PLANS: unnecessary excess!

The kiss of globalization was never a plan of mankind! Man wished to be better, connected through wired and wireless channels, do business seamlessly, and be present everywhere. That's why he 'globalized' which unfortunately led to the birth of 'plans'. 

For us in school, a 'plan' meant our study plan which we could not follow. In a broader sense, a plan was just our assumed 'aim in life'- the commonest of all essays that a child faced in exams, and a conversation starter with a Sarma Uncle or a Kakoti Auntie. Truly speaking, a 'plan' was something which you would not take seiously, and something that would never pay off. It was synonymous to 'fictional pre-determined failed thought' (excuse me the nonsensical choice of words). 

Today, a 'plan' is like a diet chart. You either follow it or face the morning curse of constipation. Of couse, it has become necessary as life demands more donkey work than donkeys. But, the thin line- something that separates reality from fiction, dreams from actions, science from future, and so on...that thin line between plans becoming a necessity and an obsession has grown thicker than obesity. The obsession is such that many have started planning for the number of ice cream scoops that they would eat in a party. Doing multiple tasks at one go, eventually losing the appetite for dinner, is the result of our 'plan's. Plans are making us stress more on time and wallet rather than quality time and bliss.
Sometimes, it is necessary to go out with our friends without a planned time period. It is necessary to watch a TV serial with our kids rather than completing the last bit of code on a project that has a far deadline. 'Plan's are important but they need not be part of our newspaper reads, tea stall gossips, and random carrom games. Insurances can be planned, not poetry. A train journey may be planned but not its joys. Projects are planned, not knowledge.
Reason, and grow- plans are only our idea of doing our works to give us the confidence we need. They are important but they are not the only fuels of our life's journey.
Life is planned but as done by Time. 

YEARNING

Photo captured by the blogger. Anyone is free to use it.

(some realizations in Kochi, India)

A fragment of my will

I picked up in me

from the white sands

of an uncared sea. 

The fishing nets were alive

unlike the urban me

disturbed by little peace, 

noiseless and empty. 

Undefined to me,

my mind yells no word

absorbed as if it is

in the discipline of seas. 

The tree shelters ages

of poetry on demons and men, 

inspired poetry in the last

of the foreign boatmen

who carved love songs

on the salty woods

of their aged oars. 

She moved hastily

like love in my veins, 

veins in trouble

like her hairs

troubled by the winds... 

Mischievous. Teasing. 

I wished not to talk. 

A first time isn't good. 

Admirable she was

at the verandah

across the lawn

I watched in fear

of watching her much.

What if she mistook

my likeness for desire.

But she knew not

how my poetry loves her

more than me, 

a competent contender. 

And she'll never know

I was watching her

across the lawn

for treasure of a lifetime. 

FREEDOM THAT MUST BE

(a lover's poem in a free country: dedicated to Indian Independence)

A line of your hair flies and rests
on your right cheek, 
an earring dangling beneath
carries little bells of my life, 
my love that I prayed for
at the temple where lives
the centenarian astrologer, 
old but strong, poor but true.

The bells... 
Oh! The crimson sindur
lies on the brass plate, 
the vermillion a little faded
by the ages of the gods, 
yet it stays firm, 
not a pinch of it
moved when the winds
fell upon the temple bells.

All the precious laws
could not alter man's minds, 
the barriers still boast
of their rusted prowess:
they turned faiths into demons, 
castes into excuses, 
and I thought prayers were
written for all men, or
do chants of the temples
have reservations too?

I could have booked a caste too
but I would rather bet on you. 
Your earrings interest me:
they bring back my soul
from the grave of
a poisoned land. 
The lonely line of hair rests still
on your right cheek
now reddened by sindur. 
I wish to move a pinch of it
and place on your forehead
burying all barriers, 
killing all excuses, 
bringing back my freedom
in a free country
seven decades after!

SMILES OF A DAWN

You kept a part of my night
in your daring sky
like you stole some love
from my bank of breaths.
That some love glows in you
in your self like a smile-
yellow shades amidst red,
red warmth that excites the blue.

I watch you like my bride.
I feel you shall carry my life, Dawn
to the dead country over the sea,
but I promise I shan't carry a penny
nor shall I bring crumbs of evil.
You may find some breath in me, though.
But worry not, those shall be for you,
my Dawn, like the smile you kept from me
in the night that fuelled the romance!

Sometimes the dawn is more beautiful than the day!

MARS: bonds of time

[Dedicated to MARS: a family of 4 simple engineers who derive their joys from the simplest of things.]

Mist.

O' the playful calm,

a veil He carries of

joys and charm,

quite sensible and alerts 

the travelling crowd:

He knows of the West

just like an owl of the barn!

Artist.

He crafted a robot

from a hard paper box

and strenuous efforts,

could even sketch

a girl without slightest errors.

He is as silent as the wind,

as bold as the storm.

Rhymer.

When the candles are lit

where light seems fit,

He writes in red ink:

dinners for the beauties

and roses for the beasts,

but His love stays still

unmatched for the other three!

Songster.

A chord when He strikes,

lonely hearts He befriends,

Lyrics when He sing,

He gifts us purposes.

He builds music

just like the Spring,

He sings life

just like the Priest! 

DUST OF LOVE

Rough winds and tireless rains
like a graduation's uninvited guests
trouble my yearning to be romantic,
and ruin my trousers' pressed fabric!

The dust...
(O' dust of hell)
scrambled my eyeballs
despite the tough shawl,
and I couldn't see her:
the market sits twice never
this week is gone
shouldn't time take a jump?

However, she mustn't mind.
I am only a stranger amidst
wild melons, organic potatoes,
rough winds, tireless rains.
I am a mere poet alive
in dreams of mine
writing on her spectacles
and 
just wanting nothing
but for the market to sit
twice a week:
I shall watch her smile
twice a week,
but the dust...
(O' dust of hell)
scrambled my eyeballs
and I couldn't see her once! 

REWANT PAUL - the greatest art thief!

[WARNING: Read the entire piece or you will miss the most important part of this post.]

"Deception is an art, and stealing art is a deception!"

                            

                                                                    -Rewant Paul

History is like a tempting piece of dark chocolate. All that seem true may not be so, and all you had imagined may be so true! Now, this depends on history, not historians for historians are no detectives or truth seekers; they write what they see but do they truly see what they see? Confusing, isn't it?

When Vincenzo Peruggia robbed the Louvre of the Mona Lisa in 1911, no one thought that the greatest art theft of history had been done until the next day. Many say that Peruggia believed the piece of art must be returned to Italy as it belonged there. But who was Peruggia? There are police evidence of the one Peruggia, and his biography. Doyle had written Sherlock back in the 1800s, but minds then could not develop a sense of observation. They could not find the real man, the sole mastermind behind the Mona Lisa case. 

There at the tailor's lived Rewant Paul. He was an artist at heart, and made his paintings by night. He believed that his arts were apologies to the Maker for man had turned so brutal on earth, fought amongst themselves leading to a War that saw no end. He kept his arts a secret; no one knew he could do anything except stitch some simple wears. His most beautiful pieces were 'The Cannon of Life', 'The Drunken Lady' and 'The Light of the Dark Street'. 

The theft of Mona Lisa was his masterplan. He had a blueprint, but he wished not risks for himself; so he hired Peruggia, a skilled thief, for the task. His motive was to study the Mona Lisa for a week, and return it to the Louvre. He was the one who directed Peruggia to sneak into the Louvre as a worker and steal the painting. 

Peruggia was a small time thief, but he was perfect in timing. Rewant observed him for weeks, and saw a passion in the man to clean stuff easily. In fact, before his death in 1924, Rewant drew an art of Peruggia stealing the Mona Lisa from the Louvre. The art was in black coal on a white cloth so that the fact remained concealed in a piece of item that could be easily ignored; he carried on with his art not to reach heights of fame, but to ensure that his ideas might just exist: such were his beliefs.

When Peruggia stole the Mona Lisa and hid it under his dress, he chuckled to himself:"The world's most sought after painting lies in my gown." On hearing this later, Rewant and Peruggia laughed out heartily, thus throwing a sense of success to the whole affair.

Rewant practised his art on pieces of cloth that were discarded at the tailor's. Perhaps had he been a demonstrator of his phenomenon, he would have been counted as one of the greatest painters of his time. But Time is a moody entity: it may turn fiction into reality, or design reality as bookish stories.

That's where this piece ends, and this is where it must end. Neither today men know who Rewant Paul was, nor do they know of his affair with the Mona Lisa. May be, he is just a fictional character of a tale created by the writer of this piece, or he stands out as someone in the mind of an imaginative idiot.

It doesn't matter if we had a Rewant Paul or not; what matters more is that this piece must have been an exciting read.

[NOTE: Do not believe in the author's character, Rewant Paul, because Mr. Paul may be just another literary prank!] 
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