The moving finger writes.............

To speak, or not to speak, That is the question; Whether ‘tis better to suffer fools and their babble, Or to use the acid tongue and end them all. Whither is the right way- Tact or forthrightness, Mindless snides and chatter, Or opinions that mean what they say? I much prefer the latter; But then, I do so at my own risk. To speak, perchance to scream, Ay, that’s the rub, For, at the height of screams, What solitude may come, When we have shrugged off this mental toil. - Jan, 2012 (Thanks, William Shakespeare, and my apologies for twisting your words)

I have grown accustomed To this vacant space, Empty roads are back again, The sound of silence Drowns out the din of traffic. My room is the abode For all tenses- past, present and future. Empty space on the wall, The clock had stopped ticking. Every morning I fly to distant lands; Redemption from the tyranny Of the present. - December, 2012

(on board a Shivneri Volvo, from Pune to Bombay) This morning, As I sit on the bus, The road leads me on Through the undulating hills; I have seen them lush green, In the flush of monsoons, But now they are grey, With specks of green. At times I think- Are we like this; From green to grey, And back to green? Ecstasy at times, Weariness at others, Taking their place at the driver’s seat? The bus gives a jolt, Then lurches forward, There are people around me, But it’s a lonely road. Our worries are our inheritance, But our journeys our own, We live to love, But die for living. The distant houses Come and go; Home is a place I have struggled to find. Love is a metaphor, Life is a maze, Where is the harbour That anchors the mind? The bus enters A dark tunnel- Light at the end; Is that how our lives Must necessarily be? Drudgery tolerated To find delight, Ages of melancholy For a minute of ecst