Green...

As a child, I had a box of crayons. One night, I was soon done with sketching my ‘drawing’, hardly realizing that the crooked lines and distorted circles, I called scenery.

And then, almost half awake and asleep, I overheard the crayon box. “I don’t like red”, said Orange. “Nor do I”, said Pink. “I sit at the top”, said Blue, “And I give color to the sun”, Yellow quipped. I couldn’t hear Green; I wondered what it’d say. Black said “Am the Universe” and everyone fought. Green spoke mildly, “I am the undemanding ground. Everyone starts from me and ends in me. I allow the burden and wordlessly absorb everything. I I am pristine, Oh I am Green”.

And Green, I colored my scenery first.

Words...

I still remember the c-a-t and the m-a-t. The o-n-e and the t-w-o. It was arduous and seemed practically impossible to form words. The alphabets alone, 26 in number seemed a task for 26 lives, almost hinting dyslexia in me, but I managed. I managed to learn them all and even more…lots more. But no language is perfect, no vocabulary is adequate to the wealth of this valued world. I learnt words in many languages, still I feel lost to them, eventually wondering what is it that can encompass the whole rich, harsh and subtle experiences of this world full of words.

I would wonder how alphabets go straight into words and how words went straight into lines. Lines that could separate countries, that could break territories and wipe out things as tough as human bondages. Lines, which could create splits thorny enough to fill up, lines that could eventually devastate the state of all valuable experiences and events of life. These are nothing but words that form two lines apart…far enough for even the same man to straddle from one to the other. The grammar affects these words, breaking up infinitives affects these words, using negatives affects these words. Life, however by any means is not a handsome word! Sin and purity, hatred and love, rebellion and support, destruction and nurturing are all words. If we remember them, we know them. We put the word out of our mind, and they depart. Eventually all comes down to life being a long sentence, the only need…to end it with the right WORD.

Copy Right Kaveesh...

Do u like being copied? Aah..I plainly love to. Every now n then, every here n there, I find people copying me. I generally don't find anything that’s extraordinary or atypical about me, but I guess people do. Half of them elect to choose faults in me and then they try to incorporate those to burn out their follies. Its grotesque if u ask me. But I like it…really! It makes me feel so fundamentally outta the world. Gives me a reason to celebrate my ownself. Well, self-love generally needs to find out ways. My nephew asks me “How to be like u chachu?” and the other day a neighborhood aunt asked mom… “How did u teach Kavish to be such a well-mannered boy?”…Haha..I just smiled, smiled at her oblivious and dainty knowledge of my actual me. But, as I said…I like it always.

I always wanted to copy too. I thought inspirations work, but failed to feel inspired. I failed to be sumone else. Individuality.Originality. Novelty. Three things that I live by. But again, no one is made single handedly. Lots of people own me in some way or the other. I may have a thousand flaws, but still I am liked by many others to the extent of being emulated. My sister wants to be me in her next life. Why? She can’t answer. My students want to speak like me. Why? They can’t answer. My friends too like to take things from me. Why? I don’t care to ask.

As I end...I just wish to inform and request that There’s no Copyright Kaveesh. There’s just COPY RIGHT KAVEESH….PUHLEEEZZ!

Book‘ease’...

With the same old drudgery for over a month, I started to feel as if I am made to fulfill some unfulfilled desires of a handful of twitchy intellectuals. Life seemed to be pissing at my own past enjoyments populating me with all the possible anguish that it could bestow upon me in this festive season. But there was one thing I knew for sure...that life was bloody determined to force every last vestige of me into boredom and misery.

However, I always know how to come out of anything that’s bogging me down. This time, I took to books. As I walked pass every shelf at Landmark, no matter what genre it was, I realised how that life inside me wanted to get back to its original blithe. From Jane Austen to Ken Follet, Indra Sinha to Gurcharan Das, from the Spanish dictionaries to the book of funny one-liners…everything felt special in its own way. The place looked gleeful and I seemed to have found the lost ease in those set of papers. The scent of those pages riffling randomly almost took me to trance. Nostradamus’s predictions, Occult, Sudoku and even kamasutra was bliss generically.

Books can never defraud you. That’s true. I have GBs of e-books on my laptop. However still, there is nothing that can beat those pages bound and spined. So here’s to anyone who’s at a loss to life and comfort. There is no other power than the power of words…no better ease than book‘ease’…

My Own Made....

There are half a thousand things that I don’t like on and about this rotating earth, one of them being the kindly race of humans. Yesterday my Orkut homepage buzzed me bout my fortune….It enticingly showed… You are kind-Hearted and hospitable, cheerful and well liked..!

Just like every other day, I shifted my glance from it. But, then, I went back to it. I asked mortifying Orkut, “Who did u just call hospitable and kind hearted?” I am supposed to hate people who call on and I am made to be harsh towards the kindly race of humans. And then I questioned him vindictively, “Don’t you fuckin know that I have problems with each and every fleck of the kindly race of men??” and there I got the answer…Soothingly seeping into me… “I myself am a problem”. The greatest problem is within me. Laughter and cry, fortune and adversity are all my own made. Friends and relatives, those who come and those who go, are all my own made. My praises, my follies and my being above no one else are all my own made. Then why do I abhor what ‘I’ have not made?

It’s dense but the question again is my own made. Does this happen to anyone of you all too? Do u also hate what u have not made?