Dancing In Our Tears

Birthdays are special. Days that are worth making special. To see that pure, unadulterated joy in the eyes of your loved ones and cherishing the moments for an eternity makes all the difference… even if you are a lost star… because none of us can be a star so lost that they fail to emit the light that we are destined to. Just looking into the eyes and listening to stories untold in words… and when I see that, it warms up my heart… as it was meant to be.

I wonder why I don’t want anyone to remember my birthday. There have been days or rather years when I have celebrated it, even without pomp but certainly with blessings and graces that were littered all around like stardust going on for octaves. But largely, I shy away from those days of my life. Notoriously, I have disappeared on people, gone into seclusion, unreachable, untraceable, in the presence of the unknown. 

Birthdays are certainly special… but in a different way for me. I wish I could just sit back and relax and allow the day to pass by in oblivion. Too rational to let it happen just that way, possibly. But it is not in isolation, devoid of thoughts and joy. It just ceases to be another day. I was born into this world with much pain and sufferings on this day. The stories that I have known of my arrival are many, effectively passed down through nuggets of legends. The genesis of my own existence can certainly be of doubtful celebrations. 

So on birthday, I don’t celebrate my birth but my life; the journey filled with joys and sufferings unaccounted for; the sprinkling of seasons in a symbiotic world of cupids, demons, Spirit and ice. Per Aspera Ad Astra. I count every minute on this day. I count every moment gifted, every person graced, every emotion granted. Tears and gratitude. Subtle existence of counting every person gifted across the world; people known and people yet to know. It is not a day-long journey in isolation but walking through the hallows of life lived. Sitting back, walking through, presenting self, lying down, staring up the sky, waiting for the raindrops - all culminating into those moments of yearnings for more that this life has to offer; garnering energy and moving on together.

I wish for the rain on this day assured by the monsoon season of India; to hide the tears. I wish for the blowing wind during the day for goosebumps; to ensure awakening. I wish for the elusive touch devoid of malice or doubt; knowing that it can heal  in ways unknown. I wish for the silence that speaks to the heart; to walk along through times difficult. I wish for music that teleports disturbing best laid plans; remembering the spontaneity of the wild heart struggling through the reasons of the mind. 

Searching for meaning, rarely finding answers; asking more questions and seeking solace in the unknown. I wish I could write the perfect fantasy but that is not my forte. My life is much more real than I can swallow. 

Being blessed is defined as being surrounded by friends and family. They still remember despite all efforts. They are my eternal assurance of things done right and paths strewn with graces immeasurable. I never forget that I am blessed. I never forget that you are all part of my life… awaiting every moment to cross paths again and cherish a hug once again. We are not lost stars. We still light up paths. We will continue to do so. 

Lost Stars

written by Brisebois, Danielle / Alexander, Gregg / Lashley, Nick / Southwood, Nick.

"Lost Stars" is an original song performed by Maroon 5 frontman Adam Levine for the film Begin Again.

Please don't see just a boy caught up in dreams and fantasies

Please see me reaching out for someone I can't see
Take my hand let's see where we wake up tomorrow
Best laid plans sometimes are just a one night stand
I'd be damned Cupid's demanding back his arrow
So let's get drunk on our tears and

God, tell us the reason youth is wasted on the young
It's hunting season and the lambs are on the run
Searching for meaning
But are we all lost stars, trying to light up the dark?

Who are we? Just a speck of dust within the galaxy?
Woe is me, if we're not careful turns into reality
Don't you dare let our best memories bring you sorrow
Yesterday I saw a lion kiss a deer
Turn the page maybe we'll find a brand new ending
Where we're dancing in our tears and

God, tell us the reason youth is wasted on the young
It's hunting season and the lambs are on the run
Searching for meaning
But are we all lost stars, trying to light up the dark?

I thought I saw you out there crying
I thought I heard you call my name
I thought I heard you out there crying
Just the same

God, give us the reason youth is wasted on the young
It's hunting season and this lamb is on the run
Searching for meaning
But are we all lost stars, trying to light up the dark?

I thought I saw you out there crying
I thought I heard you call my name
I thought I heard you out there crying

But are we all lost stars, trying to light up the dark?
But are we all lost stars, trying to light up the dark?

Between the Stars and Hearts

None exist between the stars

and the earth... none

who breathe life into my soul.

The closest to me doubt

a part of me; their minds

question in the silence

of the night.

They say not a word 

to prevent hurt, 

or save jeopardy;

But the quiver exists

in their taciturnity,
in their being,
and a hesitation 

before the embrace.

For many lie within;

for many lies surround.

While me? Silence, 

I preserve for emotions 

unheard.

Words I fill the silence with

describing things insignificant,

events trivial, and 

matters controversial not.

None know,

None shall know;

for I don't need

no sympathy no more

nor I want them to utter

"I always doubted."

even the closest to me,
even in the silence of their hearts,

between the stars and the earth.

Split.

The Guy with the Portal

As the boy stood by the hall, a sudden emptiness crawled inside him filling his whole being with loss and sadness. Everything he knew, his whole world, had just walked out of the door which thundered a shut   shattering his chandelier of a fragile heart which went scattering across the cold marble floor.

Tears refused to flow; try as he may to squeeze it out and let the emptiness rush out of him with cries and screams. This time the door had been closed so hard that emotions inside him refused to show. 

Yet, he could feel it all inside him, pushing every fiber of his being wanting to come out but never finding an outlet. And he grew cold upon the realization that no amount of tears could ever drain out the sadness or fill his emptiness ever again. A part of him just died or left him along with the others who had left him behind. 

The day grew colder and as he stood transfixed in the middle of the hallway, the air grew stale. 

At the other end of the hall, a figure appeared and ran towards him calling his name. She seemed to know him but his thoughts were empty and so was his memory. She hugged the boy and took him into a warm room where the fire was burning. 

There were toys and playthings kept to fulfil a boy's fantasy parades but everything had lost it's charm. At that moment, a boy was forced to grow beyond his age. So sat a sombre body by the fireplace with a frozen heart never to be warmed again.

-Neivikhotso Xander

Love is Blindness

Love is blindness? Yes, I know and it does not help repeating it to me over and over again. I can't even logic my way out of every day situations! You expect me to apply my brains while my heart is all that I follow. In all my eternal stupidity, I wish I was deciduous; ready to shed it every autumn when coldness overcomes the warmth of spring. I shall reserve my discourteous behaviour for my brains even if it reminds me that my reasoning is fallacious. It shall always do, for it knows little about the leap of faith that love empowers one to make.

Love is blindness? But I have made a pact. I will not see it. I will just be lost. Let logic be reserved for those who want to study trivium. When I am in love, I cannot speak with the right grammar or make sense or play with rhetoric. I just don't want to be smart in love. I want to be myself, abashedly naive and stupidly pure. But then, I am usually like that and eternally in love.

Love is blindness? But once you wrapped the night around me, I can't see anything anyway. Why search for the light when the absence of it is so beautiful? It is certainly not darkness that I seek… but the bliss of being myself when the lights are off. When a simple caress is more than the promise of coitus! O! let this moment be here forever.

Love is blindness? Who says that I am sightless in love? I can see you all around me like hallucination is a way of life. But how can it be that it is so? There is a stimulus here that makes you walk beside me when I go home every night. It is your love that makes me feel your warmth around me. I am cycling past the raindrops hoping that with every breath, your warmth turns into the cold breeze and rush into me. I am not delirious. But you do appear every where! May be you have made a home beneath my eyelids.

Love is blindness? 
I am just too numb to feel!

Good night

"Love Is Blindness"(originally by U2)

rehashed by Jack White for The Great Gatsby 

One, two, three

Two, two, three

Love is blindness, 

I don't wanna see

Won't you wrap the night 

Around me

Oh, my heart

Love is blindness.

I'm in a parked car

On a crowded street,

And I see my love

Made complete.

The thread is ripping

The knot is slipping.

Love is blindness.

Love is clockworks,

And it's cold steel

Fingers too numb to feel

Squeeze the handle

Blow out the candle

Blindness

Love is blindness

I don't wanna see

Won't you wrap the night

Around me

Oh my love

Blindness

A little death

Without mourning

No call

No Warning

Baby, a dangerous idea...

Almost makes...sense

Love is drowning

In a deep web

All the secrets

And no body else to tell

Take the money

Why don't you honey

Blindness

Love is blindness,

I'm so sick of it,

I don't wanna see

Why don't you just take the night

And wrap it all around me, now

Oh my love

Blindness

Oh, I'm too numb to feel...

Blow out the candle.

Blindness.

The Death at home

Over-curiosity killed the family hen on Wednesday. It allegedly jumped to its own death. There would be no free country eggs anymore. Those lovely small brown ones which are more nutritious would not make it to breakfast table anymore.

The writer’s mother's chick dreaams disappeared in thin air. She wanted to see a set of small chicks come out. However, the family cock did not seem to cooperate very easily. The cock who sold his Ferrari is rumoured to have been living a previously undisclosed chaste life.

Semi-mourning prevailed at home for a few hours. More complaining was expected to happen when mother was to speak to her sisters later that night. However, temporary depression took over communication and speech completely. 

Ms. Mary Thomas who was not present at the crime scene claimed that this was clearly a murder. In case of a FIR, both the innocent writer and his grandmother (who also is innocent) stand to be named and interrogated. When made aware of this, Ms. Thomas cried foul and said, "Men commit the murder and implicate women ....patriarchy everywhere!" A known feminist, Ms. Thomas has always been known to uphold women rights across the country beginning from her own home. 

However, sources confirm that the writer's grandmother was unofficially in-charge of safety measures and security-breach as far as the poultry was concerned. Her consent to the job is still unknown. When contacted, she refused to answer. She was upset and disturbed by the sudden death. 

Ms. Tanya George reached the interrogation scene on Facebook and demanded more details. She is known to press people for information. She, however, is not part of any security forces. She is a designer who claims to be 'working' in Goa.

The tired writer explained, "It broke out of the window grill. Made a small hole big enough to squeeze out. The exacts cause of DEATH is still uncertain. There is a puncture in her right side. There was however no blood. Two dogs were seen fighting a few metres away from where the body was found."

When the story did not seem to convince enough, he added "And of course, they can jump to their own death. Haven't you heard enough of 'the Chicken cross the road' stories? They are known for their dumbness apart from laying non-fertilised eggs." His desperation was clearly visible in his tone.

Dr. Neel suggested that a post-mortem be done to exact the cause of death. An unknown Brahmin Doctor that he is, he added "the cause of death needs to be identified else her soul wont rest in peace." However, the request was denied because the writer's mother had already found peace. 

The writer's mother was seen munching a pack of Kurkure, an Indian snack prepared to distract people and induce stupidity. 

The writer's story did not seem to convince many on Facebook. There was certain unexplained inconsistencies in the stories. Ms. Tanya George pointed out that  grills have opening in them anyway. Ms. Thomas also made other allegations which were ignored by the writer.

Last seen, the writer's mother was still accepting condolences but has vowed that she wont try breeding poultry anymore. She is expecting a marriage to happen soon in the family. Alas! She is more hopeful than the parties involved. 

Technology and IT has ushered India into the new millennium in style and propelled India in to the mega leagues. Thomas Friedman's "The World is Flat" narrates the same in rather detail and some pleasure to Indian readers. It is filled with anecdotes that make some proud and some shriek. Some may debate the level of contribution, but sitting in AC rooms and running the city-life it is a reality that we acknowledge rather easily.

A friend of mine, Virgil Sequeira, recently relocated to Kalimpong. It is  a town which is significant in the recently-formed Gorkhaland Terrotorial Authority. He is innovatively teaching the locals students choral music. An interesting progress in their repertorie from playing stringed instruments to singing in harmony. The informidable Kanchengunja is visible from the school campus on clearer days. The inspiring Gandhi Ashram School has two orchestra comprising of Violin, Viola, Cello and Double Bass. 

One day, while his friends were playing on his phone, they activated the monthly internet pack instead of the daily scheme. It is not the first time that I heard of the locals activating the wrong scheme on their phones and exhausting their balance. If they had post-paid connection, they would have gone from impoverished to bankrupt. I don't know which is worse.

But what a blessing in disguise it has been from checking Facebook on the phone, it is now helping take computer lessons. With a laptop at his disposal, friends and former students of the school come to learn internet in the dormitory where he resides. The spacious dormitory turns into a comfortable classroom with several bunk beds to choose from. A coterie of interesting and ambitious high school students enter the dormitory inspired by Facebook network and Aircel connectivity. After the initial Facebook excitement tempers a little, new email IDs come for the fore. While Virgil uses Skype and attaches files to his emails to the United States, new aspects of email usage are learnt. And this is only the beginning.

Many citizens have donated their old computers to village schools across the country. It is surely the case of something better than nothing even if the programs are outdated and the OS version irrelevant. The Government has also provided several computers to its village schools but the scheme has several road blocks. 

Computer teachers are in deficiency. Where Computer teachers are available, electricity is a problem. I appreciate the Rural Electrification initiative but cables need to supply the elusive power to these villages. When electricity is available, internet is not feasible. Internet is still being seen as an high-end luxury than a tool of connectivity. 

Very few rural schools teach practical internet courses. They know how to begin the browser and just that. Many will never see the labyrinth that internet is. Several students passing the Tenth grade have learned computer in school but have never surfed the net. Not alone not collectively! They will pass only using Microsoft for typing purpose.

In such circumstances, fate has added a new vocation to my friend. From taking music lessons, he has branched out into computer classes. And beyond computers, touching lives of several students and befriending them for life. 

But there is a dire need for volunteers to tread the way to the villages to be pioneers and chart a new progress and reality. Till then, long live Virgil Sequeira!