animesh kumar

Running water never grows stale. Keep flowing!

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wo lamhe

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wohlamhe2pI am borrowing ideas these days; nothing left with of my own. It’s a translation of a Hindi song I am listening to for almost all the time these days.

Let’ go home, my love!
Let’ go home, my love!
Let’s walk to a lonesome place,
empty of city’s rush,
of these thousands of people, and their pace.
For a while, you, take me away,
Let’ go home, my love!
Let’ go home, my love!

Come close, close to me,
Bridge the distance, whatever may it be.
Hold me; diffuse inside.
Hug me; unto our hearts.
Drown me, into your love endless,
End the tortures of lone nights.
Break the chains, and their rules,
Come close to me, into me.
Let’ go home, my love!
Let’ go home, my love!

Original Lyrics:

na jaha bheed ho.
na jahan bhar ke log.
na shaher mein base lakhon logon ka shor.
chand lamhe tu inse mujhe durr kar.
chal chale apne ghar, hummsafar

duriyan de mita, jo bhi hai darmiyan.
aaj kuch aise mil, ek ho jaye jaan.
bhar mujhe baahon mein. le duba chahaon mein..
pyar kar tu bepanah…khatam bechain raaton ke ho silsile..
yun laga le aaj apne gale..
thod har bandishein, aaj mujh me utar.

Written by Animesh

October 10, 2006 at 2:25 am

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Good bye world

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Thinking out of the blue; may be life. Weird, as usual!, but sequentially this time.

1.  I can’t stop bleeding,

2.  I am losing you and, my heartbeats.

3.  You still there, else who is it: lurking so silently in so deep a dark.
Death perhaps!

4.  A story that ends happy remains, in the memory, happy. I will be happy, in your memory, a happy person, indeed.

5.  Enough of this brouhaha, put the lights off, let the dark suck into it, and gulp me in, into its enormous vastness, and let me sleep, devoid of hopes, duties, burdens, loves, lives.

6.  “Good bye world!”

Written by Animesh

September 28, 2006 at 2:23 am

Posted in Diary

Fabled me

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I have a bad habit of drawing a fable out of anything. Be it a minor incident, or some higher spiritual shot, I would try to make a didactic lesson, and would never write a line if it doesn’t spread a message. How sick I am, thinking all the time about others, and their lessons, or have become writing, and then reading, my own stuffs, learning and unlearning and again learning from them … I am tougher to my life now. I don’t take things as they come, I ignore them, simply as if they never came to me, simply indifferent, or I deny them – apathetic. And slowly life has become tougher to me as well, and now, ceased to happen altogether.
No more are we running parallels; we are separate, independent of each other, alone, content. Devoid of own life – engrossed, rather lost, in my made-up stories, thought-up fables – breathe, I peep into the other’s lives, draw oxygen from their lungs, sucking blood from their veins, living vicariously, like a fabled beast: the ugly beast who prayed upon beauty of the beauty.

So what do you do in such a situation? Yes, when you don’t have a life, and yet, you are living, what you do?

“I make fables. I write them. Live them,” I replied, simply.

Written by Animesh

September 22, 2006 at 2:23 am

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Forever

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“Forever?” it was a question, or an answer to what he was asking himself for the last few days, to things he couldn’t understand, satanic, ghostly, sometimes lovely, tempting, kind of a rubber ball held in hands, pressed against the pressure and its own past, to the will of a single man, or of the whole universe, or just of its fate – questions lurking so deep, so deep that he felt them become part of his anatomy, physical, spiritual, and sometimes he saw them becoming he, clouding over his existence with such god-dam bleakness that he wanted to run away, far to a distant place, and while running he saw his thoughts clutching at him, and dragging him back to the point where he had started, and then he asked such things – to whom? – that was not important. Forever doesn’t come on its own, you got to make way for it; and then after its lifetime, un-make for another forever. No forever is for ever. “Heck, you don’t know even the basic principles,” she cried at him, seeing him lost, duped with the uncertainty of the certain.

Men are the lost animals.
And when they try to seek for themselves, they find only darkness.
They are what they are not; what they should never be.
Personal crisis.

“Can you guarantee me your love for the whole of our lives, this one, the next one, and the next…write me this, and fix it somewhere in the history, can you?” The anger, built over silence is nauseating. He was stinking of his thoughts, of the lack of thoughts, of disorder, of hatred. She could have held his hands then, put his head in her lap, stroked his hairs, her fingers soothing his head, the disordered, burning head, sweeping the remnants of hatred away from the roots of his hairs, and have talked him through that mess. But she had her own mess to talk to. Her personal dustbin.

That night he couldn’t sleep a wink.
And the night after that.
And that.

Until he left home, in one similar dark night, left her sleeping in the dining hall, on the porch, where she snored hanging between the floor and the roof, precarious balance, he thought, at mercy of four iron rods, her whole life, and found no space for a fifth rod. And he left, without any letter under her pillow, or any indication to tell her about his exodus from hell to god-knows-what. Her breathe, typically masculine breathe, followed him until the main door of the house and bid him good-byes, best-of-lucks, fir-aanas. Even her snore wasn’t part of her.

Written by Animesh

September 4, 2006 at 2:22 am

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once more the same thing – 4

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“I am blank these days. Nothing seems to cross my way. What…at peace? I am not sure. But it’s quite….you know…the kind of tranquility they used to talk about and the sound they said that started all…am soundless these days…nothing much…”
“Once you are into this game, all you know is fear.” I could sense his eyes piercing through my skull, reaching me, to the basest core of mine. “Aren’t you scared?”

“Who…me..why?” and moved his eyes off my shoulder, at the painting pinned to the wall. “Look at that.”

“You stop talking in abstract terms. Take on with it if it’s that irresistible. Don’t screw your life.”

Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight whom? There wasn’t any enemy, only a thought – a distraction.

Written by Animesh

August 31, 2006 at 2:22 am

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strange things happening

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Lately I was reading Dr. Brian Weiss, his take on past lives and the concept of reincarnation, and how our souls resurrect into lives to balance their previous births, and to gain knowledge and higher understandings. Initially I was vastly cynical, but slowly as the book moved ahead, he took me.
It was basically an account of clinical processes that he and one of her patient underwent, but during the course, they both discovered what they actually were, and what they were meant for. The book unfolded itself gradually, and ignoring those insisting didactic messages, it was a good read.

I am personally little prone towards mystics and so-called-higher stuffs of life. And this book abetted me to dwell more into the similar thoughts.

If relations and relatives are assigned to you by the dint of your past activities and accounts, I came to believe that I was in heavy debt in my last births.

I believe I am paying them, somehow. And I would probably be in a better state in my future births. But things are different at present. How to deal with all these stuffs at once? How to live my daily life indifferently, on mathematical calculations of past lives? I deserve to err sometimes. Don’t I?

If only things had gone my way, I…

But things go in strange fashions.

Written by Animesh

August 19, 2006 at 2:21 am

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once more the same thing – 3

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If something is increasing with each passing day that has to have a meaning, meaning that is profound and deep and which is rooted somewhere far deeper than our eyes can chase, and our understanding can decipher. And then begins the great saga, and written then is the history.
I was not he. Still, I could peep into his heart and see how he feels a particular feeling and reciprocate to that, when he fell there in front of her, decrying himself and his ego and whatever remnant of self-respect he was left with, openly, in front of everyone, of her, of himself, and when he bent down to his knees and folded his palms, entwined his fingers, I felt as if he was about say a prayer, but no, there was no god in front of him, no temple, no pundit…that wasn’t a prayer, prayers are never said with tears in eyes, with such an afflicting pain in heart and so much plead in voice, he was not praying, he was begging. Yes. That’s what he was doing – begging for her, to her.

I cried. Yelled at the fullest of my voice.

Blinds don’t listen.

Later, when she was gone, I carried him in my arms. Still in the failure of that moment, he couldn’t understand what happened. And what was happening. He thought he was dreaming, in the night, in the dark night, in the darkest of all nights. There was no dawn lurking, no sun lingering, no light, no hope, only darkness, stark darkness…all bleak. All bleak!

I felt as if I was inside him, as if all his nerves and wires touched me before they reached his brain, his pulses were mine, his blood mine, his failure mine.

That was a strange connection: connection that didn’t connect anything, but didn’t even leave anything unconnected too. Strange mathematics.

He needed to talk. He needed it so damn much, so damn urgently, and he kept looking at the roads and trees and passersby. But never at me. He was probably ashamed of himself. Of the act that had disgraced his existence. Of me being a witness of that act.

Did he need consolation? Or rewards? Or just a chance to rewrite his past, his history?

But talking is not always an easy game. Especially when you have so much to talk about and you don’t know where to start from. There is no single point to get into, not a single opening, not a crack, not a hole, no doors, no windows, nothing to peep in through, but only the desperate urgency to get inside the trap and vent your feelings out for the external world to look at, to laugh at, to make fun of.

Sometimes you want to be humiliated. Sometimes you want to be segregated, castrated.

I couldn’t start the long due conversation, and kept driving. The breeze blowing in through the window kept my head cool. And suddenly he found a crack, like it rains in otherwise sunny day, suddenly and abruptly with no pre-omen, no pre-sign, and jumped onto the thread, “you know what it feels like?”

“like hell.”

“yeah. Like hell.” He looked at me, his eyes flooded with self-pity, his hands fixed on his thighs, clutching as if his legs were a prized possession which were sold in an auction and soon he would lose them, as if his legs were his love, the last remnant of what he was when the first day he saw her, the first time he talked to her, the first evening they went on a ride, the first night he took her out for a dinner, and a few moments ago, when he threw himself on the ground before her, begging and pleading, on his knees, his legs had held him, close to earth, close to himself, to his love, and now he would lose them, any moment, to an unknown future, unplanned life. His grip tightened. His look fixed more sternly. Lost somewhere between this world and the void, in the space between me and he, in the thoughts of love and loss, he was pinned.

All I had for him then was pity.

I hated such moments of self-denouncement. And I hated him for this.

Written by Animesh

August 15, 2006 at 2:20 am

Posted in Diary