After Life.

Yesterday while watching television a thought came to me. Mr. Arun Jaitley was being praised for his humane approach towards his staff. About his loyalty towards his friends. All this is really nice. I felt good about the whole thing. In fact it really feels good when people talk nice about anyone. Especially so if the person being talked about is a person from public domain.

But what I noticed immediately was that the very same people were highly critical of him when he was alive. Is it natural to criticize people when they are alive and to praise them when they are gone? I wonder if it is so, then what could be the reason?

Is it to set the bar in some way? Or to say that listen, when I will be gone you all must sing praises and nothing else about me. Or simply a practice being followed since ages. But that is not really true. In literature world over we happen to find text written both in criticism and praise about famous people from public life.

Is it simply a national phenomena?

I often wonder what could be the reason when sometimes people you know, even the so called friends and relatives are all praises when they know you are listening but the moment you turn your back you get to hear all sorts of imaginary and horror stories about you being uttered from the very same pair of lips.

I guess this is a lesson life teaches you. When someone is gossiping about someone else in your presence you must know the same person was or is going to spread baseless rumors about you too. We are social animals. And this gossip does affect us in some way or other, whatever we might say about staying unaffected by such talk.

I guess Mr. Arun Jailtly too must be wondering about the real intentions of such people while pursuing his eternal journey towards the heaven.

Life’s poem

when a poem can summarise a whole life

in words written from left to right

in emotions spent between duress

in tears born out of desperation

in smiles stolen from the ruthless weather

Islands

So many islands
Floating in the sky
Not a single carries a home.

Wilderness casts shadows
Rivers cuts across oceans.

Crows fly as navigated by the strangers
Devoid of affections
That used to be
Trademark of mankind.

End of the day

Is this the night?

Or the culmination of the day?

Into numerous illuminated lonesome moments
Or another cluster of hours
Writing detailed moratorium
Of my effortless inclusions of emotions
Into another jingle
That beats in tandem
With bygone years
And forgone opportunities
Or the turns on the road to worldly wisdom
Inspired by impulses.

theives

Flying high on hired wings
The sky appears hollow
The stomach bottomless
Butterflies bleed to turn white
Space too far
Fathomless
Unreachable
Laughter born out of guilt
Words shallow
Smiles smug
That shrewd sparkle in those eyes
Steals nights and dreams
In broad daylight…

confusion

They say each night has a morning
And a morning that belongs to every night
But if i try and join tomorrow’s night
With yesterday’s morning.
Can they yield a story untold?
Or a song unsung?
Or may be a poem…
Unconceived?