Dark folks

It’s 2.30 am. I, once again, sit to write something for my dear magazine, about my dear theme and on my dear laptop. I utterly cherish these dear trios as they come as a rarity, especially in the lives of people like me whose default mindset is some form of mental instability. Anyway, today I’m going to be a bit cryptic and travel another ‘less explored’ road as usual.

What is dark, darkness or black? For a scientific brain, it’s the subtraction of all colours. For a small kid, it’s the quintessential reason of fear. For a common man, it is something to be kept away from. But for some people, it is a way of life!

Normally, there are two types of people - those who are scared of darkness and those who can fight it. But what if there exist some who love it? There are people who have completely outgrown the stage of being scared of the darkness or even the stage of bothering to have the courage to keep themselves away from it. They share a friendly relationship with darkness. A normal man would like to keep away from any sort of darkness (now, you need not take the meaning literally) and live happily; but what about those who have outgrown the whole idea of happiness itself? Cynicism, criticism, pessimism are all causes as well as the effects of what I mean by the word ‘dark’. Everyone has them in some amount. But what if there are people whose emotions are purely based on these characteristics? What about the fate of the people who will have nothing left if these characteristics are taken out? Well, life comes rather cruelly at them.

These people are so tired of the unfruitful search for happiness that they start getting frightened of happiness itself. They are habitual to melancholy. Luminance comes so rarely to them that they get habitual to the dark. They dream at night, they imagine at night and they live at night. Their dreams, too, exude relentless negativity, restless fears and a sarcastic approach toward the way other people analyze things. They love the sunset way more than the sunrise. They love the moon (which signifies lunacy) more than the sun (which signifies strength and hope). They love the ‘bad’ more than the ‘good’. They simply love everything about the night and they, genuinely, hate everything about the day.

These ‘dark folks’, as I would love to call them, are generally in disguise. You would never know if a few of them are around you. Someday, you might as well catch a glimpse of such a person in the mirror. You never know! Many of the dark folks, themselves, don’t know when they surrender themselves to the world of darkness and become a part of a group, which no school text book will ever advise you to involve yourself in. Many of them simply walk around with their thoughts in the seemingly infinite territory of darkness. Some of them gradually start expressing themselves. A few of them start writing and share a word with those, whom they consider fortunate enough not to be along with them in the dark walks. Even fewer of them start a blogazine. ‘Normal’ people visit the site and kindly lend them a pair of beautiful eyes. Probably, just as you did today.



(Note: ‘Dark’ or ‘darkness’ holds a quaint significance in my life. It has always thrilled me with a remarkable consistency for various reasons. Actually speaking, it’s one of the fundamental reasons of my writing. Please excuse me if I could not do justice to the theme.)



- Mihir Chitre
mihirmumbaikar@gmail.com

maggie and milly and molly and might

maggie and milly and molly and might
went down to the cemetery (on a dare one night)

and maggie discovered the bell that rang
so glumly she had been scared for days, and

milly in peace found her mother sleeping
who she was told was in god’s keeping;

and molly was chased by a horrible dog
which raced sideways while blowing out fog

might came home with a white wispy clone
as small as a world and as large as alone.

For whatever we lose (like a ’gale or a lark)
it's always ourselves we find in the dark

[Based on the poem ‘maggie and milly and molly and may’ by e.e. cummings]



- Siddhesh Inamdar
siddhesh.inamdar@gmail.com

Demonic Darkness

It was rush hour on a Friday evening at the exquisite Concorde square. The traffic was barely moving. I could sense the irritation among my co-passengers. “Que faire?!” they shrugged to each other, shaking their heads huffily. It became a ritual for me to look at my watch every few seconds and wriggle my wrist restlessly.

“Damn, I’m going to miss her call” I scoffed to myself.

Music was pulsating in my ears. The buzz inside and on the sidewalks interspersed with music playing on the radio along with honking horns made for a rather noisy melody but there was no escaping it. On second thoughts, Silence would be frightening too.
“Excuse-me can you please lower the volume Robert?” I asked the driver with a smile.
“Sure...” he said with a questioning look on his face. “Peter” I offered. We shook hands. I’d been traveling in this bus for a week now. Finally we’d been acquainted. It felt nice.

I looked outside my window, to see the bunch of laughing fair heads walked past our bus. Eager tourists were busy clicking away while some couples strolled around. It struck me how private each of our lives is. We all occupy such different worlds and yet, here we are, put together in a mash. This feeling of alienation from the world around me had never clouted me in my country. It just pinched me hard, ironically in a place as beautiful as Paris. Probably I’m growing old, I joked to myself.

I looked at the empty seat next to me and quickly turned my face back to the window. This time I saw a vision. I saw myself walking hand-in-hand with her, discovering the beautiful promenades and street corners. Paris would have such a romantic meaning then. I saw myself buying flowers for her and her beautiful face lit with happiness. On impulse, her soft curls tickled by ears. I chuckled with warmth.

The traffic had begun to recede and steadily the bus began to move smoothly. I sighed, returning to her thoughts again. I never quite understood the mystery about her. I did not fall in love with her instantly. It was so gradual that I feared it would go away. But it didn’t. I found her vile at first and gentle the next and there were more and more layers to be unearthed every time we met. “My Mona Lisa” I’d tease her.

The bus was beginning to empty out with every stop and it was getting cold. I shivered with every gust of wind that hit me when the doors opened to let the passengers out. I decided to move my seat closer to the driver’s seat. It would be warmer there, I said to myself.
I got up to move towards the front seat when the bus jostled for balance. There were violent shrieks coming from outside. The driver had lost complete control. Before I could check myself, it rammed into a huge tree. The music had stopped.

Few minutes later, I opened my eyes to find blood splattered around me. My limbs were numb with pain and cold. A medical team was carrying me away on a stretcher. What was happening? What time was it? My watch was in pieces.

I noticed my glasses were crushed too. But my vision was unnaturally hazy. It was getting weaker and weaker every few seconds. It must be because of no glasses, I told myself. As I entered the ambulance, there was a black out. It felt like a dissolve, a slow fade out in a movie. “Switch on the lights” I screamed. “It’s cold and I need to find my glasses”. There was only darkness. “Someone switch on the lights, for god’s sake” I yelled helplessly again but only got hushed reassurances in return. I rubbed my eyes. Again and again and again! Then the tears flowed, sourly. The pain had been wiped out. In an alien country without help, or security, or sight I felt numb. “How long will the night be?” I asked in desperation. There was no answer. Perhaps, they did not understand my language.


- Janvi Gandhi
janvi.87@gmail.com

One with Darkness

We begin with darkness!
We end in darkness!
‘We are darkness. Darkness is us.’

We start our life in our mother’s dark womb,
In its security, comfort and care- we bloom in darkness!
‘We are darkness. Darkness is us.’

When we shut our eyes in extreme joy or in total sorrow,
Darkness gives us the respite we need in its abundance of feelings and thoughts!
‘We are darkness. Darkness is us.’

Every time we seek strength- it comes from the darkness within,
An inside that is deep, serene and boundless!
‘We are darkness. Darkness is us.’

When we wish to just be blank and thoughtless,
Darkness gives us peace!
‘We are darkness. Darkness is us.’

We die with eyes shut, moving into complete darkness,
Back to square one!
‘We are darkness. Darkness is us.’

We begin with darkness!
We end in darkness!
‘We are darkness. Darkness is us.’


- Pallavi Arur
pallaviarur@gmail.com

The Black Well of Dark Love

Your love comes with tags of ifs and buts.
I need to alter myself to fit your standards all the time.
And I have been doing that forever now.
I have lost myself somewhere along the way in the dark love you gave me.
Everything seems to be adulterated, even love.
This black well of dark love surrounds me, it binds me, it comforts me.
I have learnt to seek love here.
I love the darkness that loves me!

I am exhausted now. I have given you a lot of love that is unconditional.
And I don’t know how much more I can give, for how long I can sustain this.
I shall live in this darkness you have given me. I shall love this darkness.
I don’t want to lose myself. Free me, darkness…from all the bonds, the conditions.
Accept me! Love me because you are all that I have now.
I shall love you too, unconditionally.
This black well absorbs me. It protects me. It holds me close!
I love the darkness that loves me.




- Pallavi Arur
pallaviarur@gmail.com

The End

A strange sort of emptiness took hold of me.

As I stood there, every inch of me perspiring and sweaty hands making it difficult to grasp the rough and battered hold of the bat, several unconnected thoughts flashed in my head. Memories, rather good memories! Things weren’t supposed to turn out this way.

But at that very moment, as my heart thumped in my chest, and my breaths came in short and deep breaks, everything around me seemed to be slowing down and turning sour. The memories, the people, my life so far, everything was turning sour. I was not a bad person. And a strange sort of emptiness took hold of me. At that very moment, more than the fear of losing my degree, more than the fear of breaking my skull, more than the fear of Baba’s wrath, the fear that he might be slipping away gripped me. At that moment, everything ceased to matter. I never did anything bad to anyone intentionally. The ugly, loud and deafening abuses that filled the air, the throngs of people that were coming towards us with blood and vengeance on their head, the odd tear that trickled down my cheek, merging with the beads of sweat and dying a slow, noiseless death as it fell to the uneven concrete, everything. Why was this happening to me? At that very moment, the only thing that remained, amidst the ruckus, the penetrating shrieks and the pounding of my heart, was the look in his eyes. That look kept interfering with my vision, my thoughts, the memories, the melee, the loosening grip of the bat. I was very scared. I heard the crack when he fell to the ground. And I saw the blood as it started to flow slowly, just so slowly. It was dark. It could have been red, but it was just dark. It was a sight I can never get off my chest. I was standing right there then. I couldn’t be a part of this. I was standing right there then. The bat was now an extension of my arm. I could feel the cuts, the coarse edges, the jagged rubber, I could feel them all. I was ready to take a swing. But was I so full of hatred yet? I was ready to take a swing, all right. But was I ready to take the swing? I hated myself at that moment. I was so full of questions. And there was no time to contemplate answers. They kept drawing near. I could hear the frightened footsteps of the others as they dragged back through their feet the impending doom every tiny second they could, as the bats and stumps shook in their hands as much as they did mine. My grip was loosening. They swung at me. I flinched, but I didn’t scream. I staggered, but I didn’t fall. I could have swung back. I was ready to take the swing. I heard shrill cries of my name behind me, and piercing abuses ahead me. I heard bones cracking all around, and I heard pain. I heard pain the second time today. I threw my bat away. I didn’t take a swing. Instead, I waited. Then, they swung again. This time, I heard nothing.

As I lay on the ground, smeared in my own blood, a strange sort of emptiness took hold of me.

- Nikhil Taneja
nikhiltaneja@gmail.com

One Day

One day, I’ll wake up and say to myself,
‘Hey Joey,
You too can go on with life just as they do.
You too can make merry without much ado.
You too can have fun and not feel guilty.
Colours after all are colours; they don’t make you filthy.
You too have the right to be touched and loved
You don’t deserve to be pushed and shoved.
Even you’ll be noticed; it’s just a matter of time.
And you won’t no longer be treated like dust and grime.’

They taught us in school we’re all the same
Then why on this country I’ve got no claim?
Why should I always be the one to strive?
Why must I fight to exist when they’re all alive?

One day, I want to be able to tell my children,
‘Hey kid,
Your father was mighty and fearless.
For trivial things like colour he couldn’t care less.
All his youth, he bore them without complaint,
But when he got old, he couldn’t take the pain.
To give you your rights, he fought with all his might.
He worked day and night to make things more bright.
He lived a life without much disgrace.
He put in his best to make your world a better place.’

Why can’t they just let me live the way I want to?
Why can’t I make merry without much ado?
They say I’m dark and don’t deserve a good life.
They say I’m someone only worthy of strife.

One day I will fight with all my might.
One day I will fight for all that’s right.
One day I will wake up and pat myself.
One day I will narrate stories to my children.
One day I want to tell them – all them whites
That the dark skin is the one that has seen the most light.



- Divya Shetty
divya_infinity@yahoo.com

The Dark Winner

11.30 pm on a not-so-drunk Saturday night. I was driving home after a dinner party at a friend’s place. It’s a 20 minutes ride down this straight road at my speed; more so because the road is dead empty at night. Cruising down this lane with a mild breeze touching your face gently is a delightful experience. Racing down this lane, I realized, was another story. No one to stop you, no traffic, no cops, no old grandma crossing the road, no school kids walking in the middle of the road. With the fastest production bike on Indian roads under my ass, I set out on my Adrenaline pumping ride.

The road was dimly lit with whatever little street lights it had. It was a bit darker than usual. May be because the moon was no where to be seen. There was very little or almost no traffic on the road. An occasional car or a bike brushed past me at random. There was this dark serenity that seemed to keep me at peace. Half way down the road, I saw a bright light flashing at my rear view mirrors. The light kept coming closer and soon it was tailing me. Bouncing on either side it was trying to get ahead of me. In a moment it came ahead right next to me and I noticed a guy and a girl on his bike. Well, his girl? The flaunt in his eyes and the way she held on to him said it all. He revved his engine a couple of times in an unsigned agreement to race with me. I complied. Testosterone took over Adrenaline. I had to beat him. Make his girl wish that she was sitting on the opposite seat. Make him swear to himself that he’d never try this again; at least not with me.

With realization of the challenge as the starting point of the race, we started off. Getting ahead and staying ahead was the only finishing point of the race. A couple of smart moves and he was ahead of me. His girl was staring gloriously at me. All I could see was the road ahead, with him on it. All I could think was beating him. All I could hear was engines grunting and battling it out. Up shifting a gear and a couple of amateur Rossi moves, I accelerated past him. In true racing terms, I had smoked him. I kept accelerating with an evil grin on my face. The biker had finally beaten the loser. I could picture the look on his girl’s face, more importantly his face. I had won the race.

My victory trance was broken by the sudden sight of another bike crossing the road at an intersection. It was the only intersection that I had forgotten in the moment of insanity. As a reflex action I braked hard, really hard. The tires began screaming in pain. Smell of burning rubber filled up the chicane. My bike started fishtailing like a shark caught by its mouth with a hook. Within a moment I found my bike piercing into the other like a bullet into glass. The dark calm turned into a chaos of metal clashing against metal, burning rubber and the resultant noise gave a feeling that death’s come knelling down. I saw three people being flung into air; the third one being me. And that was the last thing I saw clearly.

Then everything turned silent. The metal clashing had stopped. There were no screeching tires. The roaring engines had died. And I lay on the ground hoping that those were the only dead ones in the whole story. I thought that the dark calm had returned. It did but it brought with itself the faint moans and screams of the victims of my actions. I couldn’t see who they were, for I couldn’t move. The pain was so excruciating that I had stopped feeling pain itself. The smell of blood had dissolved in the smell of petrol and the only feelings I could associate with myself was that of being in pain and being alive. The darkness had grown because the dim street lights turned dimmer. Everything seemed hazy. Fear replaced every emotion in my mind and life started playing backwards. The darkness kept growing in my mind, in my eyes and in my time. And then everything was just switched off.

Now I lay on a bed. I can feel myself being there, the pain being there. I’m alive and counting reasons for being so. The darkness is gone, the lights are back and so are the sounds, mostly voices. I hesitantly look around and I see people standing near a bed and talking. I see people standing outside the room. I see my dad, I see a doctor and I see a cop. Things look bad. Fear again takes over curiosity. All they say is one thing and all I hear is one thing.

“He must have been doing at least an insane 80 when he hit them. What was he thinking? Huh …was he thinking?” “His blood indicated alcohol levels. The guy must be drunk.” “We saved the man but the woman and the child are no more; the unborn child that is.” The darkness is back. Its brought pain, fear, remorse and above all, death. The accident or murder, as my conscience terms it, had killed the lady who was a couple of months pregnant. The impact of my winning sprint was so strong that she was thrown away a couple of meters killing her with her baby on the spot. The helmet saved me and the other guy. I don’t wish to propagate the RTO rule that it implements according to how empty its pockets are but that’s the only reason I can think of that saved us.

They say one man’s loss is another’s gain. He lost the race and I gained a lot with it. A title of winner only to be stripped off to fit in the new one of a killer, not just that loser’s but a lot of other people’s anger as well. I got a lot of bandages as trophies. There’s no other guy, there’s no impressed girl, just a lot of people in pain and two in grave. Now I’m the one who’s swearing never to try this again. The dark calm before the race is back. And it’s brought death with it this time. Clearly there’s just one winner now. And surely it’s not me.



- Harshal Kalyanpur
harshal.kpr@gmail.com

Night

As the earth shies away
From the source of hope,
The mortals back in theirs;
While the satan out.

The skies go still
But for the clouds;
The land chills
And some howls.

Wandered on the border,
Between land and water;
Splash splash splash,
Music and hash.

Toiled from dwellings,
One to the other;
To earn for self
And serve the unknown brother.

Exchange of air,
At a speed more than fair;
Makes cupid bloom
And also is borne, hate.

Beats to dance,
Mind in trance,
Its all haywire,
Bulb separated from wire.

Some find on streets,
Some on cotton and feathers,
All have it tight;
In the state of earth
called NIGHT!


- Alok Shah
alok1511@gmail.com

Afterdark

Helpless and hollow,
I sat down, quietly staring outside the window.
Serene, flamboyant and intense! Reflecting in my eye sight,
was the thunderous crescendo of night.

Several dreams apart,
Many memories away,
The night was getting darker,
drifting away from the day.

With ruins of hopes and demolished dreams,
Anticipated thunders and forgotten wonders,
Through the scattered memories, my mind had a haphazard walk;
as I vaguely portrayed myself in the dark.

The darkness was lethal, tranquil and destructive!
Suicidal feelings conquered my psyche.
With optimism buried under the grave of reality,
I surrendered myself to the darkness.
And in melancholy, I got engrossed;
Recollecting the dreams that were tattered;
and memorizing the smiles that were lost.




- Mihir chitre
mihirmumbaikar@gmail.com

Smells Like 'Post-Teen' Spirit

On an ordinary afternoon, I was whiling away my time by getting involved in some or the other useless activities as usual. The effusive speakers of my laptop were playing some music perfunctorily. The playlist went on and so did my waifish activities and haphazard thoughts. Media player was on the ‘shuffle’ mode and the track changed to the legendry Nirvana song, ‘Smells like teen spirit’. One of my all time favourites, ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ is a song that I have heard on infinite loops at some point in time. I have been smelling this teen spirit for quite a while now. There was nothing new for me in the song since I even know the entire lyrics by heart. Yet, the song prompted a couple of interesting thoughts in my mind.

Me, a soon – to - be 20 boy, is on the verge of getting out of my teens. The very thought itself has an antagonistic effect on me. Teens, a period of life that has a foundational effect on one’s personality, is certainly a time that’s dynamic in the true sense of the word. Not that I have lived 2-3 lives already and am talking like ‘been there - done that’; but I believe that 13 – 19 are the years in life that make a person undergo the most physical and mental changes in his life. The psychological growth of a person, his principles and philosophies, way of thinking is set and defined in these 6-7 years. When I recall myself at the age of 13, there’s hardly anything that I can see which is common in ‘me today’ and ‘me then’, except for probably a body, which, too, has undergone several physical changes over these years.

Today, I am an adult. I’m supposed to be responsible and mature. I’m not allowed to behave at my will every time and everywhere. I have to take my decisions on my own and face the problems on my own, too. There are many things that are trying to pull me down and trying to impede my way to achieve what I call, ‘success’. I have suddenly started looking at myself in a different manner. ‘Am I just another confused soul, lost in the huge crowd?’, ‘How can I make a difference?’, ‘Is it really necessary for one to make a difference?’, ‘What exactly is ‘success’?’, ‘Do I have to be successful?’, ‘Should I expect my dreams to realize someday or dreams are just to be seen, never hoping them to be realized?’, ‘Should even dreams have limitations like all the other things in life or the idea of ‘free dreaming’ holds some truth in it?’ These and many other conundrums have begun to occupy my mind, as a youngster just leaving his teens behind.

The new world that is soon going to be open for me (or perhaps, has already opened for me) will be a different one, a completely different one than the one I have lived my teens in. This difference is so huge that I would need the entire magazine space to describe it (oh sorry! that’s unlimited for me). Anyway, exemplifying my point now, the title of the song that I spoke about in the beginning of the article will always taunt me that it’s no more ‘mine’. I will be doing no better than just thinking about those magical college days when life seemed at its dramatic best. Those Juhu Mocha days and starry nights on the empty beaches, the late – night drives, those speedy bike rides, the sandwiches eaten in the midnight, the teen age crushes, the optimistic girl chases, the jam sessions, some beautiful teen age moments spent with friends…oh my ghost (I’m an atheist)! I just got nostalgic. I will miss them all, man! I will surely miss them all.

“Life often plays black,” I once told myself.

Looking at the brighter side of it, I will always have the memories of my teen age, along with me, in my treasure box. I will always recall my teens with a smile on my face, whenever I see someone else going through his and enjoying life as I once did; and last but not the least, the foundation that’s laid by my teens is yet to get converted into something big, something outrageous! And that’s probably the best way I can pay a tribute to those golden years in.

All said and done, now again, I smell something. This smell is a new one though; as of now, not as pleasant as the previous one. I’m not yet habitual to it. After all, it’s a new smell - the ‘post-teen’ spirit.

- Mihir Chitre
mihirmumbaikar@gmail.com

mi

The Painting

The oasis in the heart of this desert
Has molten glass
That once was pieces
That once made a frame
That once shattered
And fell inwards upon the painting
Of I
Sitting with friends
Several silences apart
Dreaming private dreams
Of future smiles
Never aware of cracked ground and sand

Now
Ends another cycle of four summers
That shattered the glass
And melted the pieces
Into an oasis
I alone drink and cry
Yet unable to tell
Unconquered fears
From echoes of alas
And tears shed over years

- Siddhesh Inamdar
siddhesh.inamdar@gmail.com

Walk Into the desert of my life

Walk into the desert of my life…for I call for you,
I will cry away your tears, for mine has dried into patience waiting

Pick up this pebble lying lost along the beaches of this forsaken lagoon
For I am waiting to be noticed……acknowledge my presence.

Look up for I am that broken cloud which doesn’t have you,
To bring downpour of bliss and euphoria

Allow me to touch and feel you, for I am all there
To take you on a ride to that utopia of silent acceptance of romance

Hold me for the rest of your way for I am no walking stick
But a stranger who is walking away into the strangeness of oneself

No one understands me probably for I am little labyrinth in my own self
I am not asking to simplify complications; your silent stare can come to some consolation

I want to be wanted, I desire to be desired, love to be loved.
To share my glass of wine with someone…to cheer the camaraderie

Collect the broken strings of my life to relate a relation meaningful
You can make it work, you can make me come alive, you can.

I take a stroll round the uptown parks, and come back like every other yesterday
Give me a reason not to come back….in the sense coming back to what I was.

I am as helpless as a baby immediately out of his mother’s womb
A baby who doesn’t even know to cry out with innocence and want

Look into my eyes to find eyes looking back at you in question
Eyes which hardly want to blink; in fear of missing your sudden glimpse.

You mean the world to me, a thing beyond this world, or let’s make it this world alone.
For let me limit my world to this world. Where this world tends to infinity and beyond.

Let the impostor of my dream and slap of this reality merge,
For you are the only probable difference between them.

Consider me for once for I have considered you forever
This drink is worth a drop if not a peg

You cannot be of a better use to anyone
Rather, no one else can need you as badly

Walk into the desert of my life…for I call for you
I will cry away your tears, for mine has dried into patience waiting.

- Chetan Tibrewala

.

Curtain-Raiser

As I stood on the podium,
A wave of loneliness took over,
I looked downwards,
I saw only cheer!

They call out my name and yet,
Their glee fails to touch me!
Why don’t they judge me?
Will they tear me apart now?

Illuminated and spotlighted,
I feel bare and naked,
There is no comfort, no respite
Do I feel caged?
But isn’t this liberation?

Suddenly, I look skywards,
A smile escapes my lips.
These shackles spell doom,
Always.

- Janvi Gandhi
janvi.87@gmail.com

Plain Jane

I don’t have the long pretty hair,

For you to lose yourself in.

And my cheeks aren’t that fair,

That your touch would make them pink.

I don’t have those deep blue eyes,

In which you might want to drown.

I don’t have the long lashes,

To flutter up and down.

I don’t have a sweet, melodious voice,

That might melt your heart away,

I am not even a tender angel,

That in your arms could sway.

All I am is what you see,

And I am no poets dream,

No fairy tale will tell a tale,

Of the plain-Jane that is me.

I have tried hard and now,

I am tired of this game.

To be a muse, to be a woman,

I don’t want to change

Try to love my smile,

And try to love my frowns,

Try to love my crazy hair,

And my cheeks so brown.

Love me for being who I am,

Else it’s not worth the hype,

I’d rather lose your love my man,

Than be a stereotype!

- Shakti Salgaokar
shaktijs@gmail.com

A Tribute to Pink Floyd

Waiting for you with paranoid eyes,
lost for words in the course of life,
Like a brain damaged lunatic, with something more than just that young lust in my mind,
still filled with high hopes for the happiest days of my life,
all the time I wished you were near; all the time I wished you were here.

With any colour you like, I wanted you to colour me,
spending all the time & money that I had,
with sorrow in my mind I ran like hell.
Marooned was I, poles apart were we.
I even thought of saying goodbye to the cruel world,
The thin ice was melting day by day.
Before I, finally, stopped the useless chase
where I could find no love, no trust & no signs of life.

Trying to re-build the wall,
was the given task.
Starting to breathe fresh again,
was a difficult ask.
The empty spaces in the wall occasionally questioned,
‘What would be outside the wall?’
But firm was I, I`ll be once again learning to fly.

I knew the show must go on.
It was not the end & was time for
"Killing the past & coming back to life"
Then came the great day of freedom;
the day when it was the hero’s return!

writing the epilogue as an advisory note,
don’t bother about such tiny things,
life`s a saucerful of secrets,
explore it, enjoy it!
If you wish, nothing can turn it gray;
Booze, rock, Pink Floyd
& of course, have a cigar everyday!

- Mihir Chitre
mihirmumbaikar@gmail.com

-

Break Free, Girl!

Asked a son of his mother,
“Should my wife have a boy or a girl?”
Said the mother,
A boy,
Oh, he will bring you abundant joy,
If you guide him straight and right,
He will fly in the sky of life like a kite,
Love, respect and value his mother, wife and daughter, and prove to be a gentleman so rare in sight!
If it will be a girl,
The beauty of happiness in your life she will unfurl,
If you mould her well and lead her on the right path, she will shine in her journey of life,
And irrespective of hardship or strife,
She will shape even more beautiful lives as a mother, daughter and wife.”
The son was convinced and told his mother,
Be it a boy or a girl,
Both would be to me as precious as pearl,
I will nurture and nourish them, so that they will sparkle like a gem,
And on society’s brow, be a diadem!

It is said, “A woman can make a house or break a house, if she wishes.” I would like to modify this statement to be as follows, “A woman can change her mindset, and influence many other lives linked with her own, thus bring about at least a little change in society, if she wishes. Maybe not in all circumstances, but at least to some extent, women are also active agents in the creation of inequality against women.

In an article in ‘The Times of India,’ Psychotherapist Susan Darker-Smith said that she found many female abuse victims identified with characters in famous children’s literature and claimed the stories provide ‘templates’ of dominated women. Her statement perfectly puts forth what I would like to say, “Look at the story of Rapunzel who waits to grow her hair for a prince to climb up. Why doesn’t she just knock the door down?” Why did she have to wait for years to grow her ‘mane’, just so that a prince could come to her rescue……..when the easiest and most sensible thing to do would have been to climb down the stairs?!! Duh!!

Hence, I believe that if women put the first step forward they will get rid of the ill treatment meted out to them and they will see that they do receive help from ‘many quarters’.

- Pallavi Uday Arur
pallavi.arur@gmail.com

The Paradox City

Mumbai, a historically insignificant and neglected area of seven vaguely distributed islands, had its first share of global importance when the British decided to build their first port of the sub-continent in Mumbai, one of the finest natural harbours in Asia. Later, with the completion of the ‘Hornby Vellard’ project in 1845, the seven islands were amalgamated into a single city that was to host millions of people in the next few centuries.

In the 19th century, Mumbai started hosting many modern improvements such as India’s first railway and soon became the economical backbone of the British Empire, spread over the huge Indian sub-continent. Mumbai’s economical and populational growth was a natural outcome of its stature of the world’s leading cotton trading market in the mid-nineteenth century. Mumbai was once known as the ‘Manchester’ of India.

In the next 150 years, Mumbai has transformed into the 5th most populous metropolitan area in the world, hosting around 19 million people in its vast variety of sub-regions.
In fact, there is a lot more to the city than just outrageous statistics and a dramatic historical growth. ‘The Paradox City’, as I often call Mumbai, has, consistently, hosted all possible kinds of emotions, people and events. The ‘standard deviation’ of income in Mumbai is one of the highest in the world. There are people in the city who earn billions of rupees by signing a single contract; and on the contrary, there are people who, regularly, beg around traffic signals, craving for a single meal. There are those who stay in skyscrapers or in their own lavish bungalows, having huge golf courses, sports clubs alongside for their evening entertainment; and there are also those who, along with a ‘joint’ family, stay in 10’ X 10’ rooms that don’t even allow fresh air to come in.

Mumbai, also, hosts plenty of immigrant dreamers who come to the city to actualize their dreams; a few of them taste the success they dream of; whereas the others get lost in the darkness of the city, never to be seen again in the fresh light. Amongst the failed, some join the underworld, some start intoxicating themselves with drugs, whereas some join the lucrative yet harassing business of prostitution to become a vital part of the city. The optimists keep waiting for their chance to come for eternity and end up living a life full of unsuccessful struggle and die a disgraceful death. The hardcore pessimists, on the other hand, surrender after repeated failures and end the life that they had never imagined themselves to be living. The best practical implementation of the proverb, ‘Truth is stranger than fiction’ can be experienced in Mumbai, where the possibilities are endless and the city’s mystic can beat even the best imaginative brains in the world.

Although, it has got much more opportunities than the lower class, the ‘middle class’, a supremely significant factor in the city, too, has to fight its way out to both commercial and mental success, competing against a huge amount of deprived people, desperately trying to achieve the same. The ‘rat race’, as they call it, does not permit a sabbatical to its participants. As a result, depression can often be spotted in the city’s youth as many fail to cope up with the excessive mental stress that they have to bear continuously. The middle class tries to find a specious solace in various means of entertainment such as sports (mostly Cricket), movies (Bollywood and Hollywood), various art forms (theatre, music, literarture, etc.), clubs, restaurants, beaches (Marine Drive, Worli Sea Face, Bandstand, Juhu Beach to name a few), lounges and several other things that, again, exist in this city, in sheer abundance and in a plethora of variety.

Amongst the dreamers, to the successful few, living in Mumbai is living the sweetest dream; to the others, ‘Mumbai’ can very well be a nightmare coming true. The ‘Upper Class’ is, supposedly, the only set of people who prefer Mumbai as their home, according to recent statistics. So, do all the people who are not fortunate/ able enough to be rich not have a reason to love Mumbai?

The question sounds interesting to my brains but my heart answers it rather rapidly. I, for one, regardless of the comparatively poor infrastructure than the other Metros of the world (for instance, New York, London, Tokyo) can never fancy staying away from the city, purely because I, modestly, don’t think that Marine Drive is any lesser than the Mahattan Island when it comes to beauty neither do I think that the train journey from Goregaon to Churchgate is lesser eccentric than the journey from King’s Cross to Barking. Well, Mumbai has given our country so much in every which way possible that it’s natural for a quintessential ‘Mumbaikar’ like me to be biased towards the city. Nonetheless, I’m a realist and am well-aware that common man’s life style would be far better in the cities that I mentioned earlier. They are commercially and technologically way more advanced and they have an infrastructure that is far more reliable, to say the least.

So, do you leave Mumbai if you get a chance to move to any of these cities? Well, I won’t and I have a humble question as the reason for my decision.
‘Do you shift to someone else’s house if you find it attractive; or work towards the betterment of your own?’




- Mihir Chitre
mihirmumbaikar@gmail.com

Mumbai on the Run

Mumbai is often described as a city, which is always on its heels. People here seem to be always on their toes. Some of them are running to attend an important meeting, some to meet their lovers, and more often than not, a majority of them are running to catch their daily dose of a ride in the local trains! A fast life is thus what inherently describes Mumbai’s lifestyle the best. Running has become such an important aspect of our daily lives that most of us can’t even remember what a casual slow paced life could be like.

Come 20^th of January this year, and you will see a whole lot of Mumbaikars running on the streets of Mumbai in the wee hours of the morning. For those of you who are still wondering why so many people would be running on the streets on a Sunday morning in winter, 20th of January 2008 marks the 5^th Anniversary of the Mumbai Marathon.

The Mumbai Marathon in many ways represents all good things about Mumbai.

There are a lot of people who would disagree with me when I say that Mumbai is an impartial city. But the fact remains that it is. Which other city would house more than a million people coming from various parts of the country with most of them even living on the streets. Mumbai doesn’t discriminate. Mumbai accepts you as you are. Thus a poor farmer becomes an immortal industrialist and a graduate from Delhi with unconventional looks becomes the biggest entertainer that Bollywood has ever produced. Mumbai thus lives by the line ‘If you can dream it, you can make it.’ Same is the case with the Marathon. The Mumbai Marathon is a great leveler. It doesn’t discriminate. Rahul Bose had once said in an interview that while he was running the marathon and suddenly felt thirsty he took a sip of water from a common man running next to him. In normal circumstances, according to the actor, he would have thought about doing such a thing a 100 times over.

Living in Mumbai takes a lot out of you. It exemplifies Darwin’s theory of survival of the fittest. This city though accepts everyone, only the one with vision, focus and dedication live through. At the same time, it allows you to be mad! It sets an automatic trigger to make you do things you never did before. If you don’t believe me, ask anyone who has settled in Mumbai in the later years of his life after living most of his life in some other city, village or town. The Marathon too requires a lot of dedication and will power. The fit survive though I have never heard of anyone quitting the marathon halfway. People take themselves right through to the end. Infact an old lady that I knew of ran the marathon on her last day in this world. She supposedly didn’t tell her family before going for the run and they incidentally saw her on TV enthusiastically waving to all the cameras. Her body though couldn’t take the rigor and she passed away the same day. If she hadn’t run that day, maybe she would have never got the chance to do something so wild.

You must have heard about Mumbai’s ‘dabbawallas’ giving lectures on time management in IIMs. Mumbai’s ‘rickshaw wallas’, ‘taxiwalas’, ‘bhelpuri’ uncles and ‘kulfiwalas’ are a characteristic of Mumbai as we know now. Mumbai cannot be imagined without all of them. You will be surprised to know that these same people participate in the Marathon in large numbers. They might not have a lot to give but they do whatever they can. They run for Mumbai. They run for a cause. The Marathon thus best brings out Mumbai’s giving spirit. Mumbai has always been among the first cities to come forward for help when some other city/state needed help. Be it Gujarat which suffered from earthquake tremors or TamilNadu which suffered from Tsunami. It was no surprise thus that when Mumbai was in need be it the time when she suffered from floods or the time when she was hurt by terrorism, Mumbaikars didn’t fear. As soon as the bomb blast happened on the ill-fated day of 7/11, people living in the nearby shanties brought their cots on to the tracks and used them as stretchers. There were queues outside hospitals not only of patients but also of people who wanted to donate their blood to their fellow brothers in need. Mumbaikars don’t look back. Trains were filled with people in the same ‘Mumbaiyya’ style of people hanging out of doors, and sitting on the roofs of the trains the very next day of the blast. This is Mumbai; Mumbai at its energetic best. Mumbai is not scared. She dares to challenge terror in its face. She feels proud of going through such adversities and still standing tough.

Living in Mumbai is thus no less than participating in a race. A race of time where no one comes first, nor does anyone come last. People here are running all the time in one direction-the direction of success. If you stumble, there will be people who will pick you up. If you lose direction, there are guideposts all the way. People who survive the city are winners in themselves. Such is the spirit of Mumbai. So on a Sunday morning in winter, come live the spirit of Mumbai!

- Divya Shetty
divya.infinity@yahoo.com

Main Hoon 'Bombay', meri jaan!

(For the first time, we are including a Hindi poem written in English script. It's just one of those experiments that we decided to do. Do feed us back on this idea at - edit.frwmag@gmail.com)

Ae biddu, boleto mera naam hi badal diya, ‘Bombay’ se ‘Mumbai’ bana diya,
meri galiyon mein raakh bhar diya.
Dhoondta hoon apne aapko,
is dhuuye mein tumne mujhe andekha kar diya.

Is aanchal mein sambhala hai hazaaron ko,
mudkar kabhi mujhe bhi sahara de do.
Mujhse kuch lekar mujhe adhura chhod diya,
is dhuuye mein tumne mujhe andekha kar diya.

Kabhi milta hoon yaaron se, to haste hai mujhpe.
Bomb, shor, garibi, pradushan, sunkar darte hai mujhse.

Meri waadiyaan lauta do,
in raahon mein gum un logon ko phir bulalo.
Tumhare dil ladkhada chuke hai,
paison ki chaaha mein mujhe bhula chuke hai.

Pyaar se kabhi tum ek dusre ka haath batate the,
Tumhari bahaduri ke kisse, log sunate the.
Abhi, zindagi “fast train” ho chuki hai, platform par gaadi rukti nahi,
Naam aur shohrat ki ucchaiyon ko choona chahte ho.

Tumhare aage badhne ki chaaha ko main bhi chaahta hoon,
Bas raste mein mujhe bhool mat jana,
Is daud mein kahin kho mat jana!


- Pallavi Arur
pallaviarur@gmail.com

The Blackened Chicken Franky

With tattered pants, he roamed bare-chested,
On a railway station that was a conglomeration of people.
A bottle of shoe polish and a tarnished cloth,
For his burning stomach, the manikin would work without a sabbath.

The days began at an early hour,
Due to the perturbing sounds alongside where he slept-
A railway platform or a footpath.

He had never seen his parents nor had he heard of ‘school’.
The little champ wasn’t aware what’s acting ‘smart’ and what’s playing a fool.
He didn’t know if it’s better to be right or wrong,
Never in his life had he enjoyed; worn fancy clothes or swayed to the nursery rhymes and children songs.

All he knew of, was a feeling that he felt from within,
We, the learned, call it ‘hunger’.
Catching the trains that arrive at Borivali station,
And actualizing a ‘full meal’ was his, impracticable, fascination.

From Borivali to Churchgate; he would travel to and fro,
Two rupees each, was the rate for the shoe polish to flow.
A vast choice of restaurants, he had for a meal;
Dadar for ‘Vada Pav’ and Borivali for ‘Neera’ was his routine food deal.

Aromatic food around, would make the temptation reach its peak;
A ‘Franky’ at Churchgate, in his dreams he would seek.

Once he earned twenty five rupees by sheer serendipity;
Straightaway went to Churchgate, after an unusual morning tea.
Seemingly, coloured with black blood; his hands were, as always, sticky;
Though he had the time of his life, eating that blackened ‘Chicken Franky’.

- Mihir Chitre
mihirmumbaikar@gmail.com

Hook'ed' to Zero

Though after a long time after its release, let’s rethink over what probably is the most influential album on the Indian Rock scene, released by the Mumbai band, ‘Zero’ – ‘Hook’.

First and foremost, I am still unable to decide the genre of this album. Some songs resemble to alternative rock, some can be considered to be ‘funk’ and some, to my surprise, take us straight into the world of Hard Rock. Nonetheless, the album is melodiously memorable and is according to me, one of the finest creations ever in the history of Indian Rock.

‘Hook’ starts off with ‘Not My Kind of Girl’; a song that will take you to the days when you fought with your ex and realized that she`s just not made for you. It is one of those few songs in the album that has meaningful lyrics. Then you encounter ‘Lost’ that again has some captivating leads played by arguably the best guitarist in India, Warren Mendonsa. ‘Lost’ offers melody, though the lyrics are unclear and mostly senseless. Then come the two instrumentals ‘Spitleaf’ & ‘Christmas in July’, that linger for a long time in your senses. ‘Spitleaf’ is beautiful with almost all the credit going to Warren, whereas the drummer makes his presence felt with some euphonious drumming along with the fast guitar leads by Warren in ‘Christmas in July’.

‘PSP 12’ remains as the best song in the album having to face some tough competition from ‘Not My Kind of Girl’. ‘Psp 12’ is a truly amazing track that rocks every part of your body. Rajeev shows his flamboyance in vocals and Warren shows his sheer class.

‘Lucy’ comes your way with some fluent changes in the song that can be remembered for its vocal and guitar change - overs.

‘Lijo’ remains the worst song of the album, though not being too bad. It has some Jazz influence on it but the song doesn’t create a great impact on the listener. ‘Not My Kind of Girl - Reprise’ shows some impeccable vocal talents of the drummer Siddharth and I have to mention that Warren rocks once again in catching up with the mood of the song.

In short, ‘Hook’ comes out as a fantastic album that can be heard repeatedly in peace and solace, memorizing the unforgettable teens that you have lived. Warren Mendonsa`s guitar leads are strikingly brilliant, Rajeev`s vocals are skillful & Siddharth`s drumming skills are appreciable. The only flaw in the album is its largely senseless lyrics but many other things make up for them, introducing an excellent album from a talented, Mumbai based Indian band – ‘Zero’.

- Mihir Chitre
mihirmumbaikar@gmail.com

From Time to Time

A city of the stature of Bombay is forever in the process of reinventing itself. Thus even if in colonial times it may have stood for the urbanization and the resultant prosperity that the British brought to India, in another historical moment an aerial shot of the blanket of asbestos roofs over the slums of Dharavi will have been put alongside glorious images of the Marine Drive to imply the funny realities of a country living in ironies. The truth is that the dynamics of this great city are such that in no point of time in history can Bombay totally stand for one thing alone nor can a few emblems crystallize all that life on this union of seven islands is about. Even in this present day, for the foreigner, Bombay is a reluctant global city with high hopes and poor infrastructure, while for its own citizen it evokes pride and the best of what this country has to offer. However, what has remained constant through this long and continuous process of change and reinvention is the way the third group views Bombay – not the foreigner, or the Bombayite, but the average Indian born and bred outside this city. For years, for this group, Bombay has been and continues to be a land of promise – of the basic necessities of man, of two meals a day, of – essentially – food.

Though I do not belong to the third group of persons, I am fascinated by a particular anthropological way that attempts to define a piece of land and a collection of people in relation to its favourite food items. And though I do not seek to do that either (for we have already agreed upon the impossibility and hence the un-necessity of attempting to define a city of the stature of Bombay), what I really would love to do is plainly talk about the unique food of this city that has so made me fall in love with it over the years. But again I find myself limited. I cannot give you an encyclopedic account of the origins, or even the recipes, of the various dishes that Bombay is famous for. Even if I decide to narrow down the scope to just one favourite dish of mine, there is still such a lot I cannot do justice to. So what I can – and will – do is simply tell you the story of my personal relationship with this “one favourite dish of mine” – Pav Bhaji (that, as you may have noticed, with its name in two parts has already started to sound like an actual person).

A day many, many years ago when I was still a kid, and my parents used to take me to a nearby Udipi restaurant on the main road just off my house on weekends or other special days, must have been when I first tasted this dish. And though I don’t remember it, I can vividly see myself forming an immediate bond with it. What I do remember, however, is asking my father on our way into that restaurant one evening why there always was a separate corner outside every fast-food joint where Pav Bhaji was prepared while the rest of the items were made in the proper kitchen sheltered from public view inside the hotel. And again, what I don’t remember is his answer… which, as a matter of fact, may have partly been because I was too preoccupied with gobbling down pavs after pavs once we were settled in the restaurant to have my mind open for any of his words of wisdom.

In fact, if you go to see, there’s not much to this story of my personal relationship with Pav Bhaji other than memories of myself gobbling down pavs after pavs and keeping up a regular demand for more till I had licked the very last speck of the bhaji off the plate. And still, to me, this dish today is not just about satisfying either my hunger or my taste buds. I can give you detailed accounts of evenings when the sight of that steamy plate of bhaji put under my downcast eyes in the Udipi restaurant, accompanied by two pavs dipped in a pool of melted butter, lit my face up and ended days of melancholy. Lately I’ve been to grand five-star hotels but always longingly thought back on modest Pav Bhaji while I was at tasteless, continental dinner. Over the years I’ve also grown to look beyond that one Udipi restaurant on the main road just off my house and appreciate the Pav Bhaji of Bombay as a whole. I’ve come to believe that there is something inherent about this dish that no chef will ever be able to take away from it no matter how hard he tries – that is, however, so long as we’re talking of Bombay (and here I once again see the latent and interesting connection between the food and the people of a place).

Vikram Seth, while paying homage to Music in his book An Equal Music, wrote, “Why ask for happiness; why hope not to grieve? It is enough, it is to be blessed enough, to live from day to day and to hear such music – from time to time.” I would say the same about good food, for, as a post-teen and a young adult, many more days of melancholy are yet to come. And isn’t good food as sublime as music in any case? A foodie like me would agree. The more I think of what Seth said the more I get the answer to my own question to my father years ago. Pav Bhaji, to me today, is the queen of all of Bombay cuisines. And hence you’ll find a special corner given to her outside all fast-food joints so her aroma doesn’t have to waft all the way out of the kitchen in order to make hurrying passersby halt, turn towards the beauty and then walk in perhaps. These passersby of Bombay do not have pretences of hurrying. The rush is genuine. But once in a while we all need to stop, don’t we? And relax. What better than a plate of Pav Bhaji that is really enough to have from time to time, as one lives from day to day – in this city of Bombay?

- Siddhesh Inamdar
siddhesh.inamdar@gmail.com

Media

Have you ever wondered what you would find, if 24x7 news channels were shut down? Or the over flowing print journals, newspapers were all reduced to just one? NEWS!

If this sounds too cynical, open your today’s newspaper and start counting facts. Have a look at the ads and then look at the headlines. Observe how Cricket, Salman Rushdie with new arm candy, sensex and even new sex surveys find their way to the main pages with alarming regularity.

The question that comes to mind is – Who decides what we need to know? Is media dictating our culture or is our culture dictating the media?

Does it function as a medium to voice the concerns of the common man? Does the common man matter even in the most accommodative system of democracy? Let’s look at Noam Chomsky’s definition of democracy - An alternative conception of democracy is that the public must be barred from managing of their own affairs and the means of information must be kept narrowly and rigidly controlled. That may sound like an odd conception of democracy, but it's important to understand that it is the prevailing conception...

In Chomsky’s book “Manufacturing consent” he talks about the art of democracy as a means of to bring about an agreement in the masses using propaganda as a tool.

To give you an example, Hindustan Times headline reads “India beats China in battle of billionaires” This gives the masses the idea that, with India’s booming economy and growing global stature, sky is the limit with the billionaires as a token of its prosperity. That is indeed a very narrow perspective of growth isn’t it?

The other headline in HT reads “India wrap up series, but Sachin jinx continues” First, this assumes that the masses watch cricket, almost compelling them to keep a track of it.

And the headline, in just one sentence elevates Sachin’s loss to the same platter as India’s win, giving the form of both sufficient headline spaces.

Let’s look at DNA, one headline reads “Tallest building in India to come up in Dadar” How many people will benefit from this headline? Certainly the dying Vidarbha farmers or the slum dwellers a few feet away I suppose. This brilliantly orchestrates how commercialization of news has made a comfortable place in media. The rich, privileged class is thus the ‘specialized class’ that calls the shots. They may not be a majority but they take all decisions – economic, political and ideological for the masses. Walter Lippman calls these masses as a bewildered herd which needs to be controlled or they can turn dangerous.

This may seem too ominous to digest. After all, we would all like to believe that life is a big Page 3 party with the press as mild intruders with a miniscule role. We could as well avoid the larger scheme, the distortion of fact and history to live peacefully.

Broadcast media is in a league of its own. And with 24 hours news channels, it is evident that the lines between news and propaganda are blurring. “Breaking news” is the most striking (laughable even) feature of these news channels.

There is alternative media also available on the periphery but it’s hardly accessible. If you ask me, news has fallen into a commercial trap. It’s become one homogenous mass which shows no sign of pushing its own set boundaries. But again, can we change that? Do we have any power to change that if we don’t belong to the privileged class? Is our role in society redundant?

These are questions, so many of them which realistically hold no value except creating awareness. I wonder if I got my point across. I would really appreciate to get a more holistic perspective as well.

- Janvi Gandhi
janvi.87@gmail.com

Subconscious

Sleep, oh sweet sleep
Envelopes me, like a blanket
Stubs out the halo around,
Illuminates the mystic.

Transported to another mass,
My movement is featherlike,
Inhabited by my stung past,
Wonder why it surrounds me so.

Expertly, this world laces itself,
Blending different people,
Tearing into my fears
And placing me in improbabilities.

Jerkily, it draws me out
Like a tree reminded of its roots,
Forced to return to the ruins,
Why does it humour me, my subconscious?

- Janvi Gandhi
janvi.87@gmail.com

I Write

For the few cherished dreams,
For the elegant smiles I've seen.
For the lost glory, I write;
to tell my story, I write.

At times to get back the same,
and to relive some moments again;
to embellish my thoughts, I write.
to beat the odds, I write.

For the melodious music,
and for the life that's plastic,
I write for the harmony of the rain,
I write for the truth in my pain.

To kill the fear of the sorrow I bear,
To shut all the lights, with nobody around to share;
I write when the old breeze visits me,
I write when the dreadful thoughts haunt me

For the increasing darkness,
For happiness that's evanesced,
For the dimming hope, I write;
in the nothingness of life , I write day and night.

- Mihir Chitre
mihirmumbaikar@gmail.com