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Wednesday, 26 February 2014

a road and her touch..

Long back on that road did I stay,
Nothing was to utter or to say.
I thought if life was a struggle,
If it was another hurdle.
I walked past the trees,
The heavenly borders, their boundaries.
In the far off land had I come,
I had sipped wine and likewise rum;
In the breeze that resounded chill in fragments,
I was a heavy weight champion in many garments.

With dreams in head, in my walk,
I chalked away all dismay with a throng,
And thought of the girl whom I used to stalk,
To whom I gave my heart, that strong.

Every thing about her that night,
Made me realize, about how I had lived a phase,
When I walked through the darkness and the light,
When life was neither a run nor any race.
When every drop of rain was an anecdote of kindness,
When her very thought brought reminiscence.

It's about and of that girl whom I write,
Who influenced my routine, starting from my diet,
It's she who walks along me, holding my hand today,
It still feels august when I feel her touch,
In the locus of my fancy dreams, I lay!

Saturday, 15 February 2014

Pace and swing!

As much as one thought, as much as, one lost pace of mind. The slopes, the steeps, the entire boundaries of the world went for a slide and for an upliftment. Thoughts merely danced, those played their quagmire (dilemma), there was resistance, as was there an atonement (agreement), of what was and what wasn't. There had to be a waiting, there had to be a definite decision to turn the events up and down. Everything had to go on a gala, a swing. Everything had to find peace with the prevailing times. But, it was difficult, really difficult, and it was stress that had to be, without which, success couldn't be brought near ones' route, if not to be guaranteed for that matter. Stress wasn't required, or to be pressed upon to let it into your life. It just came, when you took your road, knowing it was right for you; whereas, you weren't actually aware, about where the path would take you to, no one knew or could know the future in that sense. You had to play with that feeling, that was a challenge. A challenge to streak in, the challenge to meet your dream.

So, did she come that day. Asking me, if I really was trying to know her opinions on that topic. The topic, which was far important to me. It was a project that I had been given to work on. Well, I took that challenge. Shelly, really had knowledge about the subjects, that I had put in front of her, so that she could help me out with it, on a new topic that was to me, about the wholesale shops for buying the cloth to get a shirt stitched. At first she thought, if I was playing a romantic fool, showing my love for the shirt business to flourish in a definite time span. And further on, that I asked her to help me with designing of the shirt. It was a good project to work on, we had to find our definite customers too and keeping their choices into consideration, we had to just do it. To draw a plan and cultivate it as we were moving along its lining. Quite daring you are, Rupinder, she would often counterattack my statements; when I told her, that she could do it. You could actually, make these designs look as if these were the ones that the youngsters were crazy about. Why not, give it a try dear. She called me a romantic fool, whereas I wondered the reasoning behind her saying so all this. I later on nodded in a yes to her thoughts, because I had quite believed that I had been very determined to kick-start this business. And, the only place where I quite lacked confidence was in designing but still, I was trying it out in every possible way. Wasn't it? Before asking her for her taste of designs, I had designed definite sets of shirts, but when it came to stitching them, and turning the imaginative design into a realistic design, I often resorted to take someone's help, who was interested and also, caring for my very important business plan. It was just because, I had lacked confidence in my art or drawing the definite design I had brought up. I thought, she could do it better than me. But, she replied to my queries in this way, "Hey, Rupinder, it isn't anything to do with the making of the shirt that you ended up having it in your wardrobe or selling it to others, or to launch it in the market. The first thing, you need to do is; to know whatever you're doing means to you, your world or not? There's no need to worry about stitching and all, you just do it, I mean designing and stuff, that you have already started doing at the first past and wish to take it forward. Why wait buddy? Okay, will you get your work done? Hmm.." I nodded yet again. I knew, she was trying to take a side other than pleasing me with my insistence to indulge her with my project. I resented, that I had asked her all that. But, later on I thought if it was alright, to share my views with one of my classmates.

Shelly just left me nowhere. She just gave me few words of wisdom but I wasn't in need of them. But, in the last I felt, her saying all that was necessary to make me realize where I was going. She was right, I retorted and I thought yet again, that I was confusing myself, without any dire need of doing so. My project wasn't as difficult as I first thought it to be. I knew, I had to take my designs to the tailors at Firozshah Bagh Cottage Complex, where the tailor would stitch it and likewise, give it a good shape. I had to get a dozen of shirts in my project with the same designs. I thought of gifting those to my dear friends, once I was done with the business project and after I got my marking done regarding that. In sometime, it felt as if I was free of worldly problems and being alone in my new venture, I had full right to depict my heart, whatever it said for that sake. That project was purely mine, it was a powerful feeling, wherein for the very first time, I could interact with my work, being obedient and honest to the core.

I thanked Shelly for letting me, believe that the project that I had taken, I had to take it up, by myself. I had to sail it forward and as I would do it, I would also grow with it, in my confidence, in my designs, why couldn't my imaginations swing a roller coaster, to bring out what wasn't let to appear otherwise. I had got a chance, to give my art a visual. I had got my dream, in my hands.Thanks Shelly for giving me an insight into my own hindsight, I felt as if she gave me an advice for the lifetime to nurture and be influenced. There had to be a belief and if it was to be broken, then as someone very well said; there needs to be faith in your efforts; that's how I moved ahead and eventually got the shirts designed as well as tailored. The project was completed and I got a  B positive grade in my college quarterly assessments. I was surprised by my own sincerity and efforts towards my project.

Fascination and affection!

Priya walked past the lonely pavement in the early morning that very day. She had a plan, well; a plan that was in process from the past one year. Yes, the day had come when her plan was to get fulfilled. In hopes, in aspirations, she came and nearly wanted to hug that tree. The tree that stood tall but the tree that had its leaves cut, its branches were little in comparison to what she had left. For a moment after she could get hang of the situation, for what had become of that, once a tall tree, that had been; she felt bad. But, she knew, it was done most probably by the municipal department, or maybe because people in the residency colony would have got the tree in that shape, after considerable thought, in order to catch the sunlight. Yeah, in winters; that seam of sunlight, falling in rays is the best nourishment to the soul. It sounds so pleasant, she wondered, by herself!

Well, ya; the plan, was it? What. Oh, yeah; plan! She gave a pause, she breathed a breath of solace, yes, she was there; at last she was there, at the right place. A paper was her plan, and yes, was it also, her dream. A leaflet sized paper, that she had placed inside the tree's crevice, just to find it there when she was to return. Priya had left for Assam, from Agra, that was where she lived all her childhood. She had left for her job training base in Assam. When, she was about to leave, she had varied thoughts flashing in her mind. There was innocence striking in the first place, the connection with a place that had been the only place that she knew. Priya had never travelled much, other than going to school or to college and getting back home. Taking care of her old parents, she grew up; but when the thought of leaving them had come, she resisted at the forefront to think, how would it be, as a feeling to intake, to enhance in one's acceptance of what was to become of life. It was good, that she was at last getting a chance to explore a new place, in Assam.

So, she had finally returned from her training. Before going had she kept that paper, inside the little gap that could take the paper in. Inside, the wood; safe and secured for the time being. She wanted to know, what had become of that paper. Was it still in its bloom or faded, was it?  She wondered.

Priya searched for the paper and found little chits of paper, coming out as she tried to take the paper in her fingers. It was smeared, the paper had started rolling out, in pieces. The pieces that became smaller and smaller, until the bigger part of it came out as she searched for its reaches. Alas, one side of the paper was stick to the other side of it. She tried to peel it off, she failed at the first attempt. She understood the reason behind that sticky paper, that it had folded its bends, the manner she had folded it in, at the time it was initially inserted into the gap of the tree, to fit in finally. The paper had decomposed, was one question sequencing in her thoughtful aperture time and again. She understood or rather, comprehended her reasoning by saying that the rains that must have hit the city, would have led to such a fiasco. But, was it really a fiasco? Or wasn't it one? She mumbled to herself. What was this important in that paper, any agreement of any sort, with the tree to meet it again; was it? Ridicule it is, but yes, emotions are a form of ridicule at times, rather, subjected to ridicule when those emotions are tattered. She tried to peel it further but again and again, she would halt a breath. As to leave her attempt from furtherance to actually peel it off, or wait until she got enough strength to come in terms with what had attuned of her plan, become of it.

Priya had been a painter in her childhood. It was later on, that she took up to Military, to serve the society and also to earn her family, livelihood. She had been a strong girl, who took the responsibilities of her family. She had been sending her income from her Military base to her parents and had a housemaid, in charge to clear all the dust enveloped on the windows, walls and the fans. Even with the less income that she received, she made sure that her parents need not be troubled even for a minutest work. They were old, alone; living by themselves, having some relatives in the nearby locality. Otherwise, they were alone. Being the fourth child herself, Priya had well seen the ups and downs of life. From the time, her sisters had been married, three of them; till the time when her parents had to sell their only house to fulfil the dowry demands. She had seen it all, and in between that period, getting sentimental. At times, grief stricken, and at times jolly. Life moved alike a dancer's ring, moving three sixty, that it gave a lens to the eye to experience it all, as it came.

Similarly, it was a work of her art that was sitting lofted within that tree, far alone alike its maker, who gave life to it. Just the difference was, the paper curled up inside the tree, whereas, Priya, reached to attain her peace, to bring peace back home. In the gift of offerings, in the form of income and job security. This meant a lot, to the hopes and aspirations of those two people, who had given their everything, for their daughters. Priya was unmarried and didn't want to get married anytime sooner, as her parents often suggested otherwise. She had wanted to be with them, give them little for what they gave her, from love, to a hand of care and affection, in difficult times and in profound joys.

When she tried yet again to see the paper, if it would open without much loss to the sketch that was on the paper, she gave a sigh of confusion. As, she progressed further to her plan, she could see it from broader lens.The paper unfolded at last, it was brownish, but that was what she expected, wasn't it? It made her realize, that time had really moved and she had grown with the time. That she had grown well defined with the winds, the rainy showers. With the darkness and the light, that paper had grown, and that sketch had got, itself justified. Albeit, a little faded in appearance, still a beauty to be cherished forever and ever remained. She came in terms with life's one truth that very moment.

The truth that, there was no certainty in the world for the love of people, that they would remain there with us forever or not. Because, the preferences of people, may change with the time. It actually happened, that in much expectations, the sole loser was you, yourself. That, others took it all normal in their lives, their actions, all symbolized, justice; but when done by others accordingly, it was what gave pangs to feel and take in. She had seen relationships in life take many turns, but she knew, she had something that she could say, it's mine and shall always be. That paper, that sketch, the time she had been away from her home, she had wanted to see the life in her sketch that would remain for the world to see, and her world was she, herself. Her own world of dreams and fascination. That she could fancy, her sketch in her hearts of heart and move along, the roads that gave her determination to lead the life ahead. Being honest to herself and her work and to her love of painting. She had seen a beautiful and peaceful life with her parents and she respected that very well. That emotion, that feeling that now on, she was in Agra, her hometown; and was to leave for nowhere in the seen passage. Knowing this, she also gave a thought that as nothing was certain, even in next moment, there was no certainty for. She danced across the roads back to her home, she came back to meet her parents and lead her life forward with them. This was her story, the plan that got itself justified and bloomed, in its creativity, met its maker, its ruler, it was about that paper and the dreams attached to it. It was a story of her life, that enchanted numerable joys to cluster and to synthesize. The paper, the sketch somewhere portrayed her state of mind at the time when she was leaving, all those emotions that formed her at that stage came in front of her to not leave her ever again. But, like a comrade accompany her ever and forever.

Sunday, 9 February 2014

On being honest!

You can try being the best,
But you may not have all the luxuries in the world for you,
It doesn't mean that you are small or big,
It's just that, you have the winds to feel in the open lands, you have the whole night sky to dine under.
Life is very big, in its actuality.
It doesn't lie in the luxuries that love prevails,
But in the happiness that is seen in a bright smile, while holding on to your loved ones and not leaving them, regardless of how big or small the losses accustom in life. For, love and care is all that matters and are the most beautiful emotions to cater for the time you have in the world with them, your near and dear ones; who matter the world to you.
Time is really less, it moves forth quickly;
Learn to hold every moment and make it special. Be it a moment of pain or sacrifice, own that moment as if it was another page in your life. In the lives of your loved ones, make a mark that even in the falls, memories can be made. The memories that can phrase your life, give your life a meaning and write on the sands of times, that you lived. You lived wholeheartedly, you lived for the love of your people in togetherness and with the bond of understanding each other passionately and lovingly.

Thursday, 6 February 2014

The destiny of love

His eyes could never forget her dazzling persona, as she couldn't forget his shy demeanour. Whenever she walked towards him to talk, he would pretend as if he were a different person. Her expectations to know him by a glance further, mostly craved only dismay as he never gave her a chance to peek through his thoughts, the real thoughts. It wasn't his mistake either that he didn't speak to her, the manner she was willing to speak to him. It was just the way he was, as a person, unable to put his thoughts clear for the other person to contemplate. It was because she felt they connected through the indulgence of their eyes, slowly that was giving form to innumerable ideas and dreams about each other for the two of them. It was the mistake of the person Arun was, that whenever she came nearer, he would unknowingly lose his balance, the control over his speech; he couldn't be himself. For, he had had a miniature fall for a moment.

Arun wanted her to remain in his vicinity and generate curiosity to know him. They knew they could well interact with eyes, that they connected very much. Whereas it was in behaviour, that the problem arose. He got sidelined or shy whenever she took a further step to approach him, for friendship. His tone and expressions well amused her, and she could curb thoughts enough in her mind that he wasn't the person, he was showing from the outside. His inner being was what she was desirous to befriend and friendship was never any sour or evil. Why couldn't a boy and a girl be friends, she was landed to ask this, getting a little hang of his psychology. About what ruled this boy's mind, she would often ask her spirits, she would ask her heart.

In talking to him, she was nowhere trying to say him that she loved him, because it was a faraway emotion to encounter. It was mere likeness, and in that lied no scope for love, if there was no reply in senses that matched from the opposite sex. Likeness for friends was what made the friends sit and interact, it was not any exclusive feeling that was out of the box. Likeness and love were not one, there was a wider difference. Likeness could be for many, love was for a special person who held the breathe in love's portrayal ever blossoming.

Arun was just out of the track, did he himself know who he was? She pondered about gravely on sitting with her group of friends in the front lawns of the school, during the break time; when they were eating, singing, matching one other guy with the other girl. Swati saw him wandering lonely in the front lawn, glaring at the bricks that were painted with different colours by the school arts maintaining team.

People are different, aren't they? She kept on grasping this novel idea, but not getting much of it and thinking to let Arun be what he was for himself, she crept with the idea of enjoying the break time. In her company of friends who loved one another beyond bounds (in the sense of friendship obviously), as they could talk about the news of the world. Whereas, a bit jealous or rather silly Arun walked his walk in his lonely lands of dreams.

Neither good at studies, nor good at handling relations with people, if he was good at anything, then it was for maintaining a distance from any group fights that would splurge in from any other counter of the big lawns where the students played and spent time. If not bad, it wasn't either a justified statement to put forward that he didn't fight. He did fight, out of respect, when others laughed at him; threw chalks at him, he couldn't pause but get back at them, to use his muscular power to tell those idiots that he was no less in fighting the fights. That he could also face any fancy hero of the town, who tried to dodge his peace. Arun was well built with qualities of a sportsperson. He played squash by himself, until a junior intended to join him in the squash courts. So, there were less prospects for other boys to confront his strength, so they let him be at his usual spot. But, again the ambiguity turned alive its new leaf over Swati's mind. Why isn't he selected in the school team? He plays better than the four guys who presently air in the squash tournaments in the school or outside. Swati could well frame the reason, that his being introvert was biting upon his own labour and that Arun could introspect for his better, to not let others laugh at his inadequacy to know his talent.

Why was he misunderstood in his life, where lied the problem? After wondering all this, she thought to let it be. Why was she giving so much importance to him. Did he deserve her time, no; he didn't, because he never gave  any emphasis to think that she wanted to be friends with him. She just forgot him in weeks and months and forgot him to the extent that she didn't think about him, even after seeing him pass by from the playing field. He was a no one to her!

In days to follow, Swati and Vivek got intoned into the bond of love. The love that they had felt for each other, had its very strength lying in the friendship that they had carried from a long-long time. They had given time to the thoughts and emotions that linked them and brought them closer. Vivek had proposed her his love and she accepted his attention and told him, he didn't matter any less to her. When this news reached the public eyes, the friend's congratulated the love birds. It was Swati and Vivek holding hands and telling the class about themselves. Everyone creaked into laughter and surprise outlining this connection. In all the faces of joy and surprise, there was still one face, holding self to not break into tears, if that were the only possible relief. He stepped out of the class and, this well said his heart.The boy who couldn't speak in his inability to utter his love had to let his love sway into someone else's heart. It wasn't digestible an emotion in the eyes that had love for her. In his hearts of heart, he had very much space for her, dreams to be with her. It wasn't her fault, why would it ever be? It was he who stayed back, even when she gave him enough freedom to talk to her. Love if not reciprocated, could turn towards its denial. One thing was clear that she didn't love him anymore, if he had ever felt that she did out of nowhere. So, he sat aback in the broken pyres in the ground, grasping in the situation. Only to get back to where he belonged, to his class while watching the two lovers sit together on the same bench, and stare into each others eyes with affection, with deep interest and solace. When she could find the greatest peace by resting her head onto his shoulders. Love had met its eyes, whereas, the love that was sitting deprived, had lost its being in the midst of being unknown to itself. Arun knew, he would never forget Swati and above that, he would never forget, his lacking to frame his heartiest expressions of solitude, of agony or of happiness. Life was what it depicted in that sound reality, away from the wonderland. It was just that. It was life, to experience while learning from the past. Arun moved ahead as did the time and the bond of friendship that had taken its beauty to love, for Vivek and Swati.

Sunday, 2 February 2014

Answering the dreams..

Tasveer Theatre Group was one of the most famous theatre group of Delhi. The theatre group that mostly took up stage as a means of expression as all the theatre groups did. Presenting both melodrama and the serious topics side by side was in the forte of Tasveer Theatre Group. By serious, it meant that the theatre group hit the righteous chords with the times. As was the society, so was the expression shown on the stage. It wasn't that they took up the same plays always. But, the special factor about this team of theatre artists was the fact that they were ready to practise on new themes and that was what made it different from the others.
Theatre was meant to reach to the audience's taste. To bring fun, frolic, laughter, tears and dreams to one's imaginations. There were many definitions to theatre, that too ranging from person to person. As sincerely, it was the interpretation of life for one person that meant life to that person. Theatre was also practised to bring a change in the orthodox ideology but most importantly it was needful a fact that it was to entertain people and to not let the viewers leave their seats before the play was over and before its very meaning sensationalized. When it won the heart's of the audiences and in some way or the other influenced the person. The influence if was positive, it was then that its very job of interpretation was done beautifully.

How could the hearts of the people be won, how could they feel the connect? Who could do that, who could bring the masses to watch the play? After all the play was meant to be performed and it was for the people. Without the presence of men and women in the audience, there was no justice done to the hard work input by the artists. Many questions ranged in the director's mind. But, it wasn't merely in the hands of the director to influence the actors and the team, that included even the musicians and the light's team. It was a joint effort, when the spirits of togetherness were brought up and likewise, celebrated. Love always found its way, it was never stagnated. Love that was mutual, love that was universal, and that was a force to capture the world. It was in this combined effort that the beauty of acting could be configured. The hard work when wasn't met by completing the play but it was justified yet again by the claps of the audiences, once the play was over. It was to catch this spirit for which the artists worked day and night.

Acting always made a person know oneself better than before. It wasn't a cakewalk, it was what came with experience. From experiencing the mockery of yourself by people, to challenging yourself, of what you are capable of doing. There was never a full stop to learning, but always a newer awakening to cast the balloons, to fly higher towards the gate of enlightenment. For the true artist, theatre was like relaxation, like relieving oneself from the problems of the world. For they didn't call themselves any struggler's. They were in love with life, and that was what mattered the most. 

To balance life, to make oneself busy and at the same time relaxed. About brotherhood, about caring, about being honest to self and to the people around. To know what is right and wrong, while at the same time exploring the truth.

From bringing the plot together, to the climax of the story; telling the public the highs and lows that life went through. To let them know that they were a part of the society and not exclusive of it. To let them know, that life was as painful as it was wonderful. So, there was a dire need to be vigilant from point to point in life. Life that happened to them as a gift, and they had to take it as a gift. A gift was always seen as charming and affectionate, so there was another need to see it as one; in every moment as the signature of love. A gift to the self one could give, through one's work.

The public took the seats in the theatre halls across the city. There were three such halls in the city of Sita Nagar, where Shamsher acted in his Tasveer Theatre Group. Being the director of the plays, he often acted in his own plays and also wrote them by himself. He was quite different from his counterparts, who worked as director's in other theatre groups. Shamsher took up plays and stories to be portrayed on the stage, that were written by him as well. He could easily change the script the way he felt that it did justice to the play. It was what could connect to the audience in the forefront; it was not a race to be better from anyone, but to give a better shot from the one before. Like it's often said, “Learning with the doing”. Quite serious business from one dimension, Theatre meant. Life could also be be funnier at times, but very serious in its outlining if seen with an eye of resilience and understanding. It was at last left to the actor to visualize the role that he/she was fitted into, looking at the need of the character. No role was ever any small as even an “Oh”, and a “Wow”  sound could give an actor, enough space and power to reach to the hearts of the public. In the mimes rung the beauty of silence, in the solo performance rung the challenge to hold the audience together, while keeping high the morals and spirits of acting.

Shamsher had been quite adamant, as he would keep to his own writings. Having earned enough name in his line of crafts there was a passage in his life when he saw his career graph fall down. Actors didn't like his Plays. Few complained, that he added unnecessary humour to the game. They felt that acting was a game. It was a difficult time for the Tasveer Theatre Group, and it's survival didn't appear in the far-sight. The challenge remained, life stood still. Looking at the situation, at his job of being a director slid by as his actors didn't consider his expertise, he felt that it was right to keep his art with him and to take it further on. To keep it alive, he started to write only. He felt that writing was his passion and as he wasn't able to strike the chord with either his actors or his audiences; he would still work towards it. Shamsher, went to several publishing houses across his city of Sita pur but none agreed to launch his writings. The publishers, complained that his writings weren't attuned with the present scenario of the society in the world, contrary to what he confessed to them. Ideally, he wondered that he wouldn't sustain in this world where his art wasn't given enough weight and consideration.

He felt weak, within himself. Heart broken, he studied the environment, spent even more time with the Nature, his only friend in his times of loneliness. He had no family, other than his books. Having grown up in a temple in Sita pur, he had known that life wasn't always cheese and butter. It had its harsh phase too. Shamsher had become a recluse in days, ever since his group had shattered along with the many dreams. Anyhow, he was still stubborn to write his Plays and Writings. At times, he thought of asking for help from his near and dear one's. Soon, he realized that no one was there for him, and he had been like that; alone and dissipated, sans any hand of warmth outstretching his shoulders. He was young, around twenty four years old; he knew a new start could win him his world. With a fresh belief in self, he read extensively about the news of the world. What were the expectations of the people in his surroundings, in the so called society. Were they together or were they getting farther from one another. What were the reasons behind their actions. He thought all this, life was a flower; it had to be colourful and not pale, all this he said to himself.

In fewer days, he started to work at a Petrol Pump, in order to sustain his living. Then was the time, when yet again he was made the butt of jokes in his surroundings, where he ought to bring a change. These people were not understanding, let alone their virtues of being of any help. Were they useless? No, you can't say this; he wondered all by himself. No one was useless, only ideas could be so; people were meant to work towards their goals other than standing amidst the goals of others, who were serious about them.

The lines of his school master rung in his heart yet again. “No job was ever small in this world, if it filled your stomach. Rather, it was the most important gift bestowed upon you, by the Lord.” He smiled and in his free time from work at the Petrol Pump, he would write and read. From interacting with the drivers, whom he met in large numbers; he knew their complaints for the car engine at times and also on the government just like that, as it was the best past time for everyone. Shamsher was a part of every active humour that his friends in the Petrol Pump played. They were a good bunch of like-minded people who respected Shamsher the most for his cordiality of manners and disposition. On a serious note, Shamsher read the faces of people, who came up with complaints at times about the petrol hike by the government. To answer to their ambiguity, he told them that there was a machinery set up at the parliament level that decided upon the Petrol hike, and these hikes were essential at times. He shared his Economics' understanding with them. He made good friends, in his daily customers. In the lunch time, he would make the staff act and likewise cherish every moment spent under the sun. They interacted, they met, they hugged, they scolded each other at times but in the end of the day, a joke or two could bring them closer yet again. It was rightly said by someone, that love was the greatest gift, for it could bring strangers to become friends and doing justice with the ideas of brotherhood and friendship doing rounds in the Philosophical texts in the world of dreamers and game changers. Everyone thought of life from a different point of view, everyone wrote dreams, but few lived them; those few  who really believed they could do it, that they did. The sun, the stars, the moon were all the same for them. Just they gave life a way, a chance, to what their heart called the most. There was no losing in the waiting. Needful it was to wait for the right moment to spring in. To let all the labour step into the righteous direction. Yet make life a victory, a song of nourishment and an honour for the generations to sing and prolong. That in its ringing, the calibre of a million stars could glow and twinkle. Then, life could say that I have made a difference by standing unaltered in the misty clouds, with grey sepulture around, whilst still smiling and waving the hard times to pass by.

Shamsher used to write when he wasn't at the Petrol Pump. He had enough stories outlined to be written, by the end of the day, when his work was over and when darkness augmented it's grace over the colouration of the sky, with the chilly winds flashing by. He didn't have any expenses to incur but he was paid quite well from the place where he worked with positivity in his eyes and breathe. As if he were waiting for a big surprise for his friends at work and for himself even. You never know, when life could surprise you with your own work. People around him now believed in his words, because they had known that he really meant what he described in his talks. Also, his work and ideology of art that he had expressed was refreshing and charming in its appearance.

It was about that day. That white, bright day when Arun banged the door of Shamsher's home, the day when he didn't turn up for work, the very first time in his one and a half years at work. It was very inspiring to take his example in the team meetings at the Petrol Pump because he never took a leave from work, even earning the badge from the Petroleum company as the Most Trusted Employee of the Year. Although, he was sound in health; the past days, it was not digestible a fact that his health wasn't in good shape, that he had to take leave. Arun, his fellow worker felt nervous when his call and the bell at the door was left unanswered. He called onto his friends, and they thrashed the door open and found that Shamsher was lying on the floor, dead. 

Silence only appeared at the first sight, but sooner heavy mourning struck in the aftermath of what was unbelievable. His smiling face, was atoned even on his deathbed. His spirits, wide awaken even in his destiny. A smile on a person's face is only when a journey is complete and there is appreciation from all around that a life was lived well. Whereas, his journey was never complete, everyone assumed. Still, he had left the world with his positivity in his failing to wait any longer. "What had happened to him, how had it happened to him, why did what happened, had to happen to him?" Thoughts crossed and moved over and over one's head, for the people who had gathered around the man who taught them what living was. Never was life complete with laughter merely, he went onto saying so; that pain was also an important emotion to be lived, to complete one's life.

The last rites of Shamsher Kumar were done by his employers, his friends and his customers at the petrol pump. They paid the young man their last salute. His face, his expressions, his presence would always be missed at the Sita pur Extention- Petrol Pump.

Days passed and the house cleaning of the unknown yet known man alias dead man was brought into. Many written letters, his Plays, his Comic writings, his Longer writings were brought to the hands of his Friends. Who read it in his remembrance and with interest and curiosity to know what made such a genial heart. It was on reading his works that they understood the heart of the man who lived till his last breathe for his love, the love of his life. His Plays, were performed later on, his writings published, the people wondered why didn't all that happen whence he was alive. Shamsher Kumar had died because of intense cold of the winter as it stepped in those days, after the warmer days were over.

He had been desperate to feel the cooler breeze at night, maybe he cried and felt the mist hugging him tight hence engrossing his breathe to its end. There was a time whence his co-actors at Tasveer Theater Group never heard his voice, his notes, gave an expression of form to his visual images and interpretation of life. But, now the times had changed. People read his writings in public gatherings. Actors performed his Plays and the shows were filled with public in the amphitheatre's and the halls. The tickets were sold off, before those went for printing. Such craze, such admiration for a man's craft who had gone stalwart in great regard for his love. He died but he smiled when he left. He knew, his work was complete. 

People wondered how much he could have contributed had he got more years to his short yet inspiring life but people also realized that it were they, who differentiated each other for their nature of job, for their work profile. Shamsher Kumar's writings, showed world the way the values of heart and soul could still be practised, that a poor person could get shelter if his work could be given enough importance as a rich man received for his job. Shamsher had lived as an unknown and died as one too but what he had left to the world was the known reason to live life freely and gleefully. To accept one's mistake and not let loose when the failure striked in. And to also, give a chance to someone who showed a different way to look at life. It was about being honest to your own self that the world could experience a positive change because of you. A difference, a change for good as it's often said in the society's dictionary of change and emphasis to it.

His last lines were, “Make your presence felt, even if you go away. You don't go unknown then.” He did that, as he went away only to be remembered in his endless works of written literature for the generations to read and obey his appetite for writing and dreaming hands in hand with the changing circumstances of the world. "The ethics of the world could change, but love would always remain love, and would overpower the ethics with an honest effort and response to your own heart beats, to your dreams."(written in a general context)

Gagandeep Singh Vaid
01/02/2014
10:55p.m