proud!!!

For several years, I have pondered over the metamorphosis taking place in our physical and mental self , whenever we have welcomed a rogue, named temper ,to stay with us for a while.
Well, irrespective of whether this rendez-vous is short or long (read prolonged!), our physical self ceases to be mendacious in revealing to the outer world, about how much inside our house, that we have welcomed this fickle friend. Into one of those tough times (read tantrums), if our body starts shaking, features contort, eyes widen, a high pitched tone, feeling of a heightened sense of injustice thereby culminating into a reckless harangue or even an act of phsical violence, then rest assured that our friend "the temper" is sitting cosily right in our guest room. (Such tantrums are rare with me; but when they happen, in addition to all of the above, I remember wearing a "look through the eyebrows" sort of a look which can only be related with a scorpio. Its my guess that with this kind of a look the enemy does give atleast a second thought to the idea of backing out :) ) Now ask him what he is doing ? And he will typically reply "Dude! I am controlling you! Actually, we ourselves have handed over the keys to our peaceful self.
Now the question remains, that irrespective of the depth to which this guy has seeped into our lives, how to actually kick him out? Our ancients saints and scholars are of the opinion as to kick him out completely by means of meditation, spirituality and by total surrender to the Almighty and things like that which a guy like me is light years away from. So after a bit of thinking (read it as time pass done during office hours) , I could perceive only a single pragmatic solution : to keep the temper chained like a dog just outside our doorstep. To keep it chained till some rogue kicks on your door (read it as hurting your self-respect); and then comes the right time to set your temper loose after taking the precaution of closing your door. So that whatever pandemonium happens; it happens externally with no internal effects.
This article is the result of unleashing my mind (read "day-dreaming" or even "deep slumber") to enter into the realm of our self and to let it ponder over the issues concerning it.
Sorry to say that I do write in sort of an encrypted format. Bad Habit!! . Anyways, I have tried to put as many "read it as" as necessary. :)

A Proposal

(This poem encompasses a romantic mood within itself. The situation here is, that a romeo proposes to his beloved on her birthday. I don't know from where my mind fancied this situation; but somehow, I could manage writing a poem :) )

From the day I came into this ugly world,

into the ocean of misery, my life was hurled.

With sorrow and ill-luck waiting at every bend;
And my conscience as my deaf and dumb friend.

My ship was wrecked by the mighty gales ;
And the waves whipped me with their foamy tails .

Still I fought with the waves and I fought with the gales ;
And there wasn't a soul to hear my bitter wails.

Well, there wasn't any, save but one, I profess.
And with the Almighty as witness, i sincerely confess ;

That the word 'Angel' would fall quite short of explaining thee,
what that soul exactly relates to me.

For if it wouldn't have been for that soul,
the mamba of depression could have swallowed me whole.

For, when I was drowning, weary and abated,
I saw an eager hand and I reciprocated.

It was your own blessed hand ma cherie ,
that had pulled me off the quagmire of self-pity.

That moment on, my life was just yours to live.
For sans these bones and flesh, I had nothing more to give.

From then on, our friendship blossomed along.
'Twas like in autumn, hearing the nightingale's song.

I perceived you as the ganges of confidence.
Swimming in your serene waters was my only impudence.

From you it was, that i knew how good I was ;
And from you it was, that i knew how bad I was.

In my sombre life, you were the only chrysanthemum .
Singing of your beauty became life's only anthem.

Hiding a lover behind a friend, thought I, to be wise;
But your eyes had long penetated this disguise.

So now, to open up, is better think I ;
Afterall it was you to advice against being shy.

"You were born to be mine" by the Gods, I swear ;
'Tis on you will shower, all my love and care.

"Will you marry me" is the question that I pose;
My God! it feels horrible when one does propose.

And now, hoping the best returns from this day ,
I wish you, my dear, a Happy Birthday!

--Saurabh

Adieu !

One eve, I chance to watch the setting sun .
Provokes he, a thought, while on the run ;
That bidding Adieu can never be a fun.

As he inscribes a message on the last of his rays ,
"Tomorrow again I come", it eagerly says ;

And the wind goads the rustlling leaves to whisper ;
"Like the pedantic sun, you too must follow my dear."

And so, with a heavy heart, I compose a plaintive rhyme ,
to bid a final adieu to whatever was mine.

Adieu to my dearest Motherland.
It's time to enter the castles, I built on your sand.

Adieu my mum and adieu my dad.
Remember, your son wasn't born to make you sad.

Adieu my dearest friends, this moment, who assimilate.
Honoured as I am, to this group that I relate.

Adieu my countless well-wishers, who have me in a heavy debt.
With your blessings as my pawns, I challenge fate for a check-mate.

Adieu my first crush in those good old school days.
"What's kept in the name" is what Shakespeare says .

Adieu my dearest alma mater.
Forgetting you is impossible an err.

With all these adieus, I want you all to remember
"I am always yours, in consciousness and in slumber."

And if ever am needed in one of those turns,
Don't hesitate to call me for just a thousand burns.

And now, in the life's garden, there are several roses to pluck.
I wish you all a very Best Of Luck !
--Saurabh