Grecian Urn

Time I want to go back this while  Reverse the staircase of time, To Meet a little girl Playing in the corridor  With her toothless smile. I want to meet the girl Who was fearless at heart; Without knowing that she was. She cared for all, and she was free, Once made her friend a wanton bee. I want to sit in the  Last chamber of the car, Crack some jokes,  With no tension in heart. No grades to chase Laughing at own’s mistakes I want to be the ‘Silly’ girl Who always helped. I miss those days ol’en, When I with my frien’ Hid at the backyard lane Where no one ever went.  We discovered there  A secret chamber; High schol boys  Drank cranberry beer. Catching us peeping  They got scared.  Alas! From next day on,  The teenagers vanished in air. Nights were peaceful When sister by my side, Gazed to the neighbors  On rainy nights.  ‘Please pass on the soup’— Asked the old lady at dinner, A voice I still can ringingly hear. ...

  Mirza Ghalib’s death anniversary on February 15, which coincided with Basant Panchami this year, passed without the enthusiasm witnessed on his birthday (December 27). A visit to  Gali Mir Qasim Jan in the morning, unfurls nothing unusual at his haveli, part of which has been turned into a memorial. On setting my feet in I found an old man was standing outside with his grandson, waiting for a rickshaw to take the boy to the madrassa.  Asked about Ghalib, he frowned his brows and went on, “You are talking, about someone who did not set a good example all his life. He passed his days in romantic reveries and the evenings at mushairas or in drinking and courting dancing girls. Such a Mussalman hardly needs to be remembered. Even though he lived next to a masjid, he hardly ever visited it.” To show off his scholarship, made a wisecrack of a couplet: “Masjid ke zer sai ek ghar bana liya hai /Ek banda-i-qamina hamsai khuda hai”. If the man thought of himself as such a wretche...

    Source : Internet  There will be a push without a warning. All your shackles will be torn apart. Defenseless, you will be tumbled, The thorns will make you bleed. You will be clueless, critised Untill one day you will start walking, Without the pair of crutch. Still bleeding on the same road, thorny But without an 'Ouch'.  ©️Souraseni

Those who smile — beneath the smile  are the real ones.  What can speak  without a grammar,  and gives a meaning  to laugh, hate, or scream  Is the real one.  Those who loved,  and were not loved back,  who forgave and forgot, and stood again—  were the real ones.  Those who said ‘No’,  when ‘No’ one did — were the real ones!  Those who said ‘Yes’  the only one to say  were the real ones.  Reals lack a definition  Is a definition real?   Souraseni, Kol-6/5/22

How many times in school have you uttered the name — ‘Hiuen Tsang was a Chinese traveller who came to India during the reign of Harsha Vardhana”! Well, an introduction dedicated to this magnanimous personality is both an audacity, at the same time a fool’s attempt! However, Personally speaking, I was really astounded when I came to know that this personality travelled all the way to India, from China, risking his own life? I was probably in class seven when this piece of information struck my head hard. How can someone possibly on earth be such a simpleton? For learning…risking own life! But now at 25 when I am a tad bit mature I can understand what an indelible impact this man had left on the making of Oriental history! Historians rely a great deal upon his book Born into a family of scholars for generations, Hiuen Tsang, alternatively Xuanzang, received a classical Confucian educational prodigy in his youth. But his younger brother cultivated in him a keen insight of kn...

To combat is science but to succumb is religion H.G.Wells, the literateur puts that science is simply "the evolution of human thinking".* Religion appeared far before science. The father of sociology Auguste Comte, claims that human knowledge developed in three concurrent stages: Theology, Metaphysics and Positivism. Theology is the study of God’s and religious beliefs, Metaphysics—is the practice to think about abstract ideas ( 'knowledge' ,' Identity', ‘Time' and 'space') and Positivism is 'the approach of science'(Comte). Thus as civilization progressed religious beliefs transmuted into science. However, this transmutation of ensconcing science over religion has not been very easy. For example, we may consider the Renaissance period of the West. During this period, pupils from new modern Universities questioned popular beliefs, viz. witch burning, black magic and more such superstitious practices. For prop...

The partly decadent Aravalli, Tropical desert forest, picturesque Jain temple, gurgling hilly brooks, and nature’s deadliest predators--- constitute the world of Ranakpur: A lifetime trip down memory lane. The two are simply different: a ‘Tour’ to somewhere, and ‘Travelling’ that place, in real. The former is making an itinerary, booking the transport, conforming accommodation in the best possible hotel, and finally ticking against the checklist of a few ‘Tourist’ spots. However, ‘Travelling’ is more of a conscious experience on parts of individuals and is a process of continuous exchange between the ‘Other’ and ‘I’. It is more than just visiting the places of popular interest, buying souvenirs, or finding the perfect frame for a catchy social media feed. I remember, somewhere I came across a beautiful description about who a ‘Traveller’ really is, by the French litterateur Baudelaire. The man delineates: a ‘Traveller’ is ‘An observer, is a prince, who is everywhere in possession of hi...

  Sartre's Idea of Freedom in What is Literature: A Guide For Literary Mind For a literature student, the matter of having a good literary sense is all about reading, writing, speaking and studying fresh content. It is a matter of consciousness that would make one be the voice in the society so as to speak up in any situation about relevant topics. After all, today's world is all about being steady in Juvenile's term- " mens sana in corpore sano" which means a healthy mind in a healthy body. And for a sound mind, l always prefer to seek out a philosopher's guide for a better understanding of life and the literary essence associated with it. And very recently, l was reading a very important work of an influential philosopher whose essential works on political philosophy and phenomenology inspired the whole world to respect him as the key figures of existentialism and phenomenology. He is Jean-Paul Charles Aymard Sartre, a French philosopher whose idea abou...

 The Nights ( In frame: Starry Nights by Van Gough ; 1889) Appreciate the nights As death approaches And peacefully pacifies  The billionaire’s un-ending cry For more. The man who just wants More of a body, more of bodice And more bodies And the men shamelessly Cry : 'a pervert'! Gets a comfortable sleep Into the bosom of his cocotte— A keeper, thirsty of love, Hopefully dies with  Twinkles in her eyes Love shall come—be patient. The night is dark The sky jaded with diamonds Hides the vulgar And leaves to observe What is meant to see’!   2nd Dec, Kol, 1:32 am  Starry Nights In strings Listen here— https://youtu.be/PQa-L7BMFI8

Try                         Do you know                         Who am I?                         I am a poem unfinished---                         I am a lake atop a volcano,                         Silent and quite.                         Do you know   ...

        In Memorium I blame you Because you came to the end of the road Without me And declared yourself free I blame you  Because you made me  So very lonely. They say I talk too much Can I say them it’s ‘cause of you? All my childhood afternoons That I roamed alone and alone Where, where were you? I blame you  Because you made me  So very lonely. I claim to know what crossed your mind That you whispered to me an untimely good-bye Unspoken words you’ve left behind Undone things we’ll never get to do No sharing thoughts you never knew. Trust me I am angry with you. A peace has fallen upon your head A taste of sorrow we have been fed It really is like a hole in our lives One swiftly dug but carved out by knives. Dedicated to my brother, whom I never have met. He just lives a bit too far from me. It is a beautiful place. There are startling stars and magical galaxies, where his abode now is. I know Bhaiya flies there in joy, twirls and takes occasio...

Hunger Is My Religion— An open letter that matters...                                                                                                                                                                              To Dear Shreemoyi,                         ...

Is There No One? In frame: Solitude by Daler Usmonov ( 2015) Is there no one whose lookin' for a friend? Is there no one, seeking a hand? Is there no one whose lookin' for a lover ? Is there no one, seeking a heart? Is there no one whose looking for me? Is there no one, for me? Walking down the street, I see faces-- Looking down and seeing a thing. They, all are alike,with neat collars, ironed and tight. Yet  so cold, that I couldn't believe They are keeping alive. They don't look at each other, They don't say me a 'hi'-- Alone...alone ...all alone I weep at the corner, meanwhile! Is there no one who will once look up? Is there no one who'll once see me? Is there no one who will end my wait? Because, dear, with you I want to be 'we'! I promise you, to build a home at the hills, And at the brook we'll let go one paperboat. We will drink water and walk slow-- But darling, tell me first, where to find you? I promise to reach you my w...

    No poet am I No poet am I. Plagued by the Weight of words, Words unrhymed, Only multiplies each day  In volume and size -- I come to terms:  No poet am I. In the beaker of my heart Looms, a forest of words. Words sprout there, From the kernel of memory. Evergreen, a colonnade of Birch. They never fade, Like a cuckoo's untimely song,  Day end's clarion call.  I cry, the sunlight breaks  In the corner of my eyes.  The rainbow of life,  Carelessly spawns   Gray Memories,    And Moss,   Their edges sharp,  wild, unkempt Fern,  Beckons the bygone. Amma sleeps there; (in peace), In the storehouse of,  moss and Fern. From her pallu, Come floating down images -- Fossilized turmeric scent,  Silent, key holders' noise And the end notes Of her feeble voice, Accompanied by three dots. From gulfs afar, Rages a storm, A whirlwind of  Imag...