Sunday, February 28, 2010

Entering a new world of boredom…

It seems like weather has changed, temperature just got tad hotter. Holi is near. Almost everyone left us in this jungle. Those left like me are trying to win back their  jolly days by serious heavy drinking and repeated ‘Hazipur’ trips. Yesterday even a trip to Excise department was not able to hamper our pugnacious self to be able to deny ourselves a trip to heaven after the sun sets  ‘HAZIPUR’.

It started as it always does. Shashank calling me “bhai daru piyega, ghar pe akele hain mann ni lag raha.” (bro would you like to drink, am alone at home and not feeling at home) .

Anyway we did enjoy d trip. A rather unusual as Shashank for the very first time i know gave away the keys without even thinking once…

Dude d way we consume alcohol makes me feel for the day when we would have had consumed every drop of alcohol on this earth and our kidneys lost….

Anyway hope this phase gets over soon….so a proper mental state gets restored… for now its full of boredom…


Saturday, February 6, 2010

The Lonely Bird

She could not fly , she did not cry,
She went on living as ever.
She did not sigh, she could not die,
And sing she did never.

In isolation far far away.
It lived a life downtrodden.
Her friends never wandered her way ,
And the bird felt quite forgotten.

She saw the other birds flying,
She saw them sing and chirp.
But no one saw her dying,
And no one came to her.

A bear, a toad, a croc, a pig,
Did live near the bird.
But they were different, they were big,
From them she rarely heard.

She had all one wants, all one desired,
But what she wanted was company .
She was respected, she was admired,
But what she wanted was pity.

Her life was good, it fell apart,
When the birds left her.
She dropped tears and lightened her heart,
Ah ! Pieces of diamond they were.

They said it had the best voice,
They wanted to hear her sing.
But they were left with no choice,
When the bird refused to sing.

She gradually grew sick,
Her feathers fell out.
They knew she heard the clock tick,
Of which they had no doubt.

Abysmally she had lived,
And abysmally she died.
Many came to see her,
But none of them cried.

Such is the irony of life,
Life is rarely lived.
Half of it is spent in strife,
And half in pursuit of it.