tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20346362477113254102024-03-18T08:33:27.368+05:30Works of RKTogether, under a clear blue skyRajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.comBlogger486125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2034636247711325410.post-33110162672367142252024-01-30T12:46:00.000+05:302024-01-30T12:46:32.672+05:30Our Kind of Music<p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">Together<br />We might never dissolve fully<br />Into each other</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><a href="https://static.vecteezy.com/system/resources/previews/018/774/315/large_2x/small-narrow-stream-winding-throught-forest-stream-free-photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="https://www.vecteezy.com/photo/18774315-small-narrow-stream-winding-throught-forest-stream" border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="213" src="https://static.vecteezy.com/system/resources/previews/018/774/315/large_2x/small-narrow-stream-winding-throught-forest-stream-free-photo.jpg" title="small narrow stream winding throught forest stream Free Photo" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><br />But we will flow my love<br />Like rivulets through paths untrodden<br /><br />And we shall make music<br />Like pebbles rolling<br />And water flowing<br />And birds calling<br /><br />There are all kinds of music<br />And such shall be ours.</span><p></p>Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2034636247711325410.post-91721171749570991672024-01-08T15:45:00.002+05:302024-01-08T15:46:25.423+05:30Spiral<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Come</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Let us slice into each other</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">With fine surgical precision<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl1EdYk7oS0L8uqcufvowmy8vJ9SIBZRdWoEXhQEGv1-5z4Zh9FEKS9Y5uQp_g-lTvDRt0EZuWfFUc7lhRUvEXhas9SjW0e0kz508DCIqYx0VthEAowhQZwTc5yvCgaptneK_efvdUUX6U61NEIssEA_vw3VkH4N0K57r7J3dJDrdu24nPV-uV5nilwIs/s564/finding-love-after-anger-in-a-relationship.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="378" data-original-width="564" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl1EdYk7oS0L8uqcufvowmy8vJ9SIBZRdWoEXhQEGv1-5z4Zh9FEKS9Y5uQp_g-lTvDRt0EZuWfFUc7lhRUvEXhas9SjW0e0kz508DCIqYx0VthEAowhQZwTc5yvCgaptneK_efvdUUX6U61NEIssEA_vw3VkH4N0K57r7J3dJDrdu24nPV-uV5nilwIs/w320-h214/finding-love-after-anger-in-a-relationship.jpg" title="From: https://peopletweaker.com/hcr-blog/one-why-of-anger-love/" width="320" /></a></div><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">You slash me here</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I slash you there</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">And then</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">When the storm is done</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I will patch you up</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">And you tuck me up</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">You bring the bucket</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I the mop the blood<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">And together we will cleanse</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Our ancient hurts</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Our guilts <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">And our fears </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Until we start again<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">And over a cup of coffee</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">You tell me </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">My dear</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Just how much you love me</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">And I shall tell you</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Just how much</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I love you.</span><br /></span></div>Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2034636247711325410.post-62847938758403650582023-11-14T11:35:00.001+05:302023-11-14T11:35:10.448+05:30Gratis<p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Growing up, I would throw small pebbles across placid water bodies and
watch them bounce and skate over the shimmering surface. If I had
competition, we would count the bounces and both the winner and loser
will nurse a sore shoulder by evening.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVAP2mT0W-DLNkQDvQ5rliI28fjFM4pGYjovbfmOxh4_mfS4_5GAwXWZgJDeLLtF_-r5H24diLgwRF1sCzTzNrh7qDXYs2xplFQ1l67R5OYx2RAbbkgoU8B1X82tjByTcZxx52nHqZqFP1e6bqZ-7cMdcVVj36qDqagl8h-pgxrk4BD9aspKQNugFP0nI/s825/Screenshot%202023-11-14%20at%2011-32-31%20f8fa8833-0826-4dee-84cc-c64eaefe2260.jpg%20(JPEG%20Image%201920%20%C3%97%201080%20pixels)%20%E2%80%94%20Scaled%20(51%25).png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="461" data-original-width="825" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVAP2mT0W-DLNkQDvQ5rliI28fjFM4pGYjovbfmOxh4_mfS4_5GAwXWZgJDeLLtF_-r5H24diLgwRF1sCzTzNrh7qDXYs2xplFQ1l67R5OYx2RAbbkgoU8B1X82tjByTcZxx52nHqZqFP1e6bqZ-7cMdcVVj36qDqagl8h-pgxrk4BD9aspKQNugFP0nI/s320/Screenshot%202023-11-14%20at%2011-32-31%20f8fa8833-0826-4dee-84cc-c64eaefe2260.jpg%20(JPEG%20Image%201920%20%C3%97%201080%20pixels)%20%E2%80%94%20Scaled%20(51%25).png" width="320" /></a></span></div><p></p><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Neither the
lake, nor the pebbles cared, and the universe, like a quantum
experiment, was both the observer and the observed. Or maybe we were
being played and they were the audience.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">To all the pebbles and the lakes that survive...thank you for that space... in time. <br /></span></div>Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2034636247711325410.post-54794911960567998802023-11-09T12:23:00.003+05:302023-11-09T12:23:49.312+05:30Clowns in a Circus<p></p><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">The circus came to town</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I could see the posters of acrobats and hippos and giant wheels</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">On shaky ancient auto-</span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">rikshaws</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Driven by incorrigibly happy</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Poor people.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">For some years now, I have felt like the joker </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Looking at a gallery full of fools</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Wanting to believe</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">That what they see</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">And live</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Is not sheer drudgery </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">But liquid entertainment. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_0VRIttUJ1A1KCRetEowoHpCuGMOsBxB0Rk3c5Bn_OQjSKHwwDdIn1t91lHvV848ORKEcGttYifAXKwVko1RMPickauob2Fl6nPAHFQ0gooiH9kpjHhzSbMBZa6PY8BdxiwSuiffmEGT_XyKGXJMB-A3TMGQFAfI_l2C6AbX2NlmycOyKLaOiwLQmhyphenhyphens/s475/great-bombay-circus-asias-best-and-biggest-world-circus-carnival-ad-times-of-india-pune-01-12-2017.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="https://www.advertgallery.com/newspaper/great-bombay-circus-asias-best-and-biggest-world-circus-carnival-ad/" border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="380" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_0VRIttUJ1A1KCRetEowoHpCuGMOsBxB0Rk3c5Bn_OQjSKHwwDdIn1t91lHvV848ORKEcGttYifAXKwVko1RMPickauob2Fl6nPAHFQ0gooiH9kpjHhzSbMBZa6PY8BdxiwSuiffmEGT_XyKGXJMB-A3TMGQFAfI_l2C6AbX2NlmycOyKLaOiwLQmhyphenhyphens/w215-h269/great-bombay-circus-asias-best-and-biggest-world-circus-carnival-ad-times-of-india-pune-01-12-2017.png" title="Circus Clown, curtsey TOI" width="215" /></a></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I think Joaquin Phoenix fucked my world view</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Forever. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">And before that, there was the Matrix</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Or even, Joseph Heller</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Or maybe it was</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Gabriel Garcia Marquez </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Or even</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">The Bhagwan who declared</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">In his infinite wisdom</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">That the infinity of our souls </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">And the divinity of our beings</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Are sullen</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">By the circus </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Of life. </span></div>Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2034636247711325410.post-70551320187481378182023-10-27T10:04:00.003+05:302023-11-25T17:16:16.599+05:30Kintsugi<span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Every now and then</span><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Through unguarded moments and glances</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">She would give me a peak into her soul</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Her panic room doors were steel</span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/50fd5857e4b0fa3b92240543/1626557179365-WTKIKKT6DKMJ92PFMUVQ/kintsugi1-1.jpg?format=2500w" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/50fd5857e4b0fa3b92240543/1626557179365-WTKIKKT6DKMJ92PFMUVQ/kintsugi1-1.jpg?format=2500w" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">And over the years</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Every new scar of hers was reinforced</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">With new layers of Kevlar </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">And when she felt like laughing aloud </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">She would guard her mouth</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">With her beautiful little hands</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">So that I would not see</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">That the little girl living within</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Could still laugh... and cry. </span></div>Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2034636247711325410.post-90198223870040671022023-10-18T18:26:00.001+05:302023-10-20T10:13:51.574+05:30Our Very Own Mountain <p><span><br />I remember a moment from our childhood, when I and my sister tried to lift papa by his arms. We might have been really young because it felt like moving a mountain...and we were happy that our dad was like a mountain. Unshakable and towering!</span>
<br /><br /><span>Early in the morning, before getting ready to take a fight back to town, I laid down next to him and wrapped my arms and legs around him. The flu had run him down. He was tired and barely speaking.</span>
<br /><br /><span>Our lion was unwell.</span>
<br /><br /><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://images.saymedia-content.com/.image/c_limit%2Ccs_srgb%2Cq_auto:eco%2Cw_700/MjAwMDEzODA4MTM0MDA2MTM2/best-compliments-for-dad.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="From "We Have Kids Website"" border="0" data-original-height="467" data-original-width="700" height="133" src="https://images.saymedia-content.com/.image/c_limit%2Ccs_srgb%2Cq_auto:eco%2Cw_700/MjAwMDEzODA4MTM0MDA2MTM2/best-compliments-for-dad.webp" title="https://wehavekids.com/family-relationships/Best-Compliments-for-Dad" width="200" /></a></span></div><span>He ran his fingers through my arm, caressing them tenderly, his very own skin... on me. He stopped at where I had burnt myself recently and circled the healing wound with his fingers. He drew a long sigh, as if he was singed too. A little later, he seemed to struggle with the weight of my legs on him.</span>
<br /><br /><span>I gently moved my legs off him. And I could feel him breathe easier. </span>
<br /><br /><span>It is just a flu, my mind told me, but my heart would not stop crying. I felt like all Sons and Daughters everywhere...I could see the future and I could see the slow vanishing of light into the ever winding tunnels of time. </span><br />
<!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_230908_124814_608.sdocx--><!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_230903_082741_850.sdocx--><p></p>Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2034636247711325410.post-721248482178649402023-07-31T14:29:00.006+05:302023-07-31T14:31:05.903+05:30Strings of Strain<p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span>It has been raining for three straight days now</span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVmolmKRGJ1x9e1T9vMxxbukAiRPmkK-3uFDXrpIb2Hf9jRYoIvDgOcUE-NsUa_A3NHm_Mm8rpB-fi1xW6xbIGvy_E1NwCnUHDW-kpDHvGK-OsS6_4Pp3K0XnB8HsvHxo8l7Kq5DVRqsMzXJ9yY3Zjjd04D1olB07OPEfFyGPjtmZmWJXYQESxlgRe2EE/s1816/20230725_110923(0)1.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1499" data-original-width="1816" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVmolmKRGJ1x9e1T9vMxxbukAiRPmkK-3uFDXrpIb2Hf9jRYoIvDgOcUE-NsUa_A3NHm_Mm8rpB-fi1xW6xbIGvy_E1NwCnUHDW-kpDHvGK-OsS6_4Pp3K0XnB8HsvHxo8l7Kq5DVRqsMzXJ9yY3Zjjd04D1olB07OPEfFyGPjtmZmWJXYQESxlgRe2EE/s320/20230725_110923(0)1.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span>It has something to do with the constant sound<br />Of rain falling on the windows and ledges<br />On drooping leaves<br />And tin roofs<br />That springs forth sudden bouts of existential sadness<br />From the very dungeons of my being<br /><br />It is almost as if I have lived many lifetimes<br />And yet<br />There are seeds in me that are yet to sprout<br />And await the causality of death<br />To cure this cycle of inconsequential living!</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">----</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: xx-small;">Readers: This is not a poem on Depression. As per Indian scriptures the life that we live is an illusion and full of existential strife. Spiritual journey begins with the appreciation of existential sadness beyond <a href="https://vedantasociety.net/blog/joy-and-sorrow" target="_blank">temporal joys and sorrows.</a></span></p>Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2034636247711325410.post-55431783988084812832023-07-13T20:26:00.020+05:302023-07-14T10:33:28.271+05:30A Walk among the Tombstones <span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I visit her chat window now and then</span><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">And it feels like an ode to a Tombstone </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPjUbB_MlWSy-997U8qUZEakGZiMpoYpxjl5jh7xshOqza9CfpB3plyBAmzYT4JUg-xS-vXdD0xFPBkMx1p9tJAGOD5YbpXlmTbWkaP9kKxcxk7cbJiw2q1PZvbbDolRjgcxdgB-XIYjRbHYGKLSI3OIWYMAAkcP3Nlvm4fLnUVIY4mISQna2VbQbQDmE/s700/delete-messages-on-iphone-6-1.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="525" data-original-width="700" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPjUbB_MlWSy-997U8qUZEakGZiMpoYpxjl5jh7xshOqza9CfpB3plyBAmzYT4JUg-xS-vXdD0xFPBkMx1p9tJAGOD5YbpXlmTbWkaP9kKxcxk7cbJiw2q1PZvbbDolRjgcxdgB-XIYjRbHYGKLSI3OIWYMAAkcP3Nlvm4fLnUVIY4mISQna2VbQbQDmE/s320/delete-messages-on-iphone-6-1.png" width="320" /></a></div></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">And as I walk among the dead lines</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">That were once alive with our love</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I can feel the grass of time grow </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Steadily, under my very feet.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Maybe next year, on her birthday </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I shall scroll through here again </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">And until then</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I will leave these lines here</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">As an elegy</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">To what was once living</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">And breathing</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">But is now very dead. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2034636247711325410.post-60026493749890152872023-07-07T10:42:00.000+05:302023-07-07T10:42:15.281+05:30The Artist<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I knew an artist once</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">She would paint through those parts in her</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">That bled from neglect</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqny4CCppXI_yCAz-H1045xLHM0NW_dajWRJAjUIS7Glx6kEHsusovxNfIaOgA4NewW3G1Tg20_VmH_A0CLQxfixhXj_aw-82dZ6do43EKBhBEeJTh7w9n1EPRzEGOeiIRIC45_TKY48Al2D9GvDeKwufK9Hjdg_vf4-W8FJDL0mzeZ5SNf4J4kIOlEIY/s250/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="177" data-original-width="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqny4CCppXI_yCAz-H1045xLHM0NW_dajWRJAjUIS7Glx6kEHsusovxNfIaOgA4NewW3G1Tg20_VmH_A0CLQxfixhXj_aw-82dZ6do43EKBhBEeJTh7w9n1EPRzEGOeiIRIC45_TKY48Al2D9GvDeKwufK9Hjdg_vf4-W8FJDL0mzeZ5SNf4J4kIOlEIY/s16000/images.jpeg" title="From https://wallpapercrafter.com/" /></a></div><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">In here frames,</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">There would always be a woman</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Who will always be engulfed</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">In flames masquerading like oysters</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Or tresses</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Or even</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Dresses</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">For a decade or more</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">She would paint me in dark colors</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">She would scratch me with her palette knives</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And write on me with her pens</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And often, she would step back a bit</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And look at me like I were her Art.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">You smile still!</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And she would start all over again.</span><br /></span></div>Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2034636247711325410.post-31174221500230505732023-05-23T07:19:00.000+05:302023-05-23T07:19:00.141+05:30AnimatedShe would bat her eyelids constantly <div>As if they were sending morse codes</div><div>Of the things she spoke about.</div><div><br></div><div>The things that one misses of another</div><div>Are everyday stuff, nothing momentous...</div><div>Like how she enjoyed my food</div><div>Or how she would allow me to make the bed</div><div><br></div><div>I wish I could decipher</div><div>In time</div><div>The dots and the dashes of despair </div><div>Before silences fell over the valley</div><div><br></div><div>And the fog of time</div><div>Caved in. </div>Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2034636247711325410.post-86360023149716094272023-05-16T07:12:00.002+05:302023-05-16T07:13:56.383+05:30Stop Crying!<div>If you were to cry for long enough</div><div>Your tears will sear through your skin</div><div>And create puddles in your soul.</div><div>And eventually, </div><div>You will misjudge the roundness of your edges</div><div>To compassion and to growth. </div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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</div><br></div><div>Those are just scars</div><div>Masquerading as Trophies.</div><div>Stop crying.</div>Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2034636247711325410.post-25138355559130822592023-03-19T14:43:00.000+05:302023-03-19T14:43:26.887+05:30A Gardener's Birthday <div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Her birthday reminder popped up on my screen yesterday. It was close to two years since we had stopped talking to each other. There was a finality to it. <br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeMZ4ql0p3E469XS4_cJU4ZY1ezuExTSxBhCC82FMK0yb_B1VxNiJV5G93LS4nwSZa4nLqKBC2TbNkkMcfTCcG2rK8SBZl-GQgisRTNDfPl5bpBMckK5uUJVf25GSfmEqRFRoQJHfrDOwv8hLxBJOdbZZowYRyOAJza7YfKI6uipKqhdaNQj4fl3Kq/s690/Screenshot%202023-03-19%20at%2014-21-17%20Eternal%20Gardener%20-%20Google%20Search.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="388" data-original-width="690" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeMZ4ql0p3E469XS4_cJU4ZY1ezuExTSxBhCC82FMK0yb_B1VxNiJV5G93LS4nwSZa4nLqKBC2TbNkkMcfTCcG2rK8SBZl-GQgisRTNDfPl5bpBMckK5uUJVf25GSfmEqRFRoQJHfrDOwv8hLxBJOdbZZowYRyOAJza7YfKI6uipKqhdaNQj4fl3Kq/w400-h225/Screenshot%202023-03-19%20at%2014-21-17%20Eternal%20Gardener%20-%20Google%20Search.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">There were parts of her that I could never fathom. And in the easiest of times, I can muddle minds. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I knew it then, as I know now, that it will be many seasons before she would allow me to grow in her garden again. If ever. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I closed my eyes in a prayer. May I be protected from droughts and floods and lightning and fire and other evils of everyday living.... for I want to someday regain that lost patch of loving land in her garden. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Let there be sunshine and water and shade and care and flowers and love in her life. Until we catch up again, may the keepers of time run slow.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: xx-small;">ps: Written in early Feb of 23<br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2034636247711325410.post-8225324480120522872023-03-01T13:36:00.000+05:302023-03-01T13:36:42.918+05:30Slow Fade<div>I want you to look at me</div><div>Like a passenger on a slow train</div><div>Looking out of an iron window</div><div>At an old man sitting on an unkempt</div><div>Ancient wooden recliner </div><div>In the balcony </div><div>Of a tiled traditional kerala house</div><div>And it is raining</div><div>A really light drizzle </div><div>Misting</div><div>Your memory </div><div>Of the time we shared</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br></div>Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2034636247711325410.post-78475983821415714762023-02-07T18:51:00.003+05:302023-07-07T10:46:10.005+05:30Dead People<div>I was trying to make sense of the thousands of lines of code before me. They wanted me to figure out why it was sluggish. </div><div><br></div><div>Over the years, so many programmers had worked on this. There were so many patches and upgrades that the brilliance of the master coder had stopped shining through. There was only this much overwriting that it could accept before it turned into a zombie.</div><div><br></div><div>I looked at the Client Account Manager. All she wanted was for the application to work. Make it work...she said. I looked at the lines, it were like stories of many characters crisscrossing through time. It was too complex and opaque. As if the meanings of these lines were now lost in time . </div><div><br></div><div>Allow it to die....I said. She looked at me as if I had lost my mind. Let it be, it cannot be worked upon anymore. It is asking for redemption. Tell the client it's over, I said.</div><div><br></div><div>She started crying. I could see similar tears bleeding through the lines on my screen. </div><div><br></div><div>No difference!</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2034636247711325410.post-30995805708257584792023-01-26T18:27:00.005+05:302023-03-01T14:00:44.409+05:30Finding Time<div>I look back and I cannot see beyond a couple of days of the time that has passed by. A good memory here, a bad one there. A moment of shame, some moments of sorrow and many moments of love. If I were to count all the moments that I remember, It will still not fill the 48 years I have lived. Where did all that time go? Is it hiding in secret places in me. Are there memories in me that have stolen time from me and are now themselves lost to me?</div><div><br></div><div>Time, so much time, and I cannot figure out where it all went!</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br></div><div>I now think I know more closely what Einstein meant when he said that time is a human experience. It is an illusion of our befuddled minds to make sense of the chaos of everyday life. When I stare at the crumpled paper on which the innings of my life is written, I see how the dots on the last line converge with the white spaces on the first line. All that is past and all that is yet to come is all enmeshed into one tapestry of intricate stories, mostly out of sequence, but possibly mine. I can never really be sure.</div><div><br></div><div>I look at my hands. These are the ones that dug pits and ploughed the fields for my grandma only yesterday… but I lost her in the haze of time a long time ago. My hands are not how I remember them. They look scorched in time. What all that ploughing and pitting could not do, time did. My body tells me that I have lived in time. It tells me that time has passed through it. Just like the rings on an eternally standing tree my bald head and my body with its scars and lumps and aches and pains tells me a story that is not mine. I do not remember living all these years. I have lived only a few moments in time.</div><div><br></div><div>I now must find the impostor, the impostor who stole my time.</div><div><br></div><div>समय की धारा में, उम्र बह जानी है, दो घड़ी जी लेंगे वही रह जानी है!(Our lives will drift away in the flow of time, let us live for a couple of moments, for it is only those moments that we would remember)</div>Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2034636247711325410.post-59550810274455652232023-01-17T10:14:00.000+05:302023-01-17T19:31:54.550+05:30Complex Things<div style="text-align: left;">On a video call with Mom, I told her that I am making Sambhar, something that never really turns out the way I wish it would. I am accustomed to having Mom's version of the Sambhar since childhood. It's taste is imprinted in places where I have no access to. The tongue knows when something is off.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">Sambhar is a complex dish. It is not like a plum cake or a bread, or even Avial, where, eventually, the grated coconut and coconut oil evens out all the other tastes and brings them to a consensus. Sambhar is complex. The ladies fingers have to be slightly sauteed, else they disintegrate into the ocean that is Sambhar, and you can see that they existed once in the little seeds twinkling here and there. The Drum Sticks have to be just right, else they stand out. Drum sticks have to bend to the will of the greater cause that is Sambhar, but not break. Then there is the coriander powder and the Fenugreek Powder, and the asafoetida chunks that should melt entirely, else they raise hell in the mouth and are absent in the dish! In a good Sambhar, every ingredient retains its partial identity but work together to create a great customer experience. It is like they give up a bit of themselves for something much bigger than themselves. I think I will die trying, but never experience that kind of love in this life time. I give away too little and expect too much I guess! :-) </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">My mind has a natural dislike for complex things. But I still end up trying to cook up my Mom-like Sambhar. Maybe it is the worry that once she is no longer there, like grandmother is now no longer there, a lot of tastes that I once knew will get lost into the ocean of losses that is life.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div>Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2034636247711325410.post-31661072983653251082022-10-13T20:29:00.000+05:302022-10-13T20:29:43.251+05:30Death in the hinterlands<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><br><div>A thought that died in you<div>Died in me too</div><div><br></div><div>Only,</div><div>Separated in time</div><div>It took much longer</div><div>For mine to die. </div></div>Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2034636247711325410.post-13963246688842625502022-08-08T20:39:00.000+05:302022-08-08T20:39:51.438+05:30Stardust<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://thumbs.dreamstime.com/b/various-glass-marbles-reflective-black-surface-69288386.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="534" data-original-width="800" height="214" src="https://thumbs.dreamstime.com/b/various-glass-marbles-reflective-black-surface-69288386.jpg" width="320"></a></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">All this time </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That has now gone by<br></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Is all in here</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">All at once</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Together</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Einstein says </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">That time lives on</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Eternally in the <a href="https://youtu.be/ZyYqyYAKGC0" target="_blank">present</a></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Scattered about</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Across a universe of memories</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We are not meant to live in the shadows</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We are Stardust</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We burn bright as Stars<br></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And then we are dust</span></span>...<br></div>Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2034636247711325410.post-19067174589239583992022-07-29T11:08:00.000+05:302022-07-29T11:08:11.016+05:30Hidden within Timelines<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div></div><div>I caught up with another one of her hairs while sweeping today. </div><div><br></div><div>It has been a month since she was last here</div><div>And here she was again</div><div>As if she was always right here</div><div>Living with me</div><div>In fractal moments</div><div>Of mesmerizing memories.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>(<a href="https://cdn.jewishboston.com/uploads/2021/11/iStock-821018606-729x486.jpg">Image</a>)</div>Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2034636247711325410.post-22015367450137015792022-07-22T19:57:00.003+05:302022-07-23T17:12:14.180+05:30Ships at Sea<span style="font-size: medium;">There are experiences that get encoded into your being. Later, much later, when it is time for one last curtain call, I will look at the faces of nameless strangers in my audience, and smile as I bow for one last time.</span><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-UhP2kkCQQLs/Ytqz0fGFFAI/AAAAAAAAagw/4d8IazV-xDI8drb1eEv7ywq6YLjjRu78gCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/1658500043390673-0.png" width="400" /><span style="font-size: xx-small;">
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</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="https://9gag.com/gag/apG9nAD">credits</a></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I know that I will not find you in the crowd. I know that I will not be looking for you outside of me anymore.</span><span style="font-size: medium;">
<br /><br /><span>I will smile in the fond memory of your lips on mine. I will tear up with the lingering warmth of your breasts on my being. I will, for one last time, run my hands on my body, and try to redraw the maps you drew on me once. I will look at myself reflected on these screens for one last time, and find you smiling through the twinkle in my eyes. </span>
<br /><br /><span>Out of the multitude of ships at sea, one, for a little longitude in the time, sailed so lovingly close to me.</span><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_220722_194657_913.sdocx--></span></div></div>Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2034636247711325410.post-19851126021202834882022-07-18T14:57:00.001+05:302023-10-20T10:26:31.274+05:30Sunset<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">The life we wish to live is often not the life that we eventually get to live. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Time passes by really fast. While the days may each groan and creak, the years themselves would hurtle by like vandals.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Before we realize, we find ourselves as old as our parents once were. Friends become rarer and the shadows from the waning sun stay longer. We recede into ourselves and find new places to hide, new reasons to be un-found.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">We become sad in strange places in us, places that we now don't know how to reach. We become afraid of silences and try to fill it with noises. And then we slowly hate the noises in our minds. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Slowly, very slowly, we become screen saver versions of ourselves. The Insta Posts of our broken versions, the hurting laughing aching versions of our whatsapp statutes. </span></div>Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2034636247711325410.post-37421850934531261842022-06-21T18:11:00.000+05:302022-06-21T18:11:42.642+05:30Picaresque And then as always, suddenly, I would feel like the city is out to kill me. Its horns assault my senses, its garbage and incivility grates me. As I run towards fifty (age), the glitter and the shine of large urban clusters start looking more like monoliths of enslavement. I feel that Indian cities enslave the human soul and convert us into automatons. Shorn of kindness and joy and art and village greens, we become tools for the relentless advancement of its chaos. As I see it, only the city lives and thrives and we simply die. We die slowly, in sectors and crossings of our being. <br /><br />And then, as always, I packed my bags and went on a road journey. All 37 days of it. <br /><br />Back to the city, the clinical anomie of it all waxes and wanes and continues unabated. Nothing changes. The same set of dirt poor migrants walk back home in the evenings to their shanties, with their infants and their belongings on their heads. A BMW 7 series sounds its horns as it zooms past on the same road to paradiso. The place where the Gods live and the poor come to die.<br /><p> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvKa532zCZGLJ8TWBfv1drYrHJwwzgaE3Lf-kOzRaY6nIL0CKCLuBd10AbWaAJuwWpLhR9N_SHreGB7ORNDQLkSyJfLk_Pa-iSPoavRx3iZrmFlA1dAHDie1bSGw3u6MOdMOhs1uWcR9WBTKzqyvfrWopNIQhtxK92nUa7Ev5fDGHjyxgNUJ8UyQJ6/s4032/20220525_064301.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2268" data-original-width="4032" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvKa532zCZGLJ8TWBfv1drYrHJwwzgaE3Lf-kOzRaY6nIL0CKCLuBd10AbWaAJuwWpLhR9N_SHreGB7ORNDQLkSyJfLk_Pa-iSPoavRx3iZrmFlA1dAHDie1bSGw3u6MOdMOhs1uWcR9WBTKzqyvfrWopNIQhtxK92nUa7Ev5fDGHjyxgNUJ8UyQJ6/s320/20220525_064301.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdXiJ2wxk851QG_zYfpJtDfnM-JNzXSHf8oN8-kuog5T6qOsSfmk2U1l-1FERKZfwpcpmlndQTL6iHZmRBz-It8WlAoPI8Oejts5ZWYedwi3ZUY0RcF1YSRXE7yI4v3CTNh0q9saocrqMLIjIGDjpnvFccAcji6j7e7s9gqk6UzQKB-SQQmD85SGjr/s4032/20220616_080340.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="1816" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdXiJ2wxk851QG_zYfpJtDfnM-JNzXSHf8oN8-kuog5T6qOsSfmk2U1l-1FERKZfwpcpmlndQTL6iHZmRBz-It8WlAoPI8Oejts5ZWYedwi3ZUY0RcF1YSRXE7yI4v3CTNh0q9saocrqMLIjIGDjpnvFccAcji6j7e7s9gqk6UzQKB-SQQmD85SGjr/s320/20220616_080340.jpg" width="144" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvB7pYYUH_saDdMXp7ed0J7UkW9kalQq3zvMGr10AsHcATJXfCUtcGfJux_Qq166C2CAuENDozn30rQ3Fi14KonDeTYeGv3ScDHJdHPvYfuQ-2YvUkKfM0dmIVhHAVwifdyDqSd2dtCGAow7ctniYYDGEZLyPowy1i01eEj15cK5zeQqLOZP88XPUg/s4032/20220524_082628.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="2268" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvB7pYYUH_saDdMXp7ed0J7UkW9kalQq3zvMGr10AsHcATJXfCUtcGfJux_Qq166C2CAuENDozn30rQ3Fi14KonDeTYeGv3ScDHJdHPvYfuQ-2YvUkKfM0dmIVhHAVwifdyDqSd2dtCGAow7ctniYYDGEZLyPowy1i01eEj15cK5zeQqLOZP88XPUg/s320/20220524_082628.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="2268" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji7b6imlhZ2io28GjLSmpYylYeOTujyfgayJuT5oQIZhUCpTyfmqRaR3LuLSg3n6VLBr79ZVKdM7NvYQkHtK8X29lpG8KZq7nAiSKof8TQywgWhRsTKxM-q0nEm4z3GajwBt4P2X8NlgQJ51Cn2YHbjfJ1ts-u4E76MMp33fAiDClDPzThLZpZcoMG/s320/20220522_070359.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjL9Sfs1loeQQsB32gdDWhTs7lOt81-J5aR4tZnj8phTf0NVT6Zz1TZmXB-T2tkAWNctL-r66SjoV2TKKG-sUBYxQipnjGlgLbKa5RKGKruTMl5kNzfOTDfQFqs_w39mXG_X2J2paNMNlN99dQ2LwNxSUbq17xSXkHBulij6MInwtPbc-HxcLu5miV/s4032/20220520_072617.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2268" data-original-width="4032" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjL9Sfs1loeQQsB32gdDWhTs7lOt81-J5aR4tZnj8phTf0NVT6Zz1TZmXB-T2tkAWNctL-r66SjoV2TKKG-sUBYxQipnjGlgLbKa5RKGKruTMl5kNzfOTDfQFqs_w39mXG_X2J2paNMNlN99dQ2LwNxSUbq17xSXkHBulij6MInwtPbc-HxcLu5miV/s320/20220520_072617.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p>Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2034636247711325410.post-65679345176731655482022-06-02T20:54:00.001+05:302022-06-02T20:54:43.695+05:30Places <span ;=""><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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</div>I am not a beach person</span><br>
<span ;="">I am for the rapids, the waterfalls and the mountains. </span><br>
<span ;="">I like far away, offbeat places</span><br>
<span ;="">Places that have nothing to offer to the tourist soul</span><br>
<span ;="">Nothing that would mean anything in whatsapp statuses and Insta Posts</span><br>
<span ;=""><br></span><div><span ;="">I like places that don't call out for attention </span><br>
<span ;="">Nor grudgingly even, acknowledge my presence. </span>
<br><br><span ;="">Raging hearts roaring and clouds tearing up</span><br>
<span ;="">Peaks that pierce the silences of the skies</span><br>
<span ;="">And moss and lichens glazing the sides. </span>
<br><br><span ;="">Unrepentant, unperturbed, dangerous </span><br>
<span ;="">Let me be and leave me alone kind of places</span><!--/data/user/0/com.samsung.android.app.notes/files/clipdata/clipdata_bodytext_220602_204858_104.sdocx--></div>Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2034636247711325410.post-47422930942659966692022-02-21T05:12:00.009+05:302022-02-21T05:12:49.571+05:30Notes from an Airplane<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My soul is a vagrant <br />It wanders around in time<br />Like pollen and like leaves<br />Caught in the wake of life<br /><br />I find meaning in this chaos<br /><br />======<br /><br />In the little moments in time that I get, </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I open my windows to a world in which I know you live. <br /><br />I hope I see you on the other side<br /> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.santacruzsentinel.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/03/STC-L-HHMONARCH-WBOX-01FINAL-1-_82773138.jpg?w=545" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="545" height="177" src="https://www.santacruzsentinel.com/wp-content/uploads/2021/03/STC-L-HHMONARCH-WBOX-01FINAL-1-_82773138.jpg?w=545" width="276" /></a></div>====<br /><br />A butterfly sat on the wings of an airplane <br />As it taxied into an airport <br />One carried me in<br />The other, my dreams.<br /> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Birds of a feather<br />Unknown to each other<br /> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">====<br /><br />Airplane windows are modern day apartments. <br />The one who is inside wants to be outside <br />And the ones who are outside<br />They don't like being there<br /></span></span></div>Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2034636247711325410.post-60414266193295833322022-01-12T12:29:00.001+05:302022-01-12T12:29:38.772+05:30Business Meet Blues<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://m.wsj.net/video/20161220/122016lunchworkfam1/122016lunchworkfam1_960x540.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="https://m.wsj.net/video/20161220/122016lunchworkfam1/122016lunchworkfam1_960x540.jpg" border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="800" src="https://m.wsj.net/video/20161220/122016lunchworkfam1/122016lunchworkfam1_960x540.jpg" title="Courstey "WSJ"" /></a></div><br /> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">On the sidelines of a business meet<br />Or the time spent<br />Waiting for the guest of honor<br />To honor<br />There are moments of extreme clarity<br />Wherein I can see far into myself</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And I can also see the journey<br />that brought me here. <br /><br />Across the trail<br />Through all the climbs<br />And the dips;<br />Through hunger and sleep</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And absence of sleep<br />My longing for you has been<br />The only consistent constant.<br /> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The only cross I have carried<br />Through all times</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Always.</span></span></div>Rajeshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04899689846101356598noreply@blogger.com0