Art & Science of Deception

Elementary, my dear Watson!
And that’s what the world remembers.
A line that never existed.
The untruth that lives each day and dies.

We see what we want to.
We hear what we desire.
We believe an illusion.
And when the illusion breaks,
Say that the world conspires?

Deception is a strange game.
It relays a vicious cycle.
It plays on the weakest link,
Trust in another,
Until it feeds into your self
The beginning is where it ends.

What you give is what you earn.
What you get is,
Neither fate,
Nor out of turn.

Tied to strings,
Self-professed, oh so detached!
Holding onto the last straw,
That sinks.
Instead,
Believe in oneness and survive.

Definitions and boundaries,
Amorphous principles,
Open to scrutiny and sub-judice.
Collective intelligence,
Limiting individuality,
Pre-ordained paths to happiness.
Crafted concepts of social being.

Subterfuge of who we are
And perception.
Striving for acceptance,
Moving to religion.
Restricting living,
To sheer existence.

One amongst the plenteous stages of evolution
Is self –admission
to ravenous narcissism and intemperance.
Arguably,
love of self is ‘the’ driving force
Confronted with a tirade of continuous dissent.

All are born with colored eyes
With colored love and a colored mind.
with the ongoing struggle to demystify
with a challenge to revive
a sonnet called life.

An ode to Udaipur

A spec in the dust
raises a storm
of its sand.

Carries with the wind
a whistling whirlpool
of dying roots
and staple citrus rind.

An arid land,
thorny bushes and cacti.
Changing hues of the sky,
from blues to grey to tan.

Topography changing hands
where past and present blend.
Mirages of civilization
in the narrow alleys of palaces
tourists smitten by eerie fascination.

Copper pots and pans
women adornd with silver embellishments
men with overt masculine demonstrations
a culture entrenched in rich tradition.

Srinagar Days

On countless occasions I have wanted to be inspired
Twirled a pencil
Doodled on paper
Stared at the laptop
and just when I wanted to send a "wassup?" sms I could not stop myself
Inspired in the parking lot... on a mobile
There I was reliving my stay in Srinagar!

An ivy covered bungalow
icicles of its roof.
Mulberries, cherries, apples, apricots, almonds, pears
and many other fruits,
French windows with a panoramic view.
A bed of strawberries,
A slope covered with wild lilies.
Pebbled backyard,
Lush green front lawns with brick boundaries.
A turquoise swing
and wanting puppies.
Magnificent Chinar tree,
generously lent its golden leaves to the entry.
Glass room with bukhari,
Overlooking the Pehelgam, Gulmarg pahadi.
View of Shankracharya from the driveway,
A kilometer from the gate which kept the militancy away.
A ninety degree drop over which I saddled over soldiers bikes
much to their agony.
Sworn to never cross the sacrosanct boundary
Sneaked a glance at boat houses on Jhelum
and its vicinity.
Frisked in school as a part of security, daily
The favorite friend’s secret corner- a pipe
along which grew bichu butti.
Two daily needs markets,
the owners of which one knew personally.
Our only associate from the Valley,
a Kashmiri shawl vendor Nur-u-din.
A small town cantt theatre
with a smaller gentry.
Huffed and puffed paddling,
triple knit handmade woolens,
A troop of soldiers to make our lives easy.
A neighborhood where we knew everybody,
A gardener's family held to ransom
to cause destruction to army premises
A life where entertainment was sans devices

Some stray thoughts on a random day
Of childhood memories, in Srinagar
the year I turned eight.