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The Pied Piper began his song

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The Pied Piper began his song… And the ears of all rats in Hamelin stood up. For no rat had ever heard a song so sweet, No rat had felt bliss so real They all were lost in their own decadence Of eating, drinking and all pleasures oral… Became a part of the generation lost, Inactive, not by force, but by their own volition But when the tunes of the Pied Piper filled their ears, It was as if a curtain came down And suddenly they were actors on a stage Albeit without any audience to see it all And I danced in merriment, with joy of freedom, My senses soaked in this new rush of adrenaline. I cared not for the lures of the world, The music, the dreams became my only wont We ran down the streets of Hamelin, Drunk in our revelry. We cared neither for the greatest cheese, or the sweetest water We cared not for the worlds treats Yet now we have reached a turning point, Coz now I can see the great divide. The music of Pied Piper is less au
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The descent into hell

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The descent into hell does not start anyhow, anytime. It starts when you sleep at 3 every night and wake up at 10.30 every next morning. Groggy eyed, sleep deprived and for many reasons still dreaming. The use of word dreaming here is rudimentary, since there have been no established records of the word  nightmaring . For all sense and purposes, dreams, whether good and bad, can be described with only the simple five letter word that has come to be the symbol of numerous values. Ambiguity of such level is not a surprising thing in our lives. Specially if you sleep at 3 and wake up at 10.30 next morning. When you wake up next morning, your senses are numb. It takes time to get through things. Even bath is not enough to awaken you to life. In practice, a doctor can operate on your appendix, or a dentist can perform root canal on you, without you undergoing any considerable duress. Time though does not wait with fanciful eyes to streamline itself with your movements. And you realiz
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1002nd

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or Dreams of Fire... -Because of Chuang Tzu and his sly Butterfly. “1oo1 diamonds on the crown! A thousand which counted, And the One that didn’t count… But it did, it did… it sadly did… When on fell from skies, The tears of that heavenly clown” The Cowardly Doctor: The army camp was sheltered deep inside the jungles. A total of one thousand and one soldiers, excluding the doctor, lived inside a tent during all time of the day and night. One morning, the Doctor woke up with an exaggerated sense of pessimism. Living in a tent deep inside the jungle dissolves all kind of hopes, but that morning, when doctor opened his eyes to the boiling kettle of tea outside the tent, he could feel a nagging sensation of dystopia. As if life as he had known it, was just about to be blown to pieces. It was precisely at this point, that the kettle of tea in front of him burst out in an explosion of fire, fury and a hissing rocket. They were under a siege!     He jumped up,
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Love - Less

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I once knelt down, And offered my prayer to the tree. I saw God’s reflection in the clouds then, I felt Gods touch in the breeze. But today when I went back, I saw emptiness and desolation, A cloudless and dark, wistful sky, No longer inspiring, no longer free. In these highways where God used to reside, And doesn’t do anymore; Has the world become too loveless, Or is it just me? I once dived in, Lost myself in those eyes. I saw the flower of love blooming then, And heard the truths beneath the lies. But that sparkle that charm, Lasted not long, died like a bee. No longer does it house the brightness, No longer does it host felicity. In these barren, fallow glades of solitude, Where eyes don’t sparkle anymore. Has the world become too loveless, Or is it just me? I once was a different man, Made up of softer; greater things. Temples of my courtyard used to flourish, And bells of faith used to ring. But now
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Eyes Cast Away

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How do stories start? Do they have a beginning? If they do, then what happens before they begin? How do stories end? Do they conclude? If they do, then what happens after they conclude? How do stories live? Do they have a life? If they do, then what distinguishes them from us? Are they too able to breathe, hear, think, understand, complicate, synthesize, integrate, divide, multiply… See? Do stories have eyes? Can stories watch? Can they experience what eyes do? Can they too break down in front of their nemesis, fall prey to their enemies? Can stories also contract conjunctivitis? I did. I have developed a severe case of conjunctivitis. So severe, that I am almost blinded by the sheer force of water drooling down from the corner of my eyes. I seem to find absolutely no cure for it. Try as I might, the disease has gripped me in its pincer like grip, so tightly, that even if I dare to open my eyes for bare few seconds, torrents of water, pain, irrit
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Bhivpuri Waterfall Rapelling

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Duryodhana's Dilemma

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“Ow, don’t do that! It tickles”  “Oh… then I will not do it”  “So you were talking about some story, what is it called? Have you written it? Are you a writer?”  “Yeah… I have written it, and yes, I am a writer”  “What is it called?”  “I call it ‘Duryodhana’s dilemma’”  “Hmmm… Interesting. I hope it’s not about religion. I hate religion”  “No it isn’t. Why do you hate religion?”  “Just… It’s so biased”  “And why do you think so?”  “I dunno… Look at how it treats its villains. It’s not fair”  “Aha! That’s pretty rich coming from you, I must say.”  “Well that is rich coming from a self professed writer in a brothel…”   Silence for a few minutes.   “So anyways, you were talking about the story. Duryodhana’s dilemma. What is it about?” “Things beyond your understanding, surely!”  “Don’t be so naïve. Tell me. I’d like to hear a story.”  “I doubt you will be able to understand it”  “I might not. But you paid for an hour. We can spend that hour counting the silence. Or we can spend it in heari
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