Thinking is an
overused
abused
undermined
misunderstood
under-understood
gene­ralised
washed-out
Concept.

Language has killed it,
or rather people have.
The world now goes -
"Thinking is such a waste of time"

I am now thinking
how they got there
Without wasting their time.

What a waste of time!

I looked down a high cliff
at a restless ocean below,
I climbed the proud mountains
crowned with lofty clouds,
I reached the serene jungles
sitting in silent pride,
I did not find it...
I visited the richest nawabs
in their castles and towers,
I ate with the lowliest creatures
whom language didn't own,
I met the right-hands and mouths
of Gods we know from pages,
yet, I didn't find it...
At last, lost in thought
I walked by a crowd
Some in white, some in black, some in uniform.
All turned to a majestic but still figure
In an honored embrace of the Tricolour
Twenty-one guns and croaking crows later
I heard a little girl's cry -
"Keta 9GR ko ** ke hoena" - ** ** **
The tears never ceased,
The roar never stopped
With faltering steps, the brave-heart...
There.
I found it,I found inspiration.

(Refer to the notes)

On some days
I feel overwhelmed
While on some other days
I feel like an idiot
For feeling and expressing
For confessing and exposing
More than what people expect.
Sadly, they expect me to be
More than they expected
And I expect, to be all and more.

So you think you know me,
For I tell you all I feel?

Enn Omane (my dearest),
I haven't even begun to say
What I fail to feel.

I am the Five

Violating myself to
bear one's labour.
Burning under
the chastity label.
Washing the woes
of newborn lives.
Blowing life into
future's flight.
Embracing clouds
that veil my being
I am the Five
that exist unseeing.

The writer's table is vacant.
The Poet's papers fly amok.
The Painter's brush is stuck in hardened paint..
Pictures have been pulled down
and burnt with the fire of intolerance.
Theatres have been vandalised
and stages are silent, empty.
The jobless critic looks for a prey,
hence, there are fewer flies and mosquitoes

The point has been proved
You do we say, we say you do
for our feet are sticky with squishy remains
of pens and easels and words...
No songs will be written, no tales told
We live with fire, in fire, by fire
What else can we do but burn?
We equate Force with Peace, so,
Don't ask - where are the Artists?

The Artists are dead.

It matters not
The number of bottles
Or the number of excuses...
After reaching a point
It matters not
The number of stories
Of injustice and heartbreak...
After saying and doing
It matters not
The number of nights sleepless
And unattended calls....

What matters is, that it matters not.