He is listening to the sound of water. The waves are tiny yet full of jest. The fishermen have their net unfolded, milkmen are there with the herd of cattle, and crops have all enveloped the circular pond. The view from the small bridge is distinct. It unearths nostalgia on one hand and brings the much needed calm on the other. Every time he is on vacation, a visit towards the pool side is a regular feature in his schedule. The passage from bridge towards fields is narrow, raw and with out any sign of concrete. The sand-laced pavement with mixed imprints of animal, machinery and men is not unusual nor any special, unless you compare it to some crowded urban road named after some somebody who nobody cares about, until he brings the personal equation he shares with the passage.

The association with the passage goes way back. He would come with fellow fraudsters sometimes to play in that only field(disputed) left barren, sometimes to run along the fields in the hope to beat them some day and sometimes to just sit along the railway track and to experience the thrill of deafening sound and sheer speed of the passing trains. The railway track had bifurcated the village nicely into two halves; one containing homes, shops, ponds and temples and the other just fields: wheat fields, mustard fields, carrot fields, onion fields, all types of fields.

The passage has played a mute friend and an encouraging patron from time to time and on need to need basis. The first memory he has of the passage, still brings that magic smile on his face, when the entire group with an average age of 9 years would strip down their shorts to wave off the trains passing by. It had become a ritual, to strip down and run in the passage simultaneously, until one of the live audiences turned out to be one of the fathers.

Not all in the community preferred this side of the world, unless one had some field commitment or one is slightly educated and thus employed and therefore just to alienate oneself from the rest, would one come here. But it was neither the field job nor the aloof air that were instrumental in forming the robust bond he had with the pavement. Everything happens for a reason but still something in life just happens and his camaraderie with the passage was with out any motive. When he would visit it in summer he would ask, "Ain't I the best athlete around?". Tell me "I am going to win this time"

Urge

Once again did speak, the urge

Will you follow me or will go merge?

Hey, lonely roads also pave for surge

Listen, hunger, too,is an option when all go splurge

Knee jerk may not be better than a nudge

Honey, just follow me and to hell with all who judge

P.S.-what if the urge is CHAOS???? As GG, my split-soul would say "God, save Thy Krrist"

Drowning of a Dream

With every setback arises a new challenge, begets a new dream. With every loss a dream is shattered, with every defeat a new dream afloats. He could have been better its the dream who did him in. He's been a loser yet its the dream that strengthens him. Life is a dream-full of dreams-good dreams, silly dreams, short dreams, not so hot dreams.

The amusing thing about dreams is, even while dreaming one is unsure of its attainability-one's own ability, its susceptibility-one's own vulnerability. One just goes on dreaming and dreaming. Even at the hindsight, there may be ifs and buts but there is never a single entity to blame-neither the dreamer nor those part of the dream nor even the dream. All his life he dreamed sweet dreams, pure dreams, long dreams but the ones that required inclusion of others-be it for sanction, be it for celebration. The more he tried the more he failed.

"Should one, then, dream within the boundary of reason and means only?" he is pondering.

A things that reasons itself out with immediate surrounding, he doesn't consider a dream. Its a settlement, an adjustment. a process oriented approach that may keep one busy but not a dream. A dream is dream first, reasoning later-limitless, borderless, adamant yet afresh, helpless yet uplifting, hurt but full of heart, dying yet flying-that's what a dream is to him.

It was neither rational nor in his means when he dreamed his dream but such insisting was his dream, it made him adamant. He would reason with situations, argue with people but always in favor of his dream. Some would relent, some would appreciate, most would harp, most would discourage. He cared for none, neither relations nor career, just his dream. After all, that was what a dream to him.

The ordeal had started much before he took his dream train yet he boarded it with aplomb. There was shine in his eyes, there was unyielding will to cross the final frontier and he never thought for a moment of failure and options thereafter. So naive was him, so unrelenting this world. And so deeply was he absorbed in his space, neither comfort nor majority mattered to him.

But as it happens mostly, just when he was almost there, just when he progenated his first prototype, demons of past would haunt him. Just when he was so close, he was overwhelmed. It was usual of him-his unpreparedness to accept the eternal longing whenever it knocked on his door. Whether it was love, whether his dream-he would get chocked in the final moments. The dream he had drowned in the same ocean he fought all life, the sea of circumstances, social norms, oddity. He knew all along he would have to reason-with people, with means, with fate, with system-everything that would give the final acknowledgement to his being. And he readied himself hard, too, but just when it was the time, just when his nerves needed to be held-he backed out. A stream of vague idealism had engulfed him-it was lying dormant all along but just when was required for it to sleep one more night, it roared furiously. It decimated everything that came its way but there came nothing except the infantile dream.

Is he hurt then? Yes but not for him, for his dream. After all, it was the dream that gave him the time of his life. There is never a failed dream nor a failed dreamer, there is mixed past and there is a missed tomorrow. He had betrayed his past and he killed his tomorrow. But such is ,usually, the fate of a wild chase.

It's been months now since the fiasco and he's wondering at the entire episode. An epic that was to be and that took six long and most important years in the making, had ended in a thunderous disaster. All these while he is trying to curb every urge to look ahead so close, after all, was his dream to him. With every 'what next?' there is a 'but why?' and 'for whom?'.

Those dreams are all drowned

Those eyebrows are all frowned,

He ,too, would've been crowned,

But the naivety would surround

From 'within' always came a sound

But it never yielded a penny forget about pound

He aimed for the sky that was not to be found

And he fought and lost all along the ground

Hearts break, dreams drown, people fail, men die, people try but such is life none bothers.

The Crop

Today I went to the field,

Today I missed the park;

Today the crop is dry,

Today things are dark;

Last year I was on a high,

Last year the crop was smart;

Today the crop did not exalt,

Today my life is on a halt;

Today I went to the field,

Today I missed the park;

A crop needs water, a spirit some fuel,

But God is thirsty but man is too cruel;

Today the crop is crying,

Today God is denying;

Today the man is flying,

Today the man is dying

Today I went to the field,

Today I missed the park;

A crop is a baby, a man a boy,

Today baby is hungry, today man is on ploy;

Today man is betraying the land,

Today man is suffering no end;

Today the man has hopes ,

But today the man lacks spark

Today the crop is dry

Today everything is dark.

Way Forward

Now that he's back to square zero its time to reflect, to ponder, to project his surroundings-the world around him-the world around him as it is, the world that can be the world that wont be. Having seen the world close to three decades, there were not always outbursts-there were hopes, dreams, aspirations, challenges in between but he was always prepared to take them on-thanks to that thing called Rush of young blood. But standing on this day there is left nothing-no desire to prove, no greed to take something back-only the Big O-Nothingness with out no end.

He now remember those sweats bled in the field to hone that pull shot to match Dravids & Pontings, those Words by hearted to take on the convent brigade, those push ups to maintain lean skelton, and lately those movies seen with utmost fervor to make one of his own.

But has it happened overnight? No. Has it taken just one failure for the courage and ambition to die down so easily? No. Nothing happens overnight-neither success nor giving up. It takes effort in both the cases-for to grab and to let loose .

But weren't there were warnings ? Yes, there were always. There was warning not to take Arts-he yielded. There was warning in taking up willow-he yielded. There was warning against Management education-he didn't. There was warning for upholding Roark-he stood up. There were warnings against frequent job changes-he never cared. There were warning against taking up film writing-he laughed.

So is there any one reason? Money and survival obviously are major factors but there is never a single reason for giving up. There are always permutations and combinations. Money he never cared-neither as a mean nor as an end. Its about belief, values, about man as he thought of-man that was never there. man that shall hardly ever be.

So who is to be blamed? None-not he neither all around him or probably all.

The world as it is: The world around him the moron, is ruled and governed by bigger morons. Be it public or private enterprise, media or politics, arts, sports or education, trade or entrepreneurship-the only way to succeed is by teaming up, forming cartels, giving up values, getting corrupted, sucking balls-plugging up with jerks. Honesty and Integrity were just another words for him as well. But the more he was denied his due the more he believed in them-the more he failed and the more he suffered. So its neither the fault of that man the moron held in highest esteem for his vision and values which were later to be given up for higher greed nor of that man who held Arts sacrosanct but later went on to build his own cartel. The fault doesn't all lie with the moron too-after all he believed what he visualized and could make of the world around him. The world at the end was found to be just another stage and having seen the drama from close quarters there was not a single actor that would inspire him to move on. The world what it has to offer coupled with his own follies and blunders was a difficult proposition to digest. The only place a Hero can be found is in crematory and doubts are so abound that he thinks if those too were made up stories or what. Yes nobody is perfect and none ever will be but still there should be a semblance of an Ideal once in a while.

The world that could be