Renegades with traditions to culture

A world, one without instability is like a river without waves. Changes bring about influences ones that shape “the now”, waves are symbols of freedom ones that bring hurricanes of mystery. All of time has possibilities, possibilities that can change time. All of the possibilities are recognized by the men with vision” the men who make our tomorrows. People who live in today mark the nows with precision and shoot their consciousness to the days of the future.

The leaves of history are filled with such renegades, renegades who create traditions. Traditions that are crippled with culture, values driven by benefits.

So I pray to renegades of today, of tomorrow. Traditions are meant to be cultured, cultures not to be “traditioned” .

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When you Fall in Love for the First Time

When you fall in love for the first time,
you will get butterflies in your stomach.
Do not swallow them whole.
Sit.
Hold his hand.
Watch the butterflies go to sleep.

When you fall in love for the first time,
revel in the feeling,
it will not come back.
You will long for him like water in a dry desert
a little more when he smiles at you
or offers you his umbrella when it’s raining.
The butterflies will fly out from your stomach
into your lips and make its home there.

When you fall in love for the first time,
you will hardly see him for who he is.
Heck, you will barely even recognize yourself
in the mirror.
Your step will have more bounce and you
can hear your friends call you, “Oh silly!”
But it won’t matter
because right now,
only he does.

When you fall in love for the first time,
you are going to want to live a fairy-tale.
But love,
he is not an Angel, no, he’s not even a Prince
He is something much much more special,
He is a Human.

Love him, don’t idolize him,
for if you do,
that glass of illusion is going to shatter,
It’s jagged pieces breaking your heart.

For when you fall in love for the first time,
you’ve got to be careful
Because you never know when
the Butterflies are going
to die.
 

What if

What if, a picture of the life you were supposed to live, one that you satisfy living in a parallel universe instead. What if, two words to describe what might’ve been, words as unpredictable as the future itself. What if, a sigh of regret, a wish to turn back time and yet, a smile of contentment, for what if you are happy exactly as you are, like it is meant to be, without having to change anything at all?

We all are so used to living in what ifs and regrets that we forget to live instead. We forget to take the much more powerful antidote, the other two words, ‘Thank you.’

‘Thank you for the choices I’ve made,’ ‘Thank you because if this doesn’t make sense now, I have faith that it will someday,’ ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ on and on till you feel rich with vibrant energy and deep seated contentment.

For if ‘what if’s’ are like the bittersweet muddy waters after the rain, one that sucks you in sticky sadness till you can’t move further anymore, stagnant like a mosquito stuck in a spider web, then ‘thank you’s’ are like the fresh summer breeze, cooling all the hyper active synapses, whispering in your ear, ‘It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.’

Forgive the human follies and mistakes which are all an imperfect part of a perfect design, all in the process of moving towards the simple realization; gratitude is always stronger than regret. Let’s make the best of what we have to create the best of what could ever happen because if this is the only life we’ve got, it’s too damn short to dwell in ‘what if’s’.

 

Aastitva ko chari.

The silhouette of the raven on the tip of the cypress valley blended with the evening sky, with his ends met for the day. He sighs “Autumn”, the wave before the crash.

As the mountain winds graze through the trees, he takes off in tune with the high strings of November. The flight brings with it an overwhelming current of freedom. As he scours the majestic lands below him, a bright light from the forest blinds his vision. The flight route changes from dynamic/multidimensional to static/one dimensional, the orb allures him like pirates to mermaids. He starts falling, accelerating towards the pine like a scud.

The branches break his fall, breaking twigs of their own. He slips down the branches one after the other, beak deep on the ground. As his trance breaks with his neck.

All left of his existence is a carcass and a memory which cannot be stored in a flash drive.

Escape

In the sky decorated by millions of stars, my eye searches for one that is not seen, far away, where I wonder where my family is, and if they are doing fine without me.

I was sent on a covert mission by our highly advanced species to come to another primitive planet with life in it, in order to guide them towards enlightenment. Being the smartest on the team, they sent me here alone. It was popularly held that being as capable as I am, I could manage on my own.

Little did any of us know, that as soon as the spaceship entered the Solar System, my spaceship jostled out of its sleep and lost all those powers with were exclusive to our kind. Earth was a place where my special skills wouldn’t work, reading minds, going without food for weeks at length, etc.

In the beginning this surprised me, and then it hit me.

Our galaxy was on the other side of the collapsed star Sirion. While we had our own star Ru which gave us light and life, Sirion was a formidable companion who we turned to in need of darkness. It never harmed us much even though it had a huge gravitational pull and it was commonly held that it was because we were from a correct distance from it. To come to Earth, we had to go through the black mass of the collapsed Sirion. It was on Earth that I realized, Earthlings called our Sirion the Black Hole. No earthling had been anywhere beyond the point.

Yet, our galaxy was on the other end of it, non-existent to the humans almost… almost as if we were a parallel universe in itself. No, worse yet, almost as if, we were the future, evolved version of this planet, simultaneously existing together with the present version of it. After all, it is a well-known fact that time is merely an illusion…

And now, even though I have figured the puzzle out, I still don’t have a way to escape. I should have been more careful when I went out of my body for longer than usual in search of anyone, anyone, of our kind. When I didn’t find any, I had no choice but to return to my body on earth, but alas, the ignorant Earthlings had imagined me dead and buried the body.

I suppose there is nothing else to do now, except wait while I’m stuck in a timeframe between two universes, and until time gives up on itself, I have no chance of escape.

Dear Pretty Girl in Instagram

Dear Pretty Girl in Instagram,

 You may not know me at all, but I think you are very beautiful. You seem to have all the perfect moments. The perfect hairstyle, the perfect selfie, the perfect body, the perfect clothes. You seem to have a lot of awesome friends with even more awesome moments to spend with them. You and your boyfriend seem to be very much in love, with no problems whatsoever, forever celebrating the honeymoon phase of a relationship. A lot of people seem to admire you, Miss Popular that you are, with all those people praising you, all the love that they send out to you.

But what’s the story behind those pretty pictures? Are you honestly happy with how your life is? I’d like to get to know you better than just your pictures. Could we maybe share a cup of coffee together? Tell me about yourself, go on ahead, I’m a good listener.

Maybe the story behind the perfect hairstyle, was that your sister had come in town and she sat you down while she talked about her new life and did your hair. Or, maybe you were just bored so you whiled away your time watching YouTube videos about how to make your hair look pretty.

Maybe your body isn’t so perfect after all, at least that’s what you think. What if you post pictures of it, just to get comments about how sexy and hot you look, so you don’t feel insecure anymore? Or maybe you’re just proud of how you look, and not afraid to show it.

Ooh and tell me about the one time you went shopping out with your friends, and wore clothes simply to take pictures in the trial room. Maybe all girls have that one story to tell. 
And what about your friends? Do you have some sort of politics in it? Maybe you don’t like someone in the group, and maybe someone doesn’t like you, but when all of you pose for a picture, its all cheese and smiles.

I know you probably won’t tell me your boyfriend problems, or would you? Start off with the good things first, the way you feel safe around him, how he does sweet things for you, the way he took you out on a romantic date that one time. But you’re going to tell me about the bad times too aren’t you? That sometimes you’re afraid it won’t last, that sometimes you feel insecure, that sometimes both of you have fights that no one needs to know about because seriously, you just want people to keep thinking that you are #couplegoals. Please, don’t think it’s a cliché, for every person online wears a mask, and to pretend that the mask doesn’t exist, is itself a lesson on how to be a hypocrite.

Are you also going to tell me about the times when you look at other people’s profile, and about how imperfect you feel as compared to them? Oh, it’s a wild wild competition isn’t it?

But the truth is, it doesn’t have to be a competition. It doesn’t have to be about who gets more likes, who’s more #couplegoals than you and your partner, it doesn’t have to be about who has more followers. Instagram, is simply a photo diary you like to keep public, and you can keep it in whichever way you want it. Don’t care about the haters, we all have got some. The point is, as long as you’re doing what makes you happy, you’re doing the right thing for you.
And as about the perfect moments, maybe they aren’t the ones you’ve put on instagram, the ones where you’ve “candidly” laughed at something with your friends. Maybe the perfect moment was sometime else, when all of you laughed about something silly, when your friend told you she believed in you, when he tucked your hair behind your ears, when you cried and your mother was there to hug you. 

Maybe, on second thoughts, I don’t know you at all because you are so much more than just pictures and those ‘perfect’ moments captured on camera.

The red flag when crisis strikes.

A group of young boys march up a steep hill, their innocent eyes guiding them. Their short breaths create mysterious clouds for the winds to blow on, they smile at each other and talk about their home in the mountains. Merrily inching their way slowly towards death, patriotism fueling their hearts. Their soft hands hold onto the rugged butt of the battered rifles, praying to them for their lives, with the god of war on their minds they move ahead.

Like sheep to the wolves the boys are sent to first line of offence. They look at themselves with sweat dripping on their faces, they smile at each other remember home and charge the enemy flanks like lightening. Their war cry in unison “AYO GORKHALI!” their khukuris flinging freely in the wind. Hundreds die a thousand left with injuries.

They still keep their smile now with dilated pupils with adrenaline to thank. They captured point zero three eleven and sent the enemy forces back with unpleasant memories to never forget. Now in the base camp the boys try to spot their friends so that they can return home, but all they find are dogtags with blood and khukuris scarred by the enemy for their families to remember them by.

They keep up the spirit and tell tales to each other and sing songs of love and war. Still fighting for their families still living for others on the edges of a sharp sword, the world glorifies them and remembers the brave heroes, but their nation remembers them as mere guards and aliens from a land far far away.

Amen.

An Excerpt from a Lunatic’s Heart

I think I’m in love with the moon,
Look at how well she dances,
The chivalrous clouds try to escort her,
The stars twinkling at her with jealous glances.

She wears a dress of silver spring,
She twirls on the sky like a magic orb,
Oh she has had me spellbound
So majestic, she makes my heart throb.

I feel at peace when I’m with her,
Like I could while away my time
Too mesmerised by her beauty true
I’ll stay with her, bathed in her shine.

Had she been a girl, what would she look like?
A goddess in a flowing waterfall
Her curves would be her craters, her eyes the darkness
She’d stand proud and tall.

She’d have hair of silken silver
Bruises too, for what art exists without flaws?
She’d move with beauty and divine grace
Yet, her mood swings would leave me thawed.

She’d wear a crown on her head, the Queen
And at night she’d stare at the sky alone
Wishing she were among the stars,
For in the sky she’d know was her home.

She’d dream and paint in art
She’d make the young and old swoon
Men would be mesmerised, women awestruck
Afterall, she’d be the moon.

What would the name be?
Or would she even keep one I wonder?
Oh, the most beautiful of them all
Every thought of her makes me ponder.

Maybe the sky feels the same way,
Blessed to have Her in its arms
Yet knows that no one can ever own her
For she’s made of dreams and unmatched charms.

Oh, I’d be so in love
Like never before,
I’d look at her every day
But my heart would still be sore.

For who would deserve such grace and beauty
I’d never be hers, even if I had to try.
So I look at the beauty in the sky again
The sky an ocean, they have all been there,
but alas,
only to cry.

Meals of fortune.

Echoes resonate inside my left ear, cries of men and women struggling for survival. Their voices fill my mind, they are lost deep within the enchanted forest but I can see their faces clearly. Eyes sunken with an eternal rain of fear and frustration, faces lost with the unanswered prayers through time. Lips chapped and torn like the barks of a century old tree, these crevasses filled with lies owing their origin to the magic of the tongue.

I watch the forest as it burns, smoke fill the oceans high above. The land of prosperity and peace turns into an ash tray almost instantly, the red GOD purifying the corrupt with the light elements breaking through everything. The once high and mighty crumble beneath it’s light feet, erasing their identities with a small squeal of satisfaction. I cannot do anything, I do not do anything, we started the fire with a cause and now we didn’t have any to extinguish it. I look towards my right, my captain shines with a smirk of contentment. My stomach crumbles and cramps, the innocent faces crying flash before my eyes.

I shut my eyes and ears and shout until I choke, my eyelids opens with dilated corneas. My platoon lay dead, my captain hung on a pole with a smirk on the left the other burnt. I run as fast as I can, a creeper holds my feet and I trip and hit my head on a rock knocking me out.

“Clahan!” I hear. “Come in for breakfast!”

I enter the room. Vanida strikes me with a lovely smile, my heart slips a little. “You’re gonna take my voice away one of these days.” she says. I smile and nod my head, the war took away my right ear drum, my mind is filled with their voices.

But when I see her, it all goes away. Gone like the wind.

The Truth behind the Sausages

“There’s a story that must be told,” said the old man looking up towards the sky as the fire crackled nearby. The children huddled up together in their blankets and stared at him, their huge eyes unblinking.

“Ah,” he sighed, “do you know how I met your grandmother?”

The little ones shook their heads. There were three of them wrapped up together in a blanket under the starry skies.

“It was a cold starry night just like this one. She was a bookish girl. We’d all heard stories about her.

People said that she had killed her parents for money so she could buy more books. They said she had a book in every nook and corner of her home. They even said that she sometimes ate the fingers of dead people when she needed to save money. Fingers deep fried so it would look like sausages…”

“Was that true Mami?” said the little 5-year old boy, terrified out of his wits.

“Ah, that’s the thing you see. At that time none of us were educated. So to see someone who’d actually read terrifies us savages. And what do we do when we see something unknown? We fear it. Like we feared her.

But I was an adventurer. I needed to see it all for myself. So one night, I ventured out. There was one light glowing in her wooden house. The girl was probably reading. When I knocked on the door, I had to wait for a few seconds before it opened. It was then that I saw her for the very first time.

And she was beautiful. She had long hair and big, wonderful brown eyes. I told her I wanted to learn how to read, and she, dying in want of companionship, gladly let me in.

Days turned into weeks and we quickly fell in love. There were times when we’d abandon the books and rest in each other’s arms instead.

In addition to her reading skills, she also had another talent; cooking. Needless to say, I fell even more in love with her.

We soon decided to get married.

It was a simple marriage. We hardly invited anyone. Yet, we were happy.

One day, somebody died in our village. It seemed to be a gruesome death and his fingers had been cut off.

I rushed to tell my wife about the strange happening but I stopped at the window where I saw her cooking. She had spices and oil and small pieces of meat, and behold! I almost screamed when I saw it.

They were fingers neatly sliced up by the side.

That night, she served me sausages. I was too terrified of her to not eat it. It looked like a sausage but tasted nothing like the normal kind. It felt more… fleshy than usual.

Repulsed, I pretended to tell her that I was allergic towards meat and since then, I have never touched meat, especially sausages, again.

I have remained in fear of your grandmother all my life. I was too scared to leave her, I didn’t want myself to be her dinner you know?”

The old man gave a dramatic pause and put out the fire, “Now, get going children. Run along inside. Your grandmother must be sleeping, be sure not to disturb her.”

In the darkness, the three children tried to swallow down the horrible grotesque story of their grandmother as they ran towards the cottage.

The old lady was waiting at the table with some left over food. “Ooh, there you are! My wonderful kids must be hungry,” she gushed. “Here, I made some sausages for you. Do you want it?”

She saw none of the usual enthusiasm in the kids. Instead she looked at the mute, ashen faced, horrified children and then understood what had happened.

She put the plate down and sighed, “Ah, I see. The old man has been telling stories again, hasn’t he? He always throws a fit when I tell him that sausages and fried things are not good for his health…”