when we are born nobody marks our dispositions-whether good or bad,desirable or undesirable,acceptable and abominable. until we grow into priced bones and a concise of possibilities of future yield we don't deserve any yardstick of the being. neither we know what is good and bad until we participate in either of it. the books, the sources, the dimensions-deep,frothy,fragile,inimical help us buy the prevailing. as we nod each time we know there's still some indistinct to us. we are languid then to forage for the further realism and a better meaning as we still reside in the schism between good and bad. we don't reserve any thought for impending vile for we are assured that nothing of that sort has ever besieged the entire of us-'worldhood', if we can say. we are barely assailed by choices and undercurrents. we bore the heavy trudge of the chief giver, the infallible. we break our mind into splinters to be a part of thriving means not finding our own to salvage ourselves if forced prudence gives way.

We have read about scholars and theorists belonging to different schools of thoughts. they don't embrace any chasm or schism. legal theorist Austin accorded authority in absolute one while Rousseau invested people with power.do any of them belong to the swimming area between the deep and shallow water. whether delusion or realism banks on a conflict between a collective perspective and our own shaped,distorted,stimulated by an unbridled pursuit ....but it is still our own...we learn to climb the ladder of evocative and speculative alike ..we learn when we all say 'we beg to diifer' but being presumptuous is simply being overt and a temerity to create glib waves out of clear ripples. those who cash in on situations aiming to act vagrant fly kites in a room with ceiling..is it a wonder or a waste of the seeming wonder..?..what was the great deal or force in rss argument that M.F Hussain's paintings are derogatory to Hindu belief..to me they were maleficent towards Hussain with a circuitous hope to gain political mileage and to gain a mb space in transient memory corpse of public. religion is a facade we live in allowing ragtag to brew their identification-specifics.these are relative contingent upon our personal ramifications. the competitive spirit works in high vigour much to my surprise. all are pitted against each other in monstrous identification rampage..identification is a mere chimera unless supplied with trappings of religion.religion is a primary contour in the face of identification. the latter is a fantasy brought into being by religious rigours. just as the pallid soil deepens with the supplied water so as the identification is reinforced through the religious parameters.

those who classify between good and bad,proper and improper do it so on the basis of their understanding of good and bad,willed and devised.it doesnt by itself render anything good or bad. if it does so by accidental worth it is a delusion of grandeur they live in while we in the myth. the upshot is mirage, an untoward meaning and forthcoming spree of discordance. its us who live like we love to be in oblivion forever.can we afford to subsist in the stale of parochial? can we discreetly cut the tentacles away?are we up for nouveau power of liberalism?

hey this lyric is woven by my all time favourite don mclean,a renowned american musician who was catapulted to fame by the gripping number 'american pie'.and the song is 'homeless brothers'....just swing your eyes through the lyrics and surely you would have a deja vu of a sight so somnolent.enjoy.....

HOMELESS BROTHERS
I was walking by the graveyard, late last Friday night
I heard somebody yelling, it sounded like a fight.
It was just a drunken hobo dancing circles in the night,
Pouring whiskey on the headstones in the blue moonlight.
So often have I wondered where these homeless brothers go, Down in some hidden valley were their sorrows cannot show,
Where the police cannot find them, where the wanted men can go.
There's freedom when your walking, even though you're walking slow.
Smash your bottle on a gravestone and live while you can, that homeless brother is my friend.
It's hard to be a pack rat, it's hard to be a 'bo,but living's so much harder where the heartless people go.
Somewhere the dogs are barking and the children seem to knowThat Jesus on the highway was a lost hobo.
And they hear the holy silence of the temples in the hill,And they see the ragged tatters as another kind of thrill.
And they envy him the sunshine and they pity him the chill,And they're sad to do their living for some other kind of thrill.
Smash your bottle on a gravestone and live while you can,that homeless brother is my friend.
Somewhere there was a woman, somewhere there was a child,Somewhere there was a cottage where the marigolds grew wild.
But some where's just like nowhere when you leave it for a while,You'll find the broken-hearted when you're travelling jungle-style.
Down the bowels of a broken land where numbers live like men,
Where those who keep their senses have them taken back again,Where the night stick cracks with crazy rage, where madmen don'tpretend,
Where wealth has no beginning and poverty no end.
Smash your bottle on a gravestone and live while you can,that homeless brother is my friend.
The ghosts of highway royalty have vanished in the night,The Whitman wanderer walking toward a glowing inner light.
The children have grown older and the cops have gripped us tight,There's no spot round the melting pot for free men in their flight.
And you who leave on promises and prosper as you please,The victim of your riches often dies of your disease,He can't hear the factory whistle, just the lonesome freight train'swheeze,He's living on good fortune, he ain't dying on his knees.
Smash your bottle on a gravestone and live while you can,that homeless brother is my friend.That homeless brother is my friend.

A LOST MARK
When doors are closed
I assured you myself
The exterior so crude and duping
You still looked with earnest eyes
When the words fell
And shattered my writing
The thunder that broke the prisons
So blatant a sight
Before long the echo of silence crippled me
You gloating fool
Believed like a deformed pacified
I never sought the meaning
A stay by the glimmer
Of something,of sliver,of trace
A trail inexplorable,an exhuming so futile
The far away explanation
So less voluminous with shreds of forsaken flakes
The shuddered steps so enshrouded
You will get the pending answer
The day I will forget to write
The day my nerves will rest
The day you will interrogate the glooming vain
I shall leave a whisper by your ear
To calm your insensibilities
The glint of the embers is of scant worth
Like that of horse who never careens off
The moment of retrieving will unlock my pain
That deepened unawares
That would qualify my smiles
That would make those hushes a deafening scramble
That would render the lurked,the stark,
The inflicts of voidness,meaningless
The mires of nihilism a glamourised mist
A moment that shall prove your doomed existence and failures.
After that there would be no harking back.

It was just a dainty night

In its blazing bosom senses

I trudged and turned back

A casual brush

On tracing the washed away innocence

The only car that honked on the streets

The only ruffian who howled and wandered

His words echoed the repressed prances and tamed thrills

Toed the edges of cliched and feared axioms

His song has little audience

It was lousy banal affair with nocturnal naivety

His bottle a muse for narcissm and the dog's eyes a symbol of self-glory

No mighty repulses,no signs of kins

Just loose hanging remorses

Like a salient criminal

He squats and conforms to called for agonies

A wrap,A shadow

He has a sense of waning conspiciousness

In the bottle the bubble holds truth

Waits for nod of none

Neither the pragmatic nor the ascetic

Neither the prudent nor the opulent

nether the cynic nor iconic

Neither myself nor himself

Every night and before dawn a life is murdered

A life whose later births remain incognito.

I retreated from the day consulting my conscience, senses of approval and propriety of mannerisms.No i actually didnt respond to the clarion call.All what i did was that i became the a part of the regularities for few moments and the rest remain freezed,solidified,intangible veil,unparalleled but personally visioned and uniquely conversed.A little refuge,a little walled room laced with my wanderings,a lost mind,a soul embrasive of guilty deeds of seeking mendacious paths for demanding the phase of finely defined isolation,little space much distant from stimulating bitching sessions and sarcasm without any formidable meaning to it. Somethimes things can be so meaningless and random.Those moments when i plunged in Tagore's poems,those moments when i circled around the stacks of books,those moments when never did i have to overassess the ambiguities and feel like dropped-in- pit like cynic,those moments when conversation didnt have the mandatory requirement of two minds,two souls,two facing nicely chiselled biological structures and converged into one and feeling of self-sufficiency and self-emphasis (briefly drunkard narcisst)resurfaced were optimally savoured,or should i say,devoured by me.The time laid down with broken arms,it laid down its mission for ceaseless acquisition and conquest occasioned by the fracture and amputation.And guess what i danced in thrill at such severence and obliteration.

Let the baby sleep in peace
Like the pearl in a shell
Like the curled up pigeon in the waning refuge
Lets not throw up fears of sanctions
Let not for once blood and and diamond become synonymous
Let not the clay of blood become the cliched playarticles of children
Let not human killing instruments become instrumental in human existence
Let everyone control their livid hormones and raging possibilities
Let the baby sleep in peace
Lets not wake her up from raw floating dreams
Lets not prevent such dreams to rupture into reality
Lets not tell her that world is a bad bad place
A place for grim frames of inaction and maloccurences
A place where lives are extinguished out of intolerence
A ground with splotch and stench of blood
A ground,A grave for nameless bodies
Dont rush,just trudge and see
How labour sows slews of alternatives aginst ceaseless killings and habitual strifes
Just walk and feel the restlessness of positvity
Stop scurrying to pulverise homes and charr lives
Allow the wife relish returns arising from extols and ackowledgements from her blood kins and spouse
For the food she makes
Its that time of the day she maximises her worth and bathes in self-contentment
Lets not make her the deprived damsel
Let the child lurk behind his mother
Let the child play with fake guns
To make a show of his innocuous power and not-so-refined gallantry
Lets not translate such veneer of childhood musings into blocks of realism
Let them hear the sounds emanating from battery-induced guns and not witness splotch of blood as consequence
Let them realise that causing deaths are not their prerogative rights
Let not the diamond dazzle and gleam with a murky scar
Let the acts of plunder and nefarious killings be adjugded
Let for once delineate the rationale behind human existence and prevalence of peace and sanity
Let for once question god and ask him
I know, i concede, i nod
He will tell you what human lives seek over the past million years
Let the baby sleep in peace
Let not rip her off from the sheath
Lets not crush her heart and organs
Lets not reduce her to tatters of oblivious object
Let her cry and react
Let her build the innate impulses
Let her see what blood relations are and not flaming blood
LET THE CIVIL WAR END
Let SIERRA LEONE,UGANDA,ETHIOPIA spearhead peace movements
Let the use of arsenals of arms and ammunitions become an extinct operation
Let the baby sleep in peace
Like the pearl in a shell.