I don’t see very well.
The world is but a blurry image of itself,
The hazy colours merged with the background,
At a distance bodies and faces appear
but lacking their features.
Unlike a dream
where one forgets the milieu
and transcends the characters,
I remember the coloured backdrops
and each of the faces, blurred.
Only when someone comes closer,
do I see a face.
Your face that reflects mine
and it makes me smile.
And aside this
I don’t see very well.
Kyun badalte ho tum roz
Jab poochhta hai koi
Aasman mein baithe chaand ko dekhta hoon
Aur muskura deta hoon maen
_ _
_ _
Jaane kya soch kar maine upar ki yeh panktiyan adhuri chhod di!
“Some sort of pressure must exist; the artist exists because the world is not perfect. Art would be useless if the world were perfect, as man wouldn’t look for harmony but would simply live in it. Art is born out of an ill-designed world.”
I am a candle. I burned at the feast.
Gather my wax when morning arrives
so that this page will remind you
how to be proud and how to weep,
how to give away the last third
of happiness, and how to die with ease—
and beneath a temporary roof
to burn posthumously, like a word.
A small touristy town which I call a cosmopolitan in transit is home to many refugees who are living in exile. It is weird that you cannot live where at your innocent best you once had created your house with the mixture of soil and water.
Life however, continues.
We adapt and adjust to the world and survive. It would have been better if Charles Darwin was an economist, at least that way we would get an idea about how we would evolve to survive in this world of today.
There are many stories, about many people. This is one such. A man, who isn’t a refugee and yet is in exile of sorts because this is where he survives alone away from his family and homeland.
The hands help him carve the most beautiful flutes and the breath creates a magic of sorts. And how the artistry, the business, the survival, the life goes on…. by the roadside.
