Story Teller's World

The Fallen Angel

2012-01-24T20:28:00.001-08:00

On a winter , sinfully cold
from broken dreams of slumbers old
I beheld a sudden change
of shadows so unknown, strange.

On that fateful twilight's death
cold like the past's frozen breath
I saw then an angel fall
from the skies, a fiery ball.

Looked I upon his fading glow
an angry scar on Nature's brow
as he lay with broken wings
bleeding red, the king of kings.

Slowly, with the fading sun,
as the deepening gloom begun ,
I could feel the winter set,
the winter of his wounded fate.

Drowned he in those rivers of pain
through incessant gusts of crimson rain
and I could feel, as i brought him home
a ravaged mind in a ceaseless storm.

The wind did moan, obscenities long,
to the silent tune of winter's song,
and yet he lay, a broken sight,
in the throes of an unholy plight.

It almost felt a sin to watch,
the divine , in that haunting grasp,
and I wondered long, what friend or foe,
had gifted him that soulless blow.

Frightened shrieks through endless nights
of remnants from his final flight
a raging storm, in that ocean fake
of memories old, in tragedy's wake.

Trapped in his guilty maze,
with demons from a bygone age,
he struggled,with his heart to find,
a distant hope, in that faithless bind.

Felt as if he wished to grasp,
the mists of time in memory's clasp
but through those clasping fingers red
it dripped, on his dying bed.

I prayed as only the hopeless can
for Help, in that faithless land
and, I saw a lady clad in white
pure as the healing light.

Her fingers on his wounds dark
as she caressed him on her lap
the touch of a friend's warmth
healed him like a magic balm.

While he slept with guileless dreams,
in the depths of his fearful realms,
the light would fall with dubious gray,
where love and hate, made that immortal play.

As the seasons turned to spring,
A light to his eyes, Life did bring
awoke he with a newborn's cry
on wings of Hope, ready to fly.

The dawn's kiss on his shoulder broad
He rose like a mighty God
outspread wings on sunlit beams
came to life a wondrous dream.

"To live again , my friend", he said
as he bade his adieu last,
"I had to die first. "

The Dreaded Dawn

2012-01-24T20:26:00.001-08:00

The night has almost shed
its dark horrors
the incessant bouquets of
fear; but the night
has been a blanket to me,
a prisoner on death row,
forlorn, as I wait in fear
for the dreaded dawn.

The smuggled radio in
my pocket screams
of broken hearts by
teenage girls , of
depressed poeple and
their unfulfilled dreams,
and yet they being asleep,
shall awake with hope
in the sun,
while I await, alone,
my dreaded dawn.

The stars slowly wave
goodbyes, from the barred
window, truthful friends
in a lifetime of lies;
A new day is finally born
as I walk to the hangman's noose
on this dreaded dawn.

Friendship

2012-01-24T20:24:00.001-08:00

On a twilight dark and cold,
sombre with the mists of yore,
my mind travelled a winding road
of memories, sweet and yet so sore.

Over gurgling dried streams,
and voiceless echoes of the wind,
While the moon, her lifeless beam
wove its silent ghosts behind.

Slowly, surely, I wandered long,
through forests burnt and mountains old,
momentous turns and crossroads wrong
and treacherous mines that shimmered gold.

And I stumbled on an eerie land,
a ruined city so intimately strange,
and at the entrance, etched in sand
its name "Friends of a bygone age".

I stole a glance, the broken wall
once so haughty, crumbled in dust,
all that hubris, all that gall
its needless shrapnels forever lost.

A mistletoe clung, to a deserted door
the phone that rang with an empty call,
I waited till I could no more,
and drifted from that endless lull.

Over by the clocktower knelt,
a silent phantom and pictures drew
of grandiose castles in the air,
wrecked in the cruel gust that blew.

In the square, a statue stood
a man who long, was bent in work.
Hoped though I, solace he would,
yet nary a smile, and nary a smirk.

And Then , when the tears fell,
while the wind howled a dozen names,
I wish I could, in that inferno tell,
if it was them, or my eternal shame.

Children and Men

2012-01-24T20:23:00.001-08:00

It was night
in the land of the Child
a smile on their faces
they lay, covered with their dreams.

Then from the pits of Hell rose
a Madness so great , evil
and it flew with unfettered wings
over those innocent minds.

Slowly , as the night died
and sleep retreated from the land
the children woke and found
themselves in the minds of Men.

They cursed and yelled and fought
and built swords of their derision,
and War smiled its bloody smile
on that land of forgotten dreams.

Long did they slash and kill
under that canopy of hate
so long did it last
the war of their Fate.

And Then did He come
from the darkness within,
and the blood below
with a Hope from way beyond

The radiance of a thousand suns
in His smile of Wisdom
the Faith of a million tears
in the embrace of his arms

And he threw over them
the blanket of an innocent sleep
and they slept there
babes in a battlefield.

The sun rose the day next
on a field of blood red roses
and saw therein, playing
the Children again.

The philosopher and the clown

2012-01-24T20:19:00.001-08:00

On the long road of Fate, as happens so often, the Philosopher and the Clown met.
And as happens is often the case, there was a burnt house nearby.

Their conversation went like this

The Philosopher : "How can you be so merry when there is so much Sorrow in the world, so much death , so much pain? It has been 10 long years since I have smiled a happy smile ... and yet you can laugh in this cesspool of Sorrow !!!"

The Clown : "10 years without Joy !!! What ails you my friend ? "

The Philosopher : " My life is what so many people dream about. I have more Money than I need , I have a beautiful wife whom I love more than myself, and I have a daughter who is like Joy itself. But I am not Happy. 10 years ago, I walked by that burning house ... and I saw a beautiful woman and her daughter burn in that very house, and I saw the father standing by ... helpless. I saw the fiery flame reflected in his tears, and I saw those tears reflected in that fiery flame. And in that very moment I met Fear. He whispered to me dark possibilites of a dark future, hideous bylanes of Fate , tales of sorrow and death , pain and loss... and from that moment, I became the Philosopher "

The Clown (with a smile) : "I was the man you saw that day, the man who lost his wife and daughter.That was the moment I became the Clown."

Through the Night

2012-01-24T20:13:00.001-08:00

Something has been bothering me eversince I woke up.

The cold water stings sharply, as it splashes into myeyes; and my mind gasps for reality, so suddenly does it awaken. Dreamily, Ilook in to the mirror. Red eyes scream for mercy, a fact my watch attests to.Only four of sleep last night, and already late for my first class. A dim bulbsheds its pale yellow light over the melancholy bathroom, and I desperatelyattempt to flood away the sleep from my eyes by looking at it. My hands reachfor the toothbrush and go through the familiar motions of brushing, swift andimpatient. It is silent in there, the kind of silence that seeps into you andmakes you nostalgic. The weird kind of silence.

Something keeps bothering me. Something about lastnight. Dreams, I think. I can not quite place it; the shout of the alarm clockis too recent, too loud, for me to think clearly. That, and the insistenttugging of my watch, reminding me I have just six minutes to make it to the busstop. I shove aside my thoughts, and rush. Quick rummage through the wardrobe,a random choice of jeans and tee shirt and a liberal spray of deodorant later,I rush out of the door for the bus stop. My watch screams I have one minuteleft.

It is cold outside. Not the refreshing morning kindof cold, but the chilling misty cold that bites at you in the winter. And thereis a fog too. That’s the thing about the weather here, unpredictable, like apretty girl. Only yesterday I was complaining about it being hot, and now hereI am shivering in a thin tee shirt and a foot in my mouth. I debate goinginside to get a jacket, but my watch vetoes the proposal with an indignantshriek. It is a bitch at times. I keep running, while throwing a greeting at afriend of mine on the road. He doesn’t notice. Damn iPods. I reach the bus stopjust in time, jumping into the bus as the door closes behind me. The bus driverseems to be in a hurry too, he doesn’t even ask to see my student card. I get aseat next to a pretty girl.

I will say this about Colorado, it has the prettiestgirls. The girl beside has wavy blonde hair that cascades over one of her eyes,sharp features on her face and the kind of body that most girls can only dreamabout. A very short red skirt adds to her attractiveness, although it sure doesnothing to shut out the cold. A large sunglass hides her eyes, although I don’tsee the point of wearing sunglasses when there is no sun. But why argue with apretty girl? I try and pick up the insane courage to talk to her, but soon findone of my numerous excuses not to. I mean, what chance does a guy who lookshalf sleepy and gasping for breath from a one minute run have with a girl likeher. Why risk a broken ego ? As it is, she keeps texting someone on her phone,and doesn’t notice me. Sigh.

The bus seat is quite comfortable, and I sink into itand watch the trees race by. I always like watching the trees when I travel,they make me slightly dizzy. The kind of dizziness you feel on a swing. Thekind you never want to get rid of. But today, the trees don’t make me dizzy.They look somber, immersed in the fog. Half hidden, half amused; lost inancient memories. And as they race past, I am once again reminded of thatthought nagging at me. It has the same half hidden half amusing quality. Iclose my eyes and try to think.

It feels like a bitter taste at the back of my mind,the elusive after taste of something poignant. Dreams, sometimes, have thiseffect on me, though never to such an extent. They are usually fleeting,vanishing into the cracks of reality as soon as I wake up. But today, as Iclose my mind and think back on yesterday night’s dreams, it seems that realityitself is caught up in a web. It feels like a long time while I try and gropeabout for those dreams, the evanescent wonders of my sub-consciousness. But mymind seems especially slow today, or my sub consciousness specially adamant atgiving up its secrets. I keep feeling the faint shadows of yesterday’s dreams,but just beyond the horizon. Like the word at the tip of your tongue whichkeeps eluding you until that final moment of epiphany. I guess I will just haveto wait for my moment epiphany.

I try and think back to yesterday night, hoping for aclue to the riddle. Nothing special there, as far as I can remember. A slightbout of homesickness, not unusual these days; it has been more than a yearsince I visited home. That, and a slight fever. I put that down to exhaustion,since I feel perfectly fine now. There is this one dream I always have when Ihave a high fever. It is of me trapped in a gigantic room , so huge that Icannot see its end. I am in the middle of the room, and I start walking towardthe door. And as I walk, I continue to grow smaller. Or maybe the room getsbigger. I never can tell. But within a few minutes, the vast emptiness, theendless unbounded infinity starts beingfrightening, and I always, always start crying. Must be how an ant feels. Butthe thing is, I always remember when I have that dream; I wake up with a vastfeeling of emptiness. Not the bitter sweet hues of growing bewilderment I havebeen feeling since morning.

I think I musthave dozed off by then, for the next thing I remember is the bus driverannouncing my stop. A quick look at my watch as I jump off the bus shows me Iam already late for my class, by a margin definite to arouse the professor’sire. I decide to stroll to the class, hoping the cold would ameliorate mydrowsiness. If I am going to get a reprimand, I might as well delay it by a fewminutes. The grass is wet from the fog, and bends meekly beneath my feet. Thesun is still hidden, and it is as if the fog has been waiting for theopportunity to intensify. The air feels cold, and I thank myself for the absence of a wind. The morning bustle of theuniversity is in its full glory around me. The cold never seems to dampen theyoung. It’s the usual ruckus of skateboards and bicycles as students hurry totheir classes, or to the coffee shop. And once again, like so many timesbefore, I make it a point to notice the differences in dress between Indiansand Americans. A few minutes ago, I was feeling underdressed for the cold; butout here, among these bare-chested Americans, dressed mostly in shorts, I amdefinitely overdressed. I wish it would start snowing, that would serve themright. Most of the girls are dressed in short skirts or skimpy pants, but that’ssomething I never argue with. Then it strikes me , in my hurry, I completelymissed checking the weather forecast. I guess these people know it will besunny during the day.

I open the door of the classroom and slide in gently;the appropriate guilty expression written on my face. Only to find itunnecessary, the Professor seems to pardon the intrusion with an uncustomarynonchalance, without breaking a stride in his lecture. Definitely one of mylucky days. At first I think he doesn’t notice me, but then he gives a slightshudder as the cold air from the open door hits him. Gallantly, he closes thedoor, and I settle down, with a silent prayer to the heavens, and busy myselfin making myself inconspicuous. Not a hard feat to manage in this class, withenough enthusiastic people to attract attention towards themselves. It onlytakes me ten minutes to drift away completely.

It still keeps bothering me, that dream at the edgeof my consciousness. I cannot quite grasp it yet, but as I slowly drift off,the shadows seem to be more defined, more concrete. It is like thosesilhouettes you see on dark moonless nights, the kind you can never figure outfor sure until you eventually reach near. I don’t know if it is the buzzingdrone of the morning lecture, or just the clarity that comes in the half stuporstate of a tired brain, but the whole dream suddenly bursts upon my consciousness.Vividly, unexpectedly , I see it as I saw it last night.

It is not a single dream. It is a kaleidoscope, aweird colorful kaleidoscope of dreams. As if a painter of dreams had gone mad;with my sub-consciousness as a canvas, and a lifetime’s worth of dreams. Ishiver slightly as they unfold, not with fear, but nostalgia.

I dream about home. Nineteen years and countlessmiles far. I am playing football with Dad in the living room. With a plasticinflatable ball, colorful blue stars around it. The whole dream is in black andwhite, except for the ball, which is red. And the rules seem strange, I keeptrying to score a self goal most of the time, and Dad keeps blocking it. Then Iturn around and shoot one at the fridge, and I see the ball go swinging in tothe accompaniment of Mom’s angry shout. And the next thing I know is I amtagging along with my elder brother. It’s a riverbank, and we are both seemwearing the same checkered shirt. He is a foot taller than me, and I struggleto keep pace with him, desperately holding on to his hand. It’s a winter morning,and the whole scene is drenched in a yellowish orange morning glow. And aheadof us, in the distance, is a cricket match in progress. White uniforms, withthe ubiquitous yellow orange sunlit hue, and numerous mango trees asspectators. We start running. I stumble and fall.

I get up to find myself in my school playground. Atnight. A full moon. The red building behind me casts its own color into thewhite moonlight, and the shadows play hide and seek with the colors. The oldbanyan tree on the left, ancient and immutable, welcomes me back. I want totell it that I was never gone, that I was always here. But I don’t know how,and all I can do is cry. Softly, inevitably, I cry. I cry for the years that Iroamed these grounds. I yearn for the eternity that stretched from morning tillevening every day, in this place. I cry for friends gained and friends lost,for the soft murmur of afternoon classes, the sheer exuberance of theplayground. I cry for something I left here, but I know not what. A soul maybe.

All of a sudden, its recess time at school. I canhear the ecstatic shouts of three thousand young souls set free simultaneously.No feet are more swift, no heart more exuberant as is mine in that swift momentof untrammeled joy. And on both my sides are two of my closest friends,shouting the war cry of our team. And time seems to freeze, as if clogged by somuch happiness. Three children , no older than twelve years, frozen forever intheir moment of freedom. Again, in black and white.

Its evening, and I am leaning on the wall, waitingfor a ride home. Two girls are talking nearby, and pay no attention to me. I amnot surprised at finding myself here, for I have been here many times before.But this time, it is all silent. It’s a weird kind of silence. The kind ofsilence that makes you feel anything else would be superficial. The kind thatsays anything else would be blasphemy. I either remember everything about thescene, or I don’t remember nothing. I cannot say. I keep leaning against thewall, and hope for the inevitable. One of the girls leaves. The other one , avery pretty girl I must say, turns to talk towards me. But I cannot hearanything. Nothing at all. But I don’t care for words, and it seems, neitherdoes she. Slowly, the darkness engulfs both of us.

I don’t remember what happened next. It seems like aneternity, but dreams always seem long. I remember lying face down on themountains. Cold, and naked. In the snow. I cannot seem to move. I try andshout, but no words come out. Just blood. Dark , torrential blood. It keepsgushing out from my mouth, and I cannot stop it.

Soon, it is all red. I wake up with a gasp.

It takes me a few minutes to grasp reality. Nowonder, the dream has been bothering me all morning. You cannot just wake awaya dream like that. Not without it leaving something behind. I take a deepbreath to steady myself, and look around.

My sojourn into the subconscious seems to have goneunnoticed. The class continues its interminably dull routine. Something aboutMarkov chains, I gather. A few minutes later, my watch triumphantly indicatesthat the torture is over. An hour of my life wasted, happily. I merge into thecrowd and walk out.

It is still cold outside, and the fog shows no signof abating. The sun seems to have taken the day off. As I walk out into thecold, I am once more reminded about the dream. The fresh memory makes me shiverslightly, and I put my hands into the pocket of my jeans. Not that it helpsmuch. Slowly, I make my way to the bus stand, lost in thought.

The bus is not due for another fifteen minutes. For abrief moment, I debate waiting for the bus in the cold, but finally decide totake a walk back home. It won’t take me more than fifteen minutes to reachhome, and I sure need the exercise. Much better than standing still in thecold.

My mind keeps going back to the dream. Somethingabout it keeps bothering me. Something important, something urgent. Nothing Ican pinpoint exactly, it is as elusive as before; but it keeps taunting me withan urgency I cannot understand. I strain my mind to catch it, but to no avail.It slips away, and I suddenly stumble upon a rock. I somehow balance myself,and curse the fog. It seems to have grown in the few minutes I have beenwalking. Some freaky weather this is turning out to be. Not that it bothers theAmericans, I can see a guy skateboarding towards me. How he manages to seeanything in this fog is anybody’s guess. I put myself out of harm’s way, andshout out a ‘Hi’. No response as he whizzes past me. Damn iPods again.

My tee shirt has given up all pretense of being a protection,and I am shivering by the time I reach home. But it is not the cold thatbothers me, it is the dream. It seems to have taken a grip on my mind, and Ihave this weird feeling of missing a piece of the puzzle. You know the feelingwhen you try and find a silent spot in a crowd; only this was like finding somenoise in a deafening silence. I finally give up , momentarily, and get myself asteaming hot cup of chocolate before sitting myself on the sofa in the livingroom. Might as well check the weather prediction on the laptop; I have to goback to the university again in the afternoon.

This is funny. I have always thought that weatherprediction is a sham, and I finally have proof. The website gleefully statesthat the present weather is clear and sunny, with no clouds in sight.Prediction is one thing, but they should at least try and get the presentweather correct !!!

And then it hits me . The thing about the dream. Thething bothering me. In a flash of certainty, it becomes so clear to me that Ialmost stagger back. Everything falls into place, as I leap and rush to mybedroom door. It takes only a moment, or so it feels, before I am standing inmy room, frozen.

I readsomewhere that a man’s life flashes before his eyes in his final moment. But,what if he is asleep ?

I stand frozen, looking down on my own dead body.

The poet

2012-01-24T20:11:00.001-08:00

They talked about hunting, and their women. They talked of meat, andfood, and ferocious animals they had met. They talked of the dangers, ofhardships and foolish things. He sat and listened, and did not understand.

He sat and looked at a flower. The flower smiled back and talked. Ittalked of beauty. It talked of winds that caressed it at night, and thesunbeams that made love during the day. And then the flower started singing, adeep unknown song, with strange resonating rhythms that would start and vanishin a flurry of colors. Colors the likes of which he hadn’t tasted, nor felt.And the colors whispered to him their secrets, and he made them his own. Andhis soul smiled, in the deluge of beauty that flooded it from all sides. Heknew his friends wouldn’t understand.

The sabre tooth tiger that stoleup behind him didn’t understand either.

And that’s how the first poet had a very prosaic death.