Oct 17, 2010

Another life ... another waste

As Chagrin paves way & fancies don’t weigh
your wings of ice melt when burning sun is felt
when surreal succumbs and real triumphs
the wound deepens, the belief steepens

Visions are miraculous, reality ferocious
your world is a mime, a dozen a dime
absent is withal and obligations fatal
the energy subsides, the fate decides

As betrothal shapes & melancholy craves
your persona begets as anima regrets
When wings are severed, limbs butchered
the interior drools, the exterior rules

Then epilogue nears, an ode to fears
Your carnal erodes and platonic reloads
the frame collapses, the gravestone relaxes
you visit often, but see yourself forgotten ...


Sep 16, 2010


भौहें तनुं कोप है पर अखियन माँ सोक है
चिंता परचंड है, परतिग्या अखंड है |

यौवन घड़ी लंघ चली, नृप सुधी बड चली
काहें राजकुमारी अब बाबुल दुलारी है |

तज गृह प्रजा राज, त्यागा नृपता का ताज
ठाना घनघोर प्रण, वर पाने पे चखुंगा
अन्न |

सारे काज तज, डर हरी नाम भज
रानी पटरानी सारी द्वार में पधारी
हैं |

गजरों के फूल देखो, सैनिकों का शूल देखो
गहरी अंधियारी हर जगह छविसारी है |

डूम डम डूम डम- राजाजी का है हूकम
वर खोजो एक, नेक धरम
करम |

ज्ञानि हो व दानी हो , न वो अभिमानी हो
कुमारी जी को राजी हो, स्वयं अभिलासी
हो |

युवकों की डेरी होगी, सपनो की फेरी होगी
कलेजे में शीत होगी, राजाजी की जीत
होगी |

डूम डम डूम डम, कुमारी का है ये प्रण
न करूँगी विवाह , नृप ना ही चखेगा अन्न |

नृपता का हो मरण, सेना का हो पतन
ठाना है येही, ये है मेरा वचन ||

अभिषेक मिश्रा

Frog in the well-unwell

The world for a frog is its well. The world for an ant is its hole and the world for a man is just the world. But we have failed the world by understanding it as a 3 year old understands a Rubik’s cube: colourful, full of permutations and conquerable. what remains ununderstood is the logic of springs and pivots that constitute this cube and make it what it is. The logic and functioning of these springs has remained covert, disguised and unnoticeable since eternity. The few who unveiled or tried to comprehend the magic of this cube were too mired, too confused – or rarely – too enlightened to share their revelations.

Sight, sound, smell and skin are the validators of this cosmic illusion. The layers are countless and the architect is unknown, often debatable. The hand of god, nature and science create the most impeccable arm wrestling match going all wrong... it is conceived by validators after all. If Bhagvad Gita, evolution, and Zeitgeist are all contenders, what after all is the real world?

The beauty of this conundrum lies in finding its solution. The reality lies beneath umpteen natural, illusionary and man-made layers of magic realism. The deeper one digs, the farther and stranger seems the reality. Few have the endurance to dig and stand that deeper and remain unscathed by the force and eloquence of these springs—or keep the corrupting well water from entering eyes and ears.

But like the springs of that colourful cube keep reminding the user of their existence through every movement, scaling and in every combination, the world follows a similar protocol—it keeps reminding us of the reality that lies within, spilling some beans from its sacks of creation, maintenance and destruction.

Why do prayers work? How every religion from Egyptians, Mayans, Catholics to Islamic have chronicled similar prophecies? Why Vedas are yet not understood and flawless? Did Roman demigods walk the earth? Are Big Bang and Darwinism a prequel to Mutation & Superhumanity? Is Noetic science another sham from Anitchrists? Are Aliens believable and approachable? In what lies the elixir of immortality: Science or Religion? Are all these questions right? Have they grown naturally or have been seeded consciously? Are they the springs?

The trick lies not in finding the answer but in maintaining the questions for they are metallic cobwebs around the springs, a perfect alibi. The metal is impregnable and human consciousness is currently too fragile to tickle it. Lost in our sensory and carnal delights, our worlds are yet to grow over seals and holes and moles and roles. The architect (often confused rightly? with God) is enjoying the show as its subjects live in imaginary walls while real walls of fortress lies unscathed, unrealised and dry.

So how far can you stick out your tongue and smell beyond the walls you know as world ... frog??


Sep 13, 2010

The Poisoning Potion

This rain brings along a message
But of life & beauty, or carnage
As I feel blissful and elated
My unknown brethren are tormented

Ah that poor weary peasant
A prey of this surreal descent
I saw his home & blood flowing
To his waiting grave, he was rowing

My porch smells of dropping rain
So I can’t hear the ripping pain
Of cold and hunger die homeless
But I’m warm from my blanket’s caress

From windows I see those elated lovers
Euphoria ‘neath and above elixir hovers
But my window does not show me that far
where loved ones are lost in mighty rain power

This rain brings along a message
But of life & beauty... or carnage?


Jul 30, 2010

He and us

Targets are built. Targets are achieved after they are built. And targets are remembered after they are achieved. But those who starve of memory are the victims. They are the bodies who stack their bodies to raise the ladder that leads to the stage of victory- a bright and live stage where the reality lies, literally, beneath. There are men who do nothing and get everything, there are men who do something and get everything, but he is a man who does everything and gets nothing.

Nothing he gets, nothing is known of him in the yolk-yellow past which brightens the top and shadows the deserving one. He sees everything, but nobody sees him seeing everything. While others crave for attention, he craves for anonymity so that he must not meet his fate before the right time. He realises the reality of succinctness of life. He has seen the life nude and the death nude. He is therefore not scared of the pleasure or pain fate has preserved for him. He hates to call it fate, he calls it effort. Destiny has no meaning for him. When he sees through the lens of his present, his future, he finds his effort not his destiny waiting to embrace him.

He has seen everything. Everything human or inhuman one can create in one’s most catastrophic imaginations. All his nightmares relive when he wakes up and they prevent him the luxury of a silent sleep while compelling him to sleep in silence. Those loud noises- big crowds – shrieks – moans – cries –agonies – remorse – dust – wind – rain – heat – ice – blood – skin – flesh – urine – faeces - vomit- corpses and most certainly his own body among the carcass: lucky if breathing, but seldom a difference if not.

Nothing in his life is periodic. Sleep is in parcel and food is in gloom. Or food is in parcels and sleep is in gloom. No family but too many strangers. No friends but too many enemies. No love, but too much hatred. No belief but lots of suspicion. No surety but lots of delusion. No sanity, yet again, too much insanity prevails. The equation of his life strives to get balanced, but the penchant is never to the correct side. It’s always the unwanted awaiting him while he adorns the wanted.

Though men are often more valuable to others then to themselves, but his valiue is undermined in his as well as others’ eye. Respect, yes that is there but a mere mundane tribute. Nobody bothers to go at the helm of his misery. Land is silent because he is loud. Soil is fertile because he is vindictive. His sleepless nights are his people’s tranquilizer. His wounded body is his people’s shield. His emotional haemorrhage is his people’s impetus. His tedium is his people’s euphoria. His commitment to death is his people’s tryst with life. He is the morning sun. He is the twilight silhouette. He is the night star. Then again, he is the morning sun.

He is the child’s smile. He is the woman’s wait. He is the man delayed. He is the noise of town. He is the calm of wind, H e is democracy. He is communism. He is monarchy. He is all the religion. He is for allthe religion. He is the masqueraded seer. He is the loud leader. He is the savage saviour, but the philanthropist predator. He is the assaulter, but the protector. He is the protester, but the supporter. He is the SOLDIER.


Jun 19, 2010

My Father... His son

The relation of a father and son steers through a spree of emotions, tensions and associations. My dad was my hero when I was a child. Back home every evening with happiness, love and often a small edible souvenir just because we were his blood. Dragging us out of home for that new Hepatitis-B vaccine and instead surprising his timid boys with their first Cricket Kit, then a football on birthday, lift us effortlessly and mock us graciously. Weekend visits to relatives, parks, cinema halls, a dinner outing each week and umpteen delights for all my senses.

As I reached my teens, I found a teacher in him. Those practical files and tedious holiday homework, covers on my notebooks each session, tying shoe-lace because his younger one took 14 years to learn it, a lift so school every time I was late, distributing candies and patisseries every summer on my birthday, driving sessions, obscene demands of pocket money and countless other favours which even best of friends freak out considering.

And today, when I am mature by my standards and still a ‘boy’ by his, I have a great friend in him. Understanding me when I freak out, waiting for me to come back from work so that we can dine together, calling me without fail to confirm all’s well when I am driving or away from home or in a beer party. Calling to check if I am doing fine when he is gone far away for work, dropping me to work each morning because I don’t want to ride that old bike, he never let us feel the hard effort behind that obvious.

Extending huge sums of money on my every birthday to treat those new friends who came much later and will leave much sooner than him, he seldom questioned why I can’t spend the day with him.
Opening single barrel Red Label when I got my first job and sharing it with me. Switching off the TV or understanding the lip-movement of his favourite soap just because I am trying to concentrate, calming me down when I am angry (even on him), soothing me when I am upset from my girl friend, offering me to take his car till I buy mine, coming to my hostel with food items, money and goodies so that I shouldn’t miss home, he undeniably played the best friend.

However, his friend was often a thankless fellow who took his amity for granted. These words are but a miniscule memory of endless favours my hero, my teacher and my friend did for me. And the deadly blow is the realisation that I have. I know I will be busy for the most of my life as I grow. I know I will not be there to extend him the warmth that he does. I know I will take 3 names in my family: me, my wife and my kid. I know I will crib of my disproportionate income and expenses when it comes to spend on him. I know my wife will always be right and parents will take a second place. I know when I say something to him, I am practical and think about my family, but if he says something to my family, he is being mean and old.

However I know one more thing, if I am to find one man who has been there for me throughout my life without a second thought, one man who has watched me since I came and will continue watching me till he leaves, he is.... my father.

You are my hero dad!

This is in response to the contest 'Tribute to Dad' organised by Blogadda in association with Pringoo!

A Juvenile Elegy

Those moments were adored
As a princess she was adorned
With her silk skirt brushing adown
No women didn’t missed an envious frown

For heavens she was dressed
Her fervour at its best
For he, her love was waiting
A reunion, they both were anticipating

Higher and faster she was running
As her impatience, the day was dawning
The dawning of pleasure should not be delayed
The climax of cuddle shan’t be underplayed

Higher and faster went her pace
Fatigue and ecstasy overwhelmed her face
She pierced the crowd without much dawdle
When the street roared a crash and crackle

She ran fast to meet her hubbby
Not faster than approaching wagon-buggy
While she was striving and dashing sans rest
Those big wheels ran over her breast

The pink turned red and of pain she fell
Out of crowd came he, saw her and yelled
He came to her to count her five
But learned soon she was striving for life

He clasped her hard and tears mixed with red
She put her head on his lap and said
George O’ George I couldn’t deliver my promise here
But oh my mate, I shall wait for you there

As tears left his eyes he murmured,
Oh unfaithful’ your promise sank undelivered
You pledged of always being together
So now I escort you to the world other

Said this, he picked the spiky glass pane
with no thought, slit it over his vain
Red stream rushed, took shapes on ground
Satisfied, he slouched beside with a sigh profound

He aroused, kissed her lips, now lifeless
His soul wept as her bosom he pressed
Seeing his next act, a shiver left each spine
Stabbing himself, he popped out his intestine

From benign priest, to sadist callous
The entire crowd shed tears countless
As it envied the bond that lived and depart
Their graves were hence placed least apart

Their love succumbed here, unregarded
Yet fate made them to remain unparted
Their love was redefined miles above
Above pristine clouds met two spirits, like dove

Free from clutches of pain and pleasure
They found that belongingness, with celestial treasure
As eyes met, tears mixed with passion
And angels blessed this platonic association

~Abhishek Mishra

Jun 17, 2010

Why People Change ?

Below white dots, when thoughts are pink
I ease with the breeze and often think
and a gloomy thought wets me from rain
that people around me, why they change?

A lamb in love licks butcher’s hand
about to slaughter its throat till end
Till final blow, it remains sane
then people around me, why they change?

They cuddle a garland in other’s neck
But after marriage, weaken their pledge
that throat once flowered, is still the same
then people around me, why they change?

Those lovers, were so serenely sentimental
Have turned so obscenely corporeal
If flesh in the bed and grave is same
then people around me, why they change?

A child weeps when her anger he bears
but sobs her mother’s name in those tears
if gravity of relation can never be blamed
then people around me alas… why they change.

~Abhishek Mishra