drowning in the tide.....

morning comes and we find the entire world has changed to some megalomaniac innuendo....cacophony ensues in every corner and the city roars....devouring every single moment of peace from within...the peace so carefully acquired thru a good night's sleep....and it all begins......the rush........

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the cow

Ogden Nash said: The cow is of the bovine ilk One end is moo, the other milk. but incognito wonders what is like a cow in being in the comfort of one's home, office and car not touched by the discriminations of the urban life

wanderlust

.......Inspiration trickles down a lost link desperately trying to hold on to. Inspiration is dead in a Reality as consuming as cancer. Eating the soul from within. Gnawing at it like menacing rodents gone rampant with plague....... .......The silvery moon hanging in anticipation at a quiet western horizon. Moonlight blues and silver fairies making love by the dancing stream. Streams and cascades caressing the mountain slopes, awaken in the shadows of a silent night. Contemplating a mood that stirs strings of a faint nostalgia. Southern stars, bright with a soothing brilliance, trying to communicate. Posing questions, eternal querries about the nature of beauty, the implications of life...... ........Then there are the tears. Heavens look upon and nod in helplessness. Wandering souls, burning amber within, a cold impassivity on the surface. Passions running high, but with not the remotest inkling of the vents. Vents to release the rapid retrogate. Only a wiltering wilderness to wallow ...

when the fog settles stealthily...

when the night was all over the city...the fog settling stealthily on the oblivious creatures....we walked out into the darkness to look for tell-tale signs of nocturnal ambiguities....we walked for miles before we reached a crossing...deserted in the middle of the night...lights blnking red-orange-green-red-orange-green...a little boy covered only in a pair of ragged shorts and a jute sack trying to fight the chill...fast asleep...lost in his own version of utopia...perhaps a fullmeal twice a day and a set of clothes to wear...his head rested on a block of discarded concrete...leftover from the flyover constructed at public cost couple of months back...his feet bare...cracked like a charred log...time stood still for us for a while...imagining the plight of our existence...when this angel was not troubled a bit...not guilts...no feeling of sin...just a few drops of hope that the morning would shine a few more pennies in his little hands...he was like the saint that raised his hands an...

incognito

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