These Three Words ( I )

The following is a three part poem, each having a distinct word attached to it which you'll find very easily.

The poem is dedicated to the one who gave me inspiration for it. The song for the post would be Rest in Pieces by Saliva.

These Three Words ( I )

In a land far far away,
Lived a family, very rich but not gay;
For there was a fight to be the next king,
And by democracy it was to be one amongst the kin.

Election fever was spread throughout the state,
And all siblings campaigned to alter their fate;
All the candidates looked very handsome in their coats.
And this confused the people about their vote,

Perception, Intuition, Suspicion and Sensing,
Were in the minds of one and all;
Of weird types, forms, and very different meanings,
To know the future, is indeed a great feeling.

The people, so wise and aware,
Predicted their winner and enjoyed the political affair;
The gambler, the bookies, so greedy and hungry,
Betted blindly on their choice, hoping to earn more than a penny.

The candidates, crude and desperate for throne seating,
Formulated their plans for winning and later governing;
The police, Oh! So vigilant and careful,
Had their own threat perceptions on the lives of these mortals.

And such is the power of assumption,
Solves Accounts, Creates Gossip and Breaks Relations;
In our land so close and near,
What is so different, my dear?

Yet Another one of Rohan Ki Kahaniya....

Marginal Propensity to Consume is the slope of the Consumption Function. Differentiate it and you will get what you want. And the Consumption curve is a straight line. Hence the slope is same at all points. MPC is constant. The Multiplier’s proof lies in the sum of infinite terms of a Geometric Progression. The 45 degree line is significant in equilibrium determination. It all indeed connects. All of it has meaning. All of it has sense. There is Logic. It’s beautiful. It’s orgasmic.

Economics was always my favourite. Finding the best way out is what I’ll define it as. Closely intervened with Mathematics, Sociology, Consumer and Producer Psychology, Geography and all of that. Closely intervened with our lives, our money, our country and our identities. I love it. I love it beyond measure.

But parts of Economics make me sick. One of them is Money and Banking. And in my endevour to learn the many types of deposits and the evolution of money and the drawbacks of barter system, I did something great. Something I am proud of. I fell asleep.

And it was then that the following questions came to my mind, which I try and answer myself. This is not conversations with God. This is not Me against Me. This is just the result of economic stress. And sometimes stress produces something beautiful. And maybe this is beautiful. Just to make this un-weird, there is a setup. A different environment. Here Goes:

The following piece is dedicated to everyone who is trying to make sense out of their lives. The song for the post would be Life in Technicolor II by Coldplay.

Once upon a time there was a good boy called Chester. He was in a weird place and this story is about him.

“God, it’s a dark alley,” said Chester to himself.

He walked on. There were no holes, so he didn’t fall into a pit or something. He didn’t bump into a wall or someone else. It was a dark, straight, flat and empty alley. After a while Chester realized that this alley might never end. This scared him.

And then out of the blue, more like black, a bulb hung in front of him. Due to the new found light, Chester saw the writing on the wall. He instantly recognized it.

“As above, so below; As within, so without.”

“The Emerald Tablet. I read it in the Alchemist,” he said that to himself.

And then almost magically, the wall spilt open. Seeing the new wonder, Chester entered. Chester started to look around. He didn’t find anything great to look at. However inside there was a piano. He always wanted to play the piano. It looked so classy, so wonderful, so English and oh so hot.

And then almost suddenly the piano began to play. Chester recognized the music instantly. Death will never conquer by Coldplay. entered.

He turned around and was shocked to death. There it was Chris Martin, the Coldplay’s lead singer playing the piano.

“Oh My God. It’s you!” he almost yelled.

“Shshshsh…” hushed Chris and continued playing.

Coldplay was his favourite band. They made such beautiful music. Chris finished playing. He then looked up at Chester.

“So dude, how’re you?” he asked.

“I am good. Where are we?”

“Doesn’t matter. I am here because you have answers to find.”

“And you will help me?”

“Yes.”

“How freaking cool is that.”

Chris smiled.

“So what has been bothering you so much?” he asked Chester.

“Fear. Fear of all sorts. Fear of losing. Fear of driving. Fear of not being what I want to be,” Chester explained.

“All you have to fear is fear itself,” replied Chris.

“What are you William Douglas?” mocked Chester.

“Not really. But fear helps you grow. It helps you. I feared many things. I still do. I fear I might give you wrong advice. And it is in fear that you are extra cautious and hence you do your best. Simple logic.”

“But fear makes me scared. Scared that I will mess it all up. A sick feeling that makes me give up. Fear kills my spirit of trying, my faith in the world,” explained Chester.

“Don’t worry so much. You’re young, commit your mistakes.”

“What if I lose? Failure isn’t all that of a great feeling,” moaned Chester.

“Just because I am loosing, doesn’t mean I am lost. Doesn’t mean I’ll stop, “sang Chris.

“Now the answers to my questions lie in your songs. I like Lost+ more than Lost, you know. Can I call you Chris?”

“Sure you can. There are answers everywhere. All you need to do is look.”

“That makes you sound Gay, you know.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. You’re still not clean in the head.”

“Yes, Mind reader. I am very confused. I mean why trouble troubles me always. Why ME? Why not you?”

“Trouble will come. Trouble will go. But you’ll go on forever,” said Marty almost laughing.

“What? That’s a direct lift from a poem. God. I thought this was going to be cool. Why can’t we run away from everything? Just escape.”

“Kill yourself. Hide yourself. No one stops you. No one will mourn you for forever.”

“So Chris Martin, Coldplay member is officially an advocate of Suicide.”

“No. I believe that if there is an easy and legal way of doing something you do it that way. Suicide I think is illegal. All I mean is, if there is something that causes you pain, misery, unhappiness, then cut it off. It maybe your dream, your hope, your friend or your mind. Just cut it off. End it. Finish it. There is nothing that can cause you trouble. No one can make you feel inferior without your consent. That’s what Eleanor said.”

“The Sermon-ator does make sense.”

“Listen buddy. Life is crap. It hurts. Everybody hurts. We are nothing but another brick in the wall of the world. But some bricks have the establishment on them. Be that one. You can and you will. Just don’t fear.”

“When will I die?” asked Chester.

“Take a Facebook quiz. Go to Death Clock. I don’t know. I am not Yamraj[1]. Just before you die, don’t cultivate regrets. Whatever you did in your life, were a product of your decisions and your actions. Be proud of it.”

“I am impressed, you know Hindu Deities. Regret. It kills. Do you really think that what we want to do, we ought to do?”

“I think that is the only thing you should do. As I said before, as long as it’s easy and legal.”

“Right. I really love your music. Thanks for it.”

“Thanks for listening to it.”

“Do you pity me?”

“I pity those who don’t live to the fullest.”

“Is this a dream? You sound Dumbeldore-ish.”

“That, that is, is.”

“Shakespeare, finally. I love him too.”

Chris smiled. “Anything else Chester?”

“Sing a song for me?”

“Not now. Buy a CD. Ares eats my money,” joked Chris.

“Ok. Will do,” smiled Chester.

“So I hope I never meet you again?” asked Chris.

“I hope I do. My best friend is such an ass. Good for nothing. Keeps on blabbering something like ‘as you wish’.”

“Ahh…Need to be Dumbeldore for her too eh?”

“Naa…I think she’ll need some one like John Nash.”

“Whokay. But I am your Godfather.”

“Well, if I had a middle name, it would be Chris. Chester Chris Chawla. And if I need a Best Man, I’ll call you. What a starry wedding that would be.”

“Right. Definitely. And the forces of nature tell me, you’ll all do fabulous. You’ll all leave your mark. Just hold on. And always believe.”

“Ok. TOO much SERMON. See you on You Tube.”

And then he disappeared. It was almost like a fairy tale. He had learned so much. It felt like a better world altogether. It was so amazing. So beautiful. So magical. And oh so Cool.

Chester also found his way out of the alley into the daylight of the new world. He then went to his posh school. And there he met his classmate. They had many things in common. Many things different. But there was one thing he always wanted to tell him and he gathered courage and went ahead.

“Chester,” said Chester to his classmate.

“Yup, dude,” replied the classmate.

“I always wanted to say these three words to you. They mean a lot to me. I have buried my feelings in me for too long and I must express them now, for I want to cultivate no regrets. I know you don’t feel the same way as I do, but I must pour my heart out to you. The three magic words, that might alter everything, Chal Be Bhangi![2]”

And like Cinderella he ran away. He was super joyous. He was elated and he ran and ran and ran. And then they became sworn enemies. And Chester kept meeting Chris. And all was well. And like every fairy tale, everyone lived happily ever after, even The Bhangi, ;)

The End

[1] Hindu deity of Death.

[2] Bhangi is an Indian Caste, often referred to as untouchables. However, in daily language, a Bhangi is one who’s ill mannered and can be associated with the English counterpart of loser or bugger.

The Writer's Den

I wrote the following piece for my internship at The Viewspaper. I don't know why I am publishing it, but I just like it. Hope you do too. And the names have chnaged from what they were kept originally for the "Greater Good." Here goes:

The Writer’s Den

He saw her. He was new in school but knew her from a long time. She had a captivating beauty, endless charm and an unusual power of attraction. He was on a mission. He had to protect her.


“And yes, I should work for Farhan Khan, because this sounds like the script of Main Hoon Na. Crap I will never be able to write this story,” said Dev to himself.


He had been working on it for days. It had been a week since he had received this assignment as a part of the internship program he was a part of. He tried every night before sleeping, but would end up with something he had already heard or seen before. Every question of originality reminded him of the article he had once read. With every failure, he used to wonder why he joined this internship. It was meant for writers, but it always asked him to write articles that filled the empty space on their website. Weird, but as they say, beggars can’t be choosers. He didn’t know if he wanted to be a writer and maybe this could help.


He re-read what he had written. He wasn’t satisfied. There had to be something much better, more dazzling and more exquisite. He put his head down and stayed like that. He didn’t think, just laid there. Being a writer is difficult. Being a politician is difficult. Being anything you want is difficult.


He woke up. He had received an IM. It was from his best friend.

“Hey, you done with the story? I really want to read it,” said the IM by Aditi. A girl and a boy can be best friends. The only condition is, they should know when they are about to fall in love. Aditi was not only his best friend, but also his editor for the internship. She did both jobs well. She was a good critic and a great help. But he wanted more. He wanted an idea. A story.


He ignored the IM, so that he could ignore the pity that would come from the other end. He began typing again.


The world is flat. The world is crowded. And the world is now hot. Three adjectives that Friedman’s new book gives the world. But what was the world all about? What are we all about? What is the “point”“ of the world?”


“And yes, I should work with Paulo Coelho, because this sounds like a sermon. Crap I will never be able to write this story,” said Dev to himself, yet again.


He looked outside the window, trying to find some inspiration. He failed. Inspiration didn’t come with the darkness of the night or the twinkling of the stars, or for that matter, by just looking for it. It flows into the mind, like a river flows from the mountains to the plains, just naturally. It plays with the mind, like the river does along its course. And it spills its wonder when transcended from the mind onto paper, like a river, when it descends to form a waterfall. He longed for that moment.


Dev got up and stretched himself. He was determined to write this today. It was either now or never. Everyone in his house were asleep. Everything was quiet. All that played in the background was the new album of Coldplay, Viva La Vida. It was indeed “A long and dark December”. How did they get the inspiration to write such great songs? It’s difficult to be in a band, he thought. But being in his shoes was not easy either.


Aditi was always there for him. When he was gloomy and wanted a hug, when he was happy and wanted to give a hug, and when he was mood-less and just wanted to talk. She was fantastic. He could write a Sonnet for her; a Haiku praising her, or a limerick about their fun times, but the story just didn’t come.


I could be a poet, not necessarily a writer, he thought to himself. He saw Shakespeare’s Portrait in a photo frame that Aditi had gifted him. He felt small in front of him. Bard was a great man; Dev wanted to be greater. He wished that what he wrote would fly all across the world and bring the desired effect on everyone. He wanted his works to be the chariot of change, which would transform the world into Sion.


He wished he could say all this to someone. But who?

“Readers don’t like such stuff, but I don’t like what readers like,” he said to himself. If it was all so easy.


He remembered the time when his first story was published, when he received the first comment on his blog, when he kissed for the first time, and many other first times that brought an ear to ear smile on his face. But he had that memory very carefully placed in his memory; the time when he was happiest. The time when glory came after defeat, when he was victorious, when his savior had come. It was long back.


2nd grade: Post Office Assignment.

Every student was supposed to bring an inland letter, a post card and other post office crap to stick in a file. Dev did not bring anything. He had told his mother a night before, and it was fairly impossible to arrange for it. He kept sitting there, jobless, hoping someone would lend him an extra, if they had one.


Then came a knock on the door. It was his mother. She had everything he needed to stick in the shady file. Even an extra post card and 4 big, good quality drawing sheets, to speak in a 2nd grader’s language. He was happy. He was on cloud nine. He was elated. It was a rare moment. It was this memory that always gave him hope. Hope that his savior was around, that he would come out of all this and that he would deal with it, come what may.


And like the knock on the door, came another IM from Aditi. She knew him too well. His not replying, his mood; everything.


“Write about how you feel right now. Write about what you are thinking. Write your perspective of things. I am sure it’ll be different.”


And that clicked. He could write it. It was easy. And he began.


And that’s how all this began.


Before this story ends, one more time.


“And yes, I should work as a writer, because this sounds like a writer’s work. Crap! I will never be able to write a good story.”