tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57153140165946931592024-02-19T09:20:36.217+05:30Once In A LifetimeRandom thoughts from different corners of a mind in flux.Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.comBlogger272125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5715314016594693159.post-59309992693456407502017-04-11T14:36:00.000+05:302017-04-11T14:44:13.245+05:30I have MovedDear Fellow Bloggers,
I have integrated the entire contents of this blog to my new website here. I will not be updating this Blog any longer. This is my first step to integrating my works strewn across multiple web assets and blogs.
I solicit your continued support.
Rajesh
Now@ http://www.worksofrk.com/
Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5715314016594693159.post-26225886981383513152017-03-30T07:24:00.000+05:302017-03-30T07:24:00.213+05:30A Strand of You<!--[if gte mso 9]>
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A Strand of You
I was on the table
When a strand of your hair came calling.
I could see you in the kitchen,
Your face at once a storm and a breeze.
I curled the single strand of loving you into imagined
shapes
And spoke to it of fascinating tales.
And as it played on my fingers,
Twirling, and curling
I could hear the music from its silentRajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5715314016594693159.post-6580669475240715652016-12-31T22:12:00.001+05:302017-01-01T08:07:04.281+05:30To the Years that are yet to ComeIn the long innings of this life, we are like the stage where the drama unravels. The Plays change, the players too come and go. The audience is like the river of time that runs through us. There are bright lights and wonderful stories and some stories that run to empty seats.
Whatever be your story this coming year, pray don't be enamoured by it, nor be bogged down. These are just stories. Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5715314016594693159.post-6322524842320365292016-11-29T14:08:00.001+05:302016-11-30T08:32:06.433+05:30SuddenlyIt was not planned. It was a government office. A private sector bank representative was called in for some support. The person was supposed to come by 10. It was already 12. I was busy on my laptop. Three others in the room were busy in their own works. And then the door opened and she walked in. Just like that.
24 years of thinking about her, and she just walks in. It were as if there was a Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5715314016594693159.post-73176029061424633402016-11-20T19:56:00.001+05:302016-12-02T08:57:04.487+05:30SeparationI have worked on many scenarios in my mind. None of the scenarios actually ended up with I having you in my life.
The glaciers will have to melt someday, and so you will say. The ocean floors have to heave now and then, sending unforgiving waves crashing on to unsuspecting lives. Gravity, you would say, is the glue that joins parallel universes. And universes keep falling into each other all the Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5715314016594693159.post-53653308259144357252016-11-16T10:03:00.001+05:302016-11-16T10:04:28.473+05:30Death and RebirthI have looked far into the winter mist. At the heart of its cold grey despair, I have found shimmering undercurrents of hope.
This winter derives it's darkness from my longing for you . With the first flush of my unbeing, you will be born again.
Allow me this death for I need you to be reborn.
Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5715314016594693159.post-88306984787292862772016-10-24T10:39:00.001+05:302016-10-31T07:54:32.034+05:30Fading AwayHow many memories can my mind retain?
I have seen clouds up close. They are really filled with nothing in them. Their undulating form of fluff is made of my memories of you. Their white comes from my happy thoughts of you. The greys are my desolation, the black, a drape of your absence, falling like velvet and drenching my soul.
Such magnificent shapes you make, scattered through my once clear Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5715314016594693159.post-57646367977068515812016-10-24T10:30:00.001+05:302016-10-25T12:19:58.945+05:30End of InningsCheruvally Appachi (The aunt from Cheruvally) is about 86. She looks just as beautiful as I remember her from the time my grandma was alive a decade ago. Yesterday, we met at the wedding of one of her grandchildren.
As I hugged her, I could feel her tears drench my bald head and creep through my shirts collar. Her tears would not stop. Nor mine.
Great Aunt of mine, I want you to know, do not Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5715314016594693159.post-11027954400516237712016-10-08T08:18:00.001+05:302016-10-08T08:19:55.282+05:30Abandoned !Once a wise grey owl perched on a large sullen tree in a garden in ruins. The butterflies hushed their wings, the snakes crawled for a while like snails and the wind that was already tired from all its windiness, screeched to a stop.
The owl would now look to the right and then look to the left. It would turn it's furry head all around without a rustle. It's bright golden eyes pierced the low Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5715314016594693159.post-62445713146575646882016-09-24T21:39:00.001+05:302016-09-24T21:39:54.187+05:30The Fear of GreyAutumn brings in memories of muted grey and flying ash. Memories of fallen leaves gradually letting go of their greens.
Autumn paints itself on a desolate canvas.
It is that season wherein your eyes draw back your tears into itself. It is that season when your hope falters and your faith waivers like the last of the twigs holding on to some imaginary leaf.
Such is wretched misery of this Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5715314016594693159.post-1036533262905583472016-09-14T21:43:00.001+05:302016-09-17T14:39:07.077+05:30The Music in my Life Do not ask me why I miss you.  That answer would come to me, eventully. Some day sometime in the future I will find myself not thinking about you.  And in not thinking about you, I will end up thinking about you just like that.
All stories are my stories, but I am not my stories. I am yours. When we are older and our world is quieter than it is now; I will be in those intriguing tales Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5715314016594693159.post-20870996541068564372016-08-28T08:17:00.005+05:302016-09-14T20:37:53.780+05:30Picture PostcardThe necklace road was just as well lit as any other day. Its park benches occupied by lovers of all hues. The lake was full of sail boats and the Buddha as usual, held on to his smile. I remember that the rain surprised all of us. It came in waves, slightly slanting, beating down relentlessly. I would have run into the car, had you not stopped me that day.
That evening, I walked in the rain withRajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5715314016594693159.post-75738029141583016282016-08-27T20:08:00.001+05:302016-08-28T08:15:38.208+05:30Moving On.I open my door and almost see you sitting there, angry that you could not get the air-conditioning on. Is that small speck of red on my yellow tea cup a stain from your lipstick? I ride my car and I can see you sitting next to me, glaring at those jealous guys staring at you. There are six strands from your hair that I saved from the last time you were home. A green elastic band sits lonely in myRajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5715314016594693159.post-51568036114255522692016-08-20T17:53:00.001+05:302016-08-20T17:53:29.364+05:30One Wave at a TimeI can hear your voice on the other side of the phone. Its like some lonesome wave spent from a long voyage crashing unto my shores. I love it when you crash into my world. I love the overwhelming sense of being drenched by you. I love the mysterious stories you tell me of magical lands. I love how you try to make it up for all the time we lost by speaking too fast, running out of breath.
I love Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5715314016594693159.post-84227841275463799922016-08-10T21:24:00.001+05:302016-08-10T21:28:51.428+05:30My SilencesDon't judge me by my silences. They don't divulge the whole story. There is a story that runs in my mind. I carry it's lines in my thoughts and live its scenes in my life. I am the Macbeth and the Othello. I am also the Romeo in my story.
You are omnipresent. It is as if the script revolves around you. You are in each scene, ever chapter every line.
And as the curtain comes down on me, you Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5715314016594693159.post-86610456740790764452016-07-21T04:54:00.001+05:302016-07-21T04:54:33.747+05:30That Pinch of Blue with GreyLong flights dredges up lost memories from an otherwise sunshiny life. They come from all the corners, steadily, like coyotes, biting away small bits, from my otherwise well preserved sanity.
From my childhood, comes echoes of laughter, and playing in the sand, and jumping off trees and beautiful looking Didi's and school teachers and sir Raj, smoking charms, endlessly. The laughter bounces off Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5715314016594693159.post-86750506851094467282016-07-09T07:11:00.001+05:302016-07-09T07:11:29.658+05:30Tomorrow is just another dayThe train that I was on stopped at a small station on route to its destination. There was a sudden silence that fell like a velvet robe across the train. The station was absolutely empty. No guards visible, no vendors, no beggars, no dogs, no dripping of water from leaking ancient pipes... Absolutely nothing. It was almost as if the visualizer had morphed a train full of tired people into a 3d Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5715314016594693159.post-84405051472149378882016-06-21T20:52:00.001+05:302016-06-21T22:07:53.359+05:30Some stories are like that onlyI just finished this book. It left me disturbed. All the hours spent lovingly turning the pages came to a naught. There was no poetic justice. The villain was not caught, the hero did not get the heroine. It opened up so many loops that never closed. It was like a dream interrupted, a limb torn off. Stories have no right to end this way.
But some stories are like that. They are quite like our Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5715314016594693159.post-7508291861976706672016-06-14T16:23:00.001+05:302016-06-14T16:23:11.414+05:30MusingsI miss many people in my life. I miss the dead but I miss some of the living a lot more. I can see them going about their daily lives, and their everyday lives look just as good without me.
I miss a lot of people in my life. Those whom I miss, rarely miss me.
Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5715314016594693159.post-48651326396812882682016-06-09T20:45:00.001+05:302016-06-09T20:45:13.960+05:30Life on a MetroThe next station is New Delhi. Gates will open on the left. The constant crooning of announcements lull me into a trance.
As I consume time and distance, I don't want this ride to end. Everything is so clean. Everything so much in control. Each of us sit silently sullenly looking into some point on the roof that is really not there. Nobody catches my eye. They don't want me to remember them. Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5715314016594693159.post-57614377737217261112016-05-28T13:13:00.001+05:302016-05-30T14:24:11.488+05:30The Wanderings of the SoulNo. I am not in a shell.
As I grew older, I grew myself layers upon layers of skin. Each time I found a vulnerable corner, I covered it with a cloak of invincibility. As a child, I was lighter, I could fly. Now, I barely hover. Growing up, I used to plunge into every stream and sea. I was not afraid of the sea, its darkness and it's depths, for I believed that they would not sink me. I am not Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5715314016594693159.post-11409545232830891752016-05-26T09:34:00.001+05:302016-05-28T10:41:41.036+05:30What We Don't Speak AboutThe silences between us stretch longer than these desolate island shores. The slow tide of time is eating away into the very ground under our feets, yours and mine.
I loved you once, and I keep telling that to myself over and over again, even as I feel myself standing on shaky grounds, with the sand beneath me hurriedly caving into the sea.
We won't talk about it. We will look into each others Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5715314016594693159.post-38467533482231013112016-05-25T18:19:00.001+05:302016-12-10T18:13:25.941+05:30Half of youI am sitting at this airport somewhere and I see a girl who looks quite like you. Something that she did caught my attention. She was almost as tall, almost as fair and her hair, it was just as straight and shiny. The way she looked into her bag for the boarding pass, the way she held her head high and her gait graceful and stately, reminded me of you.
And then she looked at me, and the way she Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5715314016594693159.post-13401283037978451352016-05-23T09:40:00.001+05:302016-05-23T09:40:16.078+05:30Hope that Springs EternalFrom the dead barks of our yesterday's, hardened with hurt and regret, scrawny with so much of scrounging, and flaky with all this neglect, we can still will for hope to bloom, faith to survive.
And then sometimes, like a miracle, from the this stoic heart full of deadened despair, a new shoot will grow, you will never know.
Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5715314016594693159.post-32284636560950832372016-05-15T21:45:00.001+05:302016-05-17T08:56:37.396+05:30Oceans' longing for the SeaWhat if I did not have this phone? Would I have so longingly stared into my empty spaces just as well? There are times when the noise of your silences, deafen me with its roar. It's almost as if an Ocean has come visiting a sea. I am home, and my home is missing me. I write, but my words are not me. I try to force meanings into memories, but my memories, they deceive me.
How much of me over the Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com0