Trailer of "FLY MY LOVE LETTER TO ENGLAND".wmv

FLY, MY LOVE LETTER TO ENGLAND

Dear readers, pardon me if exist any mistakes in what I write here. To add, all I write here is fictional and not a fig of nexus exists between this imaginative world and my real world. 

Thank you.

“Sometimes waiting is conscious and sometimes, unconscious. Sometimes, the fruit of waiting is tasted and sometimes, fruit never blooms”

“Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,

  Though winning near the goal-yet, do not grieve;

     She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,

                     For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!” John Keats.

Fruition of love never brings happiness as Keats assumes. Love is not always defined by ‘made for each other’. Give and Sacrifice stands in high priority. A love letter is not always about darling’s love. It may also stand for Platonic Love. You are not a friend to me; you are not a teacher to me; you are not a love to me, you are something, beyond metaphysics to me.     

It is autumn now. Wind is blowing in high tide everywhere and yellow leaves farewell theirs home. The sky is painted in dark clouds. That afternoon, I sit beside my window with my guitar in my arms. Yellow leaves fill my garden with bright stroke. Everywhere silence prevails sparing the humming noise of wind. My heart beat hard in melancholy. I feel, nature wish to talk to me, but we are from different world and her language is alien to me only with the approval that what she wishes to speak, is of sadness and poignancy. I shift my head down to guitar and play the first string with light and care.

Till date, when I see the welcome page of Facebook, my heart throbs. My eyes had always been dry for tears were out of my rules. In my dream, for past years, I visualize giant blue background and white small-alphabets on it craving Facebook, but I cannot go beyond. I am bound by anonymous. But my heart doesn’t agree. So, I find another way to Facebook which is gmail, but as I creep inside, I find the way is blocked with a caution board ‘Deactivated’. When I shuffle my college atlas, my eyes remain static at the bright printed land of England. When the world is asleep and dozes, I awake, as you are awake in distant land. I walk down the street lonely with no fear. My heart is strong filled by gloom. I behold the moon in bright and smiling at me. I responses with a smile and appeals, “Bestow my smile to her, when you reach England.”

Wind is low now and rain of yellow leaves cease. I place down my guitar. Once you advised me ‘Look before you leap; think before you speak’ and thus, I follow you unknown to its aftermath. I scratch out a blank white sheet from my homework notebook and leap on it and holding in my fingers, a pen from my study table, I thus speak in ink.

Many years have passed since that memorable spring bloomed in me. I was blessed to you online by Facebook, when one day at Cyber Café, I was sitting idle at the corner of a small cabinet near the computer switched on with Facebook and my head leaning against the wall with my hands folded at the back of my head dreaming of some thousand friends in my friend list. It was evening and the café was humming with customers. I shift my head from against the wall and move close to computer screen and support my cheek on my palm and my palm on the wooden table. I dream of myself as a glamour with a celebrity page in Facebook. I dream of film world on which my left feet should step on in my future. I dream myself as a good social activist as well, working for the betterment of India. That moment, I hit upon a status with anticipation and update it, “Brain drain in the west- Why do Indians cruel upon India? India give us love, education, bring us holding our little fingers and make us stand, and when, it is time for a job and self-dependence, we fly west and India remain stagnant defeated and with same contamination. The fruit of our education is devoured in the west. India still, ain’t an Independent country. Brothers and sisters, awake. India is at stake!” and hit the Post button as well as Like. I keep on waiting for others to like. A couple of second followed, when one notification was shown. I encounter that one friend liked my status, who was none other than you. You called yourself Naisha. I jerked my shoulder with pride and clicked on your name to visit your profile and lo!

You were a pretty Indian girl worked in England at one of the top western film production company. Seeing your profile picture, I judged you as a moral girl, having simple dress code and void of artificiality. But “What a mess befall me now,” I murmured with a shock. “You liked the status?” I muttered with folded eye brows. I went through your all round bio-data and mugged you up in my mind. A minute later after a Like, a message appeared. “Hello, how are you? Do you remember me? I guess no.” you typed and went offline. God created this mysterious universe and along with, He also created a thing called ‘Co-incidence.’ We can never predict even a coming second in our future and this has made all the difference. I just sat on my place and stared at the message. I felt beyond the world. I cared not anything around me. I was lost within myself thinking, a little in your heart, you cared for me and forwarded your interest to know me. My joy seemed no bounds and that was enough for me. But, I could not recall I have ever chatted with you before? More than that, there were no messages in my inbox prescribing you. Cared not whether I had contact with you before, fumbling my hair I replied to you. “No I don’t know you. Who you are? ” I replied. I was not familiar with your time schedule of your surfing internet. Deep in my heart, I thought of knotting a bond with you. With no doubt and wasting no time, I added anxiously, “Hey, you are in film? That is great. You know myself too, interested in films and would be pursuing Film Direction next year. I hope, I can expect help from you.”

You made no hesitation to reply. Next day, I was in the cyber café to find your reply. Sitting in the extreme corner of a world, my joys seem no bounds. My ecstasy and spirit of delight spread invisibly far and wide till it shielded the whole world. And then, our chatting started in the way before, following day after day. Your English was stupendous and I became fan of your English word stocks. My word stocks were limited and so, I sometime, dithered with my dictionary to level my language at best before replying. I wished to know about my future study materials, about best institutes to be applied for and about scholarships granted. I wished to take my film study from the one in India you studied. But being worried about the fee structure, you consoled me saying there were other fabulous institutes to be applied in various parts of India.

Soon I felt necessity to have my own internet. I tried to convince my father to have me an internet but could not overcome father’s controversial rationality who feared I would become a victim of all debauched habits through the net of internet. I had grown a burning desire for internet in me. I felt that my day is lost if I failed to check my inbox and unable to reply you the same day. Ah, so desperate I was! My mind shifted to science when I evoke a fact that a rock is split into pieces after a long course of period of water collision. Father’s firmness is defeated at last and I won an internet with a promise of not to undertake darkness. I felt dejected sometimes and found no vent to expose it. I lost positivism and felt myself towards the dark side. I thought within myself and questioned myself whether I should expose it to you. You were no more a stranger to me, but I worried, whether you treated me as a stranger. It would be immoral to expose myself to you considering your highness and status and lifestyle, and I dared not to proceed, for I never wanted to lose you.

New Year arrived and I chose my New Year resolution of having a coffee with you that year. I knew not, how strange it might sound to my friends when I should disclose my resolution. I would appear as a centre of laugh and bluff. One day, I was much crestfallen and I knew not how, I found the guts to expose myself. I wrote to you that, I was scared of my life. I wanted to be independent like a free bird out of the four corners. I wanted to spend my whole life at Los Angeles, sitting on the Hollywood mountain and enjoy the serene beauty. Time, fixed routine and fixed syllabuses were not what I cared for. I cared to be man free of anxiety. I wished if my mother had been present, she could have consoled me. My heart beat fast when I sent the text to you. I visualized a huge wall raised between me and you. I waited and waited for your turn, for which I entitled you with the name, busy-bee. That mid-night, you replied at last for which I further entitled you as, Down to the earth. What I learnt that day about you, I would dare not to forget in my life time. For the first time, you exposed yourself deep to me and told that, you had lost your parent who met an accident when you were about to inform them your tenth class result. You and your sister were raised by your uncle then. That day, I could learn you better than anyone else. No more dejection prevailed in me then. I felt light everywhere. I discovered a parallelism between me and you. I remembered a common belief, which I acknowledged when I was a kid. When it rains during sunshine, it is the union of love, the marriage of fox. And the same happened with me. I smiled even though I was upset for you and I realised, I was in love with you. "Dear fair lady, would you like to be my girlfriend? I know how to cook, I would feed you; I know stories, I would read you; I know your tragedies, I would lure you to sleep; dear, I love you. Nothing has changed yet. We are just, in the modern version of the Shakespearean world. I sit in a distant corner from your world, and we would chat in letters just as Shakespearean lovers used to. We shall together bestow the castle with life, that you once built near sea beach with sands. We together, breathe, and liveth, till death," was all what I kept close in my warm beating heart but I dare never did such.

Further, you advised me regaining my positivism and corrected my acumen. I started respecting you. I could not sleep that night. I was ignorant and in dilemma about a cycle of relationship. I visualized three roads welcoming me, but the ends I failed to visualise. The first road is a question which I put myself about how did I suppose to fall in love with you. A girl always desires the hand of one, who can guarantee her for rest of the life, who could always be near her and share her world of tears, who can offer her everything she wishes. I possessed none among these. Even my advices would prove worn out to you as you already had the best assets close to your heart always, mental strength and self-belief. Your uncle might have raised you, but credit goes to your valuable assets which I learnt from you. I fear when I expose my love for you, I would lose you forever. You taught me to live; to be near perfect is what the second road succeeds. You had been my mentor all the time, chasing me and pleading me towards righteousness. You liked my statuses and whatever stuff I updated in Facebook. You turned the wrong notion to veracious. I visualized myself as a student before you and you as a teacher. But if it was about a teacher-pupil relationship, then, where lay the road of friendship. We both were learner in this world. We both had a vision towards Oscar and rely upon each other. We shared moments just as casual friends do. More than that, Facebook is a site of friendship. There are no special tabs in the Facebook for love or mentor. But to win over the fact, heart has no bounds and Love had been blind since time immemorial. Romeo and Juliet saw no difference in them and they let love immortal holding each other’s hands. Being a human, my passionate human heart could not conceive anything for love.

Dreaming you as my queen would be hilarious, as a tramp can never think of marrying the princess of his Kingdom. And if he has done, he is the source of hilarious and he is finally, beheaded. The three roads thus, welcome me, and I failed to choose none. Therefore, I chose to shoot myself on the spot. I drop down dead and three mysterious roads still lay before me to welcome. I lied to you with a reason masked and deactivated my Facebook account.

My resolution remained unsaid and as a dream that never fulfilled. I discovered myself that I was an escapist. Tears won over me and roll down by my cheek. In a battlefield, emotion is powerful than rules. Day passed without animation and night, in dark. In grief, I sketched you. Leonardo had no reason to sketch Mona Lisa, but I did have a reason just as Jack had for Rose. I begin with your sovereign hair, followed by your dark eyes, pinoy nose, smiling lips, chin and rest. My heart gradually fills with sorrows with the gradual completion of my sketch and finally, you were reborn. In my sketch, I had shown you my perfectness and my love grown in me till then. There was a sense of loss too, in your expression in the sketch. Art is a long life in short was all that I knew. I hide the sketch somewhere deep inside. I know not if ever the sketch would be discovered by you until my grave or following ages.

Wind is again, in high tide and yellow leaves farewell theirs home. I complete writing this in my white sheet and glance at the letters holding loose with light and care. She may have now forgotten me, and started her journey forward. Time is sometime kind and sometime, shrewd. But I console myself saying, we were united by film and we will be reunited by film. I wish deep in my heart if my love letter flies to England and reach her. Just then, a gust of wind cuts through the sheet and the sheet suddenly fly high with the passion and thrust of wind. In no time, I rush after the sheet and catch hold of it. I place the sheet back in the table on the same spot where I started writing.

                                                           That’s all Folks                                

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DRAGON TALE THE LAST STRIKE

AN ATHEIST'S LETTER TO GOD

‘When I die, let my freeze corpse spoil and mingle among soil. Where is soul, I know not.’ Holy altar is a place for pure, aesthetic human to dong the bell, to bow and to preach life and religion. I eat food cooked in the hearth of fire, drink water, sleep on earth and breathe the air. I am still ignorant who created nature and me; i am unsure whether nature created me or I exist for nature. My people follow their own religion, but I have none, for I am not christened to particular God, but myself. An atheist though born by body in the realm of a religion, but can never finish his hymn by his heart. Heaven or hell, salvation or damnation is his negotiation of disbelief. His mind is materialised and grows in the quest, until he is lost in a trance. I am born to the womb of a Hindu mother, but my wisdom conceals not my atheistic morals since my tiny eyes unfold. Twenty years striving and sweating in this earth, my path has shown mine resurrection. I am reborn. A lunatic beggar gave my second birth.

In this globe, where knowledge and perception supersede every matter, I am therefore, bowed to my father, whose rationality and branches of wisdom spread far a wide. Since youth, he holds my fingers and walking by the streets, he let his product shift to mine. He is a peace loving reserved fellow, the quality only which resembles to me. The more I grow up, the less dependency shorten on him. I inherit his rationality to think myself and started giving a new dimension to his acumen. His authenticity and warmth of his anticipation touches my heart. His own religious context, which is a source from Swami Vivekananda that, ‘that is the pure and fulfilled religion, which adore the combination of all the good tenets from different existing religions.’ Somewhere in my heart, I feel it to be justified. But- father remains unaware of my rebirth. Asking him a question about a lunatic beggar, I remain undigested to his reply. The second, whom I remain in debt for wisdom, is my English teacher. A holy God-fearing person, with a white holy mark on his forehead is whom I believe to respect and sharing of enlightenment. Saints are selfish to him who in high mountains passes his whole life in quest of wisdom and die with it. A universal doctrine follower is he, who too, escaped my target of quest. And then, I submit myself to the unknown path of God. Twenty years of my meditation of atheism has been scattered into pieces by a simple, downtrodden lunatic beggar living under the roof of a dilapidated hut of   a watchman near my nest. The watchman left and the hut grew among shrubs and tall grasses. Rich become richer, poor remain constant. Clock stick never rotates for the poor.

It is December by month and winter is in high tide. The beggar is anonymous; unknown to the fact of the arrival. Not even time welcome the beggar. It is only when I walk outdoor to close the main gate which lay wide open, that I encounter the beggar with my naked eyes standing opposite the gate with a little cracked silver dish and with a pale smile, the beggar look at me. The same join hands and bows at me. Only then, I join a title and murmurs, ‘lunatic beggar.’ The lunatic beggar has an ugliest face with blonde, thick, rusted long hair which is cut short and yellow teeth cuts out of broad, rough lips.  Short in stature and for the attire, the lunatic has worn faded, tattered sari raised till elbow, a rat eaten shawl covering the trunk, all in dust and bare footed. It is ten days past, I have been watching the tramp every daybreak till sunset. The tramp’s ways and modes, behaviour and pattern are the most interesting subject to study rather than prescribed syllabus. Only one per cent of mystery of this world is simplified and rest ninety-nine per cent still hold pride in them. This lunatic stand within the ninety-nine per cent leading a life of pride being smart enough to know that none can conquer the same. In daylight, she lays straight in the dust under the sun with her hands lay stretch and her limbs straight. Her palm is bruised and red; her feet are old with boils. Facing the clear blue sky, she becomes a temporary abode of other world. Time is accompanied by dogs of my lane who never behold how to welcome a stranger. They bark and grin at the tramp and leave defeated when their throat ache. The lunatic tramp has no identity, no mother tongue, no lease, neither religion nor God, except gender differentiate the tramp from me. Every time, she sees me, repeat her respect with joint hands and bows, placing her little dish at the bare street and often I find my main gate lay wide open through which cattle have entry towards the kitchen garden. With dilemma in my mind, I close the gate. In the midnight, I am awaken by jerk at her sore voice as she sings aloud with terrible rhythm, although her hymn echoes certain pain, sorrow and saddest past, which she might have gone through. The wintry night passes by her song and I develop addiction to her daily midnight rhythm which makes me lost in a dreamland, where I see myself fastened with a rope against a tall banyan tree and a witch is merrymaking, singing a pale song and boiling water in a huge cauldron upon huge fire, in no doubt, to consume me to fill her appetite. But gradually, her song turns to miserable crying and it halts after some couple of minutes, as she remain defeated against tire and boredom. One afternoon after my lunch, I come out under the sun only when I catch hold of the beggar inside my lawn. I observe her carefully to encounter that, she is picking up a bucket of water from the well and washing her small dish. She repeats the same for several times till she crossed twenty rounds, and more fascinating is that, each time does she fill her dish with water, she march on to her nest opening the gate wide open and she waters down the end of a small electric wire, which is fixed from soil to electric post. Again she marches back to the well and fills her dish with water and thus, carries on the same. When she is on her nest watering the post, cattle roaming nearby, get a free pass to my lawn and hover upon the vegetables in the kitchen garden. There is no way, that I can teach her to close the gate and stop wastage of water. I simply work on my patience and close the gate laid open by her every time and every day. December ends and the New Year follow. My friends celebrate the New Year and I accompanied them. The same night of the first day of January, we sit around the fire to merrymaking. Then, we are to select our New Year resolution. Every friend of mine has chosen theirs own. Some bachelors opined they would shun love, while few said they would cut short smoking and wine, and others resolved they would gift moon to theirs beloved. When it is my round, I tried to figure out long for the one, but nothing came to my mind. At eleventh hour, the lunatic beggar appears opposite the gate and reprises her respect to me with pale smile. I guess she wishes me New Year. My friends tease me and scuff at the beggar. She leaves the spot laughing. Suddenly, I hit my New Year resolution and I share to my friends. Friends laugh till belly ache flattering me and when defeated at last within, they pat my back encouraging and leave. Next afternoon, I wait at my window watching the gate. After a long interval, the lunatic beggar march towards the gate. I jerk myself to free, clear my throat and appear outside, before she could have touched the gate. Seeing me, she halts on the spot, lowers her head, place the dish in the street and joining hands, she bows at me. I tremble and unable to thrust my voice out. My cold eyes cannot show anger and my temper seems cold. I hesitate and fear provokes me. I question myself why I am unable to expose myself. I replies myself may be because she has not touched the gate yet. During my baffle, I am lost within myself. In this battlefield, confrontation is not a history. It is something new. I am not inbound by duty. I decide my own, what is wise. She stands on her spot in my mercy. I have power and she has none. No sooner did she step forward and touch the gate, I choose a path and shoot her dead.

Two roads welcome me. The one where leaves are fresh fallen and the other road, which has number of foot prints left by and I choose the latter which has made all the difference. I throw a simple question to my father and my English teacher that, which road Swami Vivekananda would have preferred if he had been in my place. The question is treated casually by them. I have no other option left. Choosing a path, I still float in the sea of catch 22. I wonder from two worlds. The lunatic beggar comes to my lawn every time only to wash her dish. Perhaps, she does not know what she does; perhaps she never realises, whom she is confronting with or what is called Water. Was I selfish, or I have made Justice, I ask Swami Vivekananda. Should I have embraced her or I have chosen the right path? Forgive them for they know not what they do is apt for her. But my rationality favours that tolerance has limit too. The act which can disturb others should not be led, but she was innocent. I might have offered sufferings to my religion, which could have been shunned by extreme patience level, but religion is made by us. Division is framed by us. Or I might have deviated from the best tenets that make a perfect religion. I question myself, is bearing the offence the best part of a perfect religion? But for sure I have violated the rules of humanity. Sometimes, heart is better than mind. This might be the crime that has given me a penalty and my place in heaven has been replaced by someone else’s good, for I hurt my God…

I open my eyes early dawn. It is the first day of January of the New Year. I walk to my gate dozy and open the lock from it. Casually, I see the street right and left. People are swarming in the fresh air. And then, my eyes shift to a small shed, where once the watchman of our lane used to live. My heart beat hard and fast and everything before me appear as a dark stage. I murmur, ‘O my God!’ All was a play in my dream last night. I realise, I have walked far away in the familiar path that I chose and the path gradually led me towards God and it is proved by my lips. Choosing the trodden road has shown me the way to God and I am bound to submit, ‘every atheist has God in them.’ She had accompanied me near to God. The dream is a diamond in my heart. But when I behold that the road that I chose had done me a justice against the injury I gave her, I feel miserable in this world more than the worst lunatic beggar breathing in this earth; I still feel, I have found no answer. Perhaps, she has disappeared with the answer.  

A Voyage Towards Sun

Create us again, O lord! Our flesh and bones farewell for west.
Born in our land, how die in strange nest-
Floating in trunk of sea, headless and footless
For we lost our peacock, somewhere in wild
Curse us not, O lord! Take us to our sweet home.

Black ink writ fate of our's
Peasants reaped crops till sweat and thirst
Half-naked saints hide beneath white snow for ages
She in glowed beam, prayed thrice
Dusted are our past, her beauty hath fallen prey,
in hunters net in the west.
            Awake, lively hearts. Follow not Gordon's pair of eyes
            Unfold thou own; sweat for thou land
                   and thou pyre flames in thou land.