Giving Wings To Dreams

A boatman trapped in the middle of a raging storm, looked pleadingly towards the persistently rising tides, vigilant to the fact, that from land he had drifted too far to expect assistance in any form. Waves after waves were touching the mammoth skies, As if making space to gulp and swallow the boat alongwith its boatman. Up there in the firmament gloomy clouds also appeared to be scheming that day, peering into every corner of the incensed ocean, to make sure to turn everything upside down,  to spare no pains in order to move heaven and earth, to extinguish the lamp of hope that would always stay lighted in the boatman's little heart. The lamp of light that had previously preached the poor boatman to spare no effort, to pull out all the stops and to be ready to move the mountains if need be, was as if eclipsed. Dense clouds were ready to burst on the frail watercraft, to dig the water grave of the God- fearing seafarer. The able-bodied seaman, beseechingly fixed his gaze towards t...

A saint sitting on a silent island, mastering silently the art of meditation, Seems satisfied with soundlessness, wordlessness, voicelessness and speechlessness of the vicinity.  The reticence that his soul holds signals, towards  something for sure that is concealed, unsaid, unheard and may be suppressed. Pensive and spiritual are outwardly his ways, deep down inside the silent cave of his superficially silent heart, There can be traces of some painful scars.  With his stern silence on the silent island, he might be venturing to find the scheme of salvation for constantly screaming earthly souls, because to practice and preach selflessness is his sole goal. Amid his silent ways and prayers surprisingly and contrastingly the silent island,  Like an orphaned baby awaits for the painful silence to break, It awaits for sweet chiruppings of the little  birds to fill the silence of its surface. For constant sea waves to strike its silent shores to end the tranquility...

Irony, satire, pun and word play leaves touchy sensitive hearts battered and in a fitful sway. Truth seemingly is tightly bottled, sealed or buried inside the airtight , impassable thick layers of lies.  On surface, every image is sugary sweet , but beneath the plain exterior there is an ocean of cramped uneasiness, grappling hard not to ooze out, not to leak out the shades of grim truths. In  our contemporary cosmos whatever is fake is real, and surprisingly  irony is whatever strikes as real is fake. ' All that glitters isn't gold', is often just casually told. But these are the golden words pointing poignantly towards the candidness of the aforementioned maxim. God's eyes are needed to decipher truth lying defenselessly dormant inside the deep ditch of resilient web of lies. Howsoever, puny truth may squeal the ear-splitting screeches of rugged lies always succeed in muffling  up the genuine cries, unless the receptor has  inherited the empathy and unbiased e...