Of dreams and their answers!

When dreams touch you with their glowing effervescent light. The naive thought of a possibility. The courage and vigour that says anything is possible. The nascent need to achieve, to reach out, to accomplish a dream. A dream when it is still a baby. Impregnating your thoughts. The concept aching to break out of its shell. Inexperienced and unpolluted. A suspended thought.

Stars

Stars

Lazy afternoons in West Bengal. The summers here would be super sleepy. All the kids in here would be brimming with energy and parents would pin them down to the beds for an afternoon siesta. The entire city would swoon down for an hour or two. “Ghum holo na?” (Didn’t sleep properly?) neighbours ‘d ask if they’d see You cranky in the evening. The towns would quite down and hustle only again in the evening.
It was one such afternoon. I was visiting my Uncle’s. We were chatting, discussing, joking, having fun. When an idea had hushed us. From somewhere we started discussing dreams and the dream that had intrigued me the most was my Uncle’s. He had an after retirement plan.
He had a dream of opening a cafe. A cafe he said would serve not only hot/cold drinks but also hot and cold dreams. He had this plan of opening a reading cafe. A cafe which allowed its customer to go through the plethora of books that he would assemble in his cafe. No it wasn’t a library. You couldn’t take the books home. But you could contribute books. You could bring books you wanted read, to be kept here. He said it with pious simplicity that he revered books. And he wanted to reach out to everyone who wanted to read. He wanted his cafe to be a “boi over a cup of coffee” (a book over a cup of coffee).

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Dreams hot and cold. When I said dreams hot and cold I meant, he meant, the books served in the cafe would be of both renowned writers, classic writers, best selling writers and of upcoming artists, budding talents. Or simply pieces from where writers wanted read. He wanted a pin board where articles from minds could be pinned. He had a dream that looked alive to me when he spoke to me. He wanted to become a part of their narration of their own life. To become the water to their seed or sun or that occasional manure. But to play a role. A role in the readers life by introducing them to that story that might just change their life or the writers so that they get an audience with the crowd they want to introduce their work to. It was a podium to nurture dreams. He said it and I revered it. I was transfixed with the idea of such a dream like place. A place I would av given anything to be at when I was a child.

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What don’t they do?

Entrepreneurs don’t go the conventional way. They don’t take the set path. So what’s new about that, we all know that. Right? Wrong. What they do take is a safe path, they take the safe path of success. They know it’s safer to try to be successful than to not at all. Cause if You try to be successful You might fail but you just might also succeed. But if You don’t try You won’t succeed at all. So to play safe, they try. Try, aim and work for success. So what is it exactly that these entrepreneurs don’t do? What is the “different” in their regular?

Contd. on : invulgah

Croak of the day.

“Eat the frog”- the weirdest expression ever. Seriously, but its caught in my head off late. Almost every day now I wake up thinking I need to “eat today’s frog” first. I have been on an unanticipated light holiday of sorts. Ok.. ok.. am between jobs. Ok am jobless . But I-am-looking-for-one.
So they don’t suit me. Jobs. Sometimes I don’t suit me. I think so high of myself, nothing I do reaches to what I am. The only thing I have been doing a lot lately is writing. And guess what, I am the proud little owner of the talent of writing-from-the-heart. Someone tells me that is the easiest job in the world. Writing about what has happened. Imagine.. Aargh..
I do not lack imagination. I am more of a pragmatic writer.
Yeah. Easy-peasy! I CAN CONCOCT A FICTITIOUS STORY, I only think people relate more to the ordinary panoramic view of their everyday life. Only with a hint of honest sarcasm maybe. Witty? No.. am not. But am a lot of other things.
Alright, eating the frog. Mark twain said that. No of course not to me. He said it.

“If you eat a frog first thing in the morning that will probably be the worst thing you do all day.” – Mark Twain

Brian Tracy bought it, twisted it and gave it his own flavour. He said instead of laying around about the one job of the day that you hate: do it first in the morning. So you have your entire day to do things you enjoy. So my frog of the day? Write something surreal, ethereal, imaginative , ingenious, fairy-tale like account and still make it relatable.
Only if I could do all that I want to. I would be so much more.
Ofcourse i would, we all would be.

p.s: No image on this post. To the selfish reader! 

A Girl

A girl is strong. A girl is refined. A girl is wild when angry.
A girl is magic. A girl is wine. A girl is a gilded quarry.
A girl is wrong. A girl is right. A girl is Your saviour in every fight.
A girl is a ramble. A girl is a rhyme. A girl is a gamble for Your every smile.

A girl is The girl when defined.

Eyed

Will my battered soul ever have a taker? Will my battered soul ever have a taker? Will my battered soul ever have a taker?
My head kept ranting this incessantly in the background. In front, my team lead was sighting slight discrepancies in our report. I didn’t care. Wait, but I did. I wanted my work to be perfect too. I wanted an accomplishment. Success. Where was everything going? I could see. But, in circles.

Unceremoniously everything blacked out.

___
White.
When I woke up, it was all pristine White. Aargh.. Melodramatic. In the infirmary. It was the 5th day in a row that I hadn’t slept.  Bouts of unconsciousness were inevitable and so was the constant humming inside my head. I tossed an aspirin for the headache and headed out. Coffee. I needed coffee! Three more hours, before I could put a dot to the report. I will.

I did. Four and a half hour later, I did. Nothing tastes better than success. And anything tasty comes with a price. So the price to be paid for the tastiest will be the heftiest.
It was late. I had to wait for a crowded cab. Crowd feels safe. It arrived. 20 minutes later. The crowded cab. It was suffocating inside, hot and airless. I couldn’t complain. I shouldn’t. I did, with a crinkled nose.

……..

A set of eyes. They’d intrigue me. They were the only difference in my otherwise monotonous routine. Sometimes those eyes ‘d find me. Today they were smiling at me. But, not because of me. I, like everyone else wanted this simple association to be different. Our eyes would lock for only a few seconds. The cab would speed towards its destination. I, towards my pool of thoughts. Thoughts, it was strange how badly I was tethered to them given I wanted an escape.
Today was no different. I arrived home. To my room. My back to my family. My association with them had gone from mono-syllables to complete silence

._______

Black.

That night in the black of my room, siphoned off all spirit, holed up by my bedside, I could swear that death had come to take me by the throat. And I could also swear that I saw that light-eyed stranger staring back at me, for a flash of a second. Eyes that were still a mystery. Eyes that thrilled me now. Out of everything in my life why’d They flash in this murk of woe.

Black

Black

And I then stood up, stared at death hard in the eye and snarled “Not Today.”
I remember jumping down the window. Down to the porch. And that run I took in the cold winter night. One cardigan.. The icy breeze cutting through me. Slicing across my ear. I could hear it howl. But I chose to ignore…
Something struck my foot. Some sticky liquid warmed my hands. Something. Those eyes again. They’d save me. I believed.
Blink.

Black.

 

Blink.

White.

 

Blink.

White.

 

Blink.

Those eyes.

 

White.

White.

For ages, it felt, I could hear only myself breath. And my heart clamouring, beating, pounding, writhing. I was bleeding. And my heart was pumping my own death.
Something hit me, savage, crude, craving raw hunger. My lips parched. I couldn’t sense any. Nothing. Sleep. My famished stomach kept sleep at bay. Nothing made sense. And then again, I started losing sense. Before the blur. Those eyes. Again. This time disturbing me. Frightening. Annoying.
I couldn’t feel my hands. Left. There wasn’t. My hand wasn’t. Left. I didn’t have my hand! I didn’t have my hands. . .