Death Is Waking Up In A Train

I often imagine death as waking up in a train.
You wake up in a white, silverish train with silver metal seats carefully arranged in the sides like an array so that they face each other.
The floor is greyish and after each coach is a small plastic tube of the same colour connecting the coaches.
You wake up and find yourselves sitting at the foremost seat of the foremost coach. The train is moving very fast and everything is shaking. There is no sound at all, except  a pleasant song from your childhood. It’s like you are wearing earphones. You glance out of the window and see familiar places passing you by, in a beautiful sunny background which is reminiscent of a pleasant weather.
You stand up and look around. The seats are almost full. Each and every person you had ever met in your life is occupyng a seat. You take a stroll towards the last coach, passing through the junction tubes, holding silver poles to compensate the shaking.
You see your mother, your father, your lover, everyone. But, they don’t recognise you. They just look at you, stare at you suspiciously, as if you are a stranger who stole something valuable from them.
And, for some reason, you cannot talk to them. You cannot open your mouth, you cannot think of speaking. The only thought that is running through your mind is that you know these people and that at some point of time, they must have known you too. And, that is all you can think of.
You continue to walk and soon reach the last coach. The shaking starts to get milder, and milder, till it stops altogether. There are no familiar places outside the window anymore, and nothing is moving either. You just see a white platform. Slowly and sluggishly, the doors slide open and just, as they do, you notice that there is no music playing anymore. There is no sound at all, in fact.
You look inside the train, everywhere. Everyone is still just sitting. No one lifts his head, no one bats her eye. No one steps to get off, except of course yourself. It’s time.
You slowly walk outside. The train doors close behind, dramatically. The platform is like any other platform, only cleaner and whiter. There are a few people around. There is a weather around, but nothing other than the whiteness of the platform is noticeable. It is like a dream.
As you look behind, you see the train going away, carrying everyone you had ever known. But, you are not sad. Both they and you have let go.
You turn back around to face the platform, and just as you do, the music starts again. You take a step forward, slowly and gently picking up your right leg and putting it down a little in front of the left one. And, just as your sole (soul) touches the ground, everything except the music fades into white nothingness- oblivion.

NaPoWriMo Day 24:Life Goes On

This poem is based on the following prompt:

Our prompt today (optional, as always), will hopefully provide you with a bit of Friday fun. Today, I challenge you to write a parody or satire based on a famous poem. It can be long or short, rhymed or not. But take a favorite (or unfavorite) poem of the past, and see if you can’t re-write it on humorous, mocking, or sharp-witted lines. You can use your poem to make fun of the original (in the vein of a parody), or turn the form and manner of the original into a vehicle for making points about something else (more of a satire – though the dividing lines get rather confused and thin at times).

“Life goes on”
He used to say it.
Despite everything, it goes on.
He used to shout it.
But, does it really?
You’re 28
And, you have no job
Your lover promised you love,
And, since is gone.
You have no friends,
And, your efforts are vain
You are alive,
But, living is pain.
But, sure,
Life goes no.
Is it life?

Halcyon

This poem comes after a really long gap. I was more involved in writing stories and epiphanies for the past few weeks. It all depends on what I feel like, or what is going on in my life. It’s amazing if you think about it. I recently shifted my preference from rhyming poems to free verses. I’m not sure why. Let’s see. 

Laughter
Happy, cheerful giggles
The loud grins
Of a 50 children echoing
In a class of 51

Only one wasn’t present
His mind wandered
His vision lingered
Out the window
Around all the beautiful things
Phenomenal things
Marvelous things
That he hadn’t come to encounter
As yet.
And around that one being
He couldn’t get his mind off from
Who had told him about those things
The one
He couldn’t meet now.
Couldn’t be with.
Couldn’t forget.

Laughter
Happy, cheerful giggles
The loud grins
Of a 50 children echoing
In a class of 51
And the scene
Wasn’t a happy one.

Episode III: Radio

“The next song” he would say “The next song that the radio plays would describe my future life.”

A declaration based on the notion that everything, as insignificant as the next song on the radio and as little as his declaration of these words, happens for a reason. Everything is connected and interrelated. Our souls aren’t floating in a space of boundless infinite serenity of chance, but are closely tied together by reason and fate.

“The next song would describe my future life” He would say.

————-

He spent his entire life, or what was left of it, tagging an immensely sullen song as a happy, cheerful one.

Was his life sullen? Or happy?
Depends on what we mean by happiness.

Episode I: Night

One day he will wake up just to discover that everything around him, everything that he had ever seen, the way people behaved, the way everything was, all the love that he had received, was all a dream, fantastic world that he had woven around himself because the reality was too much for him. And the brutal irony is, that he already knows about it. He already knows that everything around him, all the positive things, all the optimism, is dream. He knows that one day, he will have to wake up. But, he doesn’t want to wake up, he doesn’t want to accept the reality. He just wants to sleep just watch it rain all day long, all night long. He wants to live in that fog. He just doesn’t want to know.

Meeting Place

Wait on, she said. Just wait.
It is not how it looks and you should know.
It is not what I meant.
I ask you again, my love, do not go.

I have to. He said. I just do.
I am happy to have just stopped the rain.
I am but a collateral damage.
Another life, we will meet again.

The Pursuit of Happiness: Why We Loved The Movie

I remember this one scene from “The Pursuit of Happyness”, in which Chris Gardner (Will Smith) passes by the building of a brokerage firm, and after observing the people around him comments (while narrating the scene) “They all looked so damn happy to me”.
Ironic, in my life, never have I once gotten a chance to experience this scene. In fact, if anything, it is the other way round. While walking on roads, sitting somewhere, talking to people, upon observation, all I will be able to comment (while narrating the story to someone) is “They all looked so damn sad to me”.
It’s true, paradoxical, but true. In fact, this is why the movie was loved by people in the first place. The majority, it didn’t relate with the happy brokers, no! They related themselves with Chris Gardner, the man who was not happy, but in the pursuit of happiness.
The question is “If we all are in the pursuit of happiness, who is happy?”

Viva La Vida: DP Challenge

For his whole life , Mr.  Gorakh Lal Mehta never believed in one very particular thing – life.  His unacceptability to the concept of life could be traced back to his childhood .
When he was just 11 years old, his parents were brutally murdered at the hands of a millionaire industrialist. With no one to care,  he, along with all his 7 siblings, was abandoned on a footpath.  Although all the seven siblings were admitted in an orphanage, he was lost In the streets on Mumbai.
He, soon realised, at this very young age, how callous and unsympathetic people were. It appeared as if life ceased to exist on Earth . People were but lifeless – with no emotions, and certainly no love.
Finally, after years of sauntering, plodding, mind-numbing toil, beggary, and brutal exploitation at the hands of  factory worker, he concluded that the life did not exist at all . People were just non living things and had to be dealt the same way .
All that existed and was of value was money, a lot of money –  his passion, his love and his only dream .
Making a lot of  money legally was too difficult. Making the same amount illegally too risky. Somehow , Gorakh Lal managed to fulfill both the tasks, though for him the latter was former.
Now After 60 years and a lifelong history of cheats , frauds and swindles , today, Gorakh Lal’s net worth was
$ 990,000 . His only dream was to reach $1,000,000 .
That day , he received a phone call .
“Hello ? ”
” Good morning , Mr. Gorakh Lal . This is your assistant Dev here . ”
” What is it ? ”
” Sir , I would like to inform you that our deal with M/S Arun and Sons has been finalised . I have fixed a meeting with them for you to once review  the deal . . ”
” Ok , I’ll be there ” Mr. Gorakh Lal never spoke more than necessary . He had never been able to understand the need for polite demeanor, or strait-laced propriety and now, it was too late to learn .
So, he hung up the phone and grabbed his computer. He smiled. After this last swindle, his net worth would be One Million . His dream was about to come true.
Next day,  he got himself ready for his deal with M/S Arun and Sons. He wore his best clothes, and of course, his lucky tie.
” Driver, get the car”
” The Jaguar, sir”
” Yes”
As he set out to begin his day, a long, lanky boy came up to stand in front of him. He grunted.
“Good Morning , Mr. Mehta ” the boy said smiling, in the hope that this time perhaps Mr. Mehta will wish him this time, but he didn’t .
” How many times have I told you not to show me your face  in the morning .”
He always treated him like this. It wasn’t that he,Wasim, had done something: no, only he was too ‘kind’ . Mr. Mehta believed that since, there was no life, no kindness on Earth, Wasim was most hypocritical and diplomatic. In fact, according to him, he was most callous and unsympathetic inside. In most senses, Gorakh Lal thought of Wasim as the millionaire industrialist who killed his parents, for the industrialist, too, in the beginning, acted humble and confabulate with ‘sugar coated words’. Over the years, Wasim had grown kinder and Mr. Mehta angrier. His loathefulness for Wasim was now beyond all bounds .
“Mr. Mehta? your car is ready”
“Finally” He said as he passed Wasim.He reached the office at 10:54 and found his assistant waiting for him with the Arjun & Co. papers ready. He signed on them without looking and went on to his office.

After an 8 hour day, he went home to celebrate $1,000,000.
“Just one more day and I’ll be a millionaire” he muttered as he walked down the stairs.
*Creek* *Crack*
He fell all the way down the stairs.
“Aaah” He cried but no one heard. Of course, there was no one in the room, or the house, in fact. Mr. Mehta had hit his head. It was bleeding heavily.
“Mr. Mehta?” said a familiar voice.
” Wasim? ”
” Sir , you are bleeding! ”
Wasim ran down to him and tried to cover his injury, only to fail.
Mr. Mehta tried to say something but balanced against it.
Wasim carried his body, outside in his own car.

“No..no..” Mr. Mehta said panting heavily.

“Go” Wasim shouted to the driver.
Mr. Mehta was not afraid to die, no. According to his concept there was no life in him, or anyone. He was only thinking about two things – one, how to escape from the person he had loathed all his life and two, how to live long enough to make his dream come true .
He glanced at Wasim, who was sitting there anxiously, gently holding his head in his arms. Wasim looked at Mr. Mehta, staring at him .
“Don’t worry Mr. Mehta , you’ll be fine . I will not let anything happen to you”
“I will not let anything happen to you” The words echoed in Mr. Mehta’s mind several times. It is said one’s whole life flashes in front of them at the time of their death and such was the case with Mr. Mehta. He saw his childhood, his mother, his parents, his siblings, the cruel industrialist, all the callous people of the Mumbai streets and in the end, Wasim. Despite all the times he scorned him, and all the times he loathed him, despite all the abuses, the poised words and despite the moments of altercation, there he was, struggling to save him.
He glanced at him, held his hand, and subtly smiled at him hoping to wish him thank you for reviving his faith in life and love. He opened his mouth in gratitude but, was too weak to speak. All he said: Viva La Vida.
And, with this, ended the life of great Mr.Gorakh Lal Mehta,  in the arms of one person he had hated all his life, and with the words that no one had ever expected to hear from him: Viva La Vida, or Long Live Life .

This is my first short story, that I wrote for WordPress Weekly Challenge. Hope you liked it. Leave feedback:)

The Bucket List: NaPoWriMo Day 20

This post is for DP Challenge.

“What do you want to do?”
“A lot of things” said he.
“How about a bucket list?”
“Yes” he said in ecstasy.

So, Jimmy went to his room.
With the hope of writing a list.
Took a crayon in his hand and,
wrote his future in a gist.

Near the table, under the bed,
On the walls suave green,
He wrote with colorful crayons,
Adding color to his dream.

Bit by bit, one by one,
He wrote a thousand words,
Learn guitar, play piano,
Write poems, own a bird.

When he was done he,
Stood up in happiness,
Determined to lead a happy life,
Esteemed, famous, proud and blessed.

Sixty years have gone now,
And so much has changed today,
The room is empty,
There is nothing that lay.

No longer is there that cartoon print,
Or that old joker’s head,
No longer any furniture,
For Jimmy, is now dead.

Still the same is,
That suave green paint,
And in a familiar corner,
A bucket list, subtle  faint.

Thousand words, thousand desires,
But none fulfilled, not one,
Colors, pale and freckled now,
A bleak past, nothing done.

And, so the list is waiting now,
To be wiped off bit by bit,
For another Jimmy, and
For another bucket list.

What Hurts The Most

This poem is for WordPress Weekly Challenge.

There once was a boy,
A little young fellow,
He lived in a town call Townsville,
And called by the name hello.

The name was given by the Townsmen,
As they loved one of his habits very much,
He loved saying everyone hello and good bye,
Friendly he was such.

He was so nice and generous too,
And everyone in the town was his friend,
He did everything , all he could,
To help the people that he met,

Everyone loved him very much,
Such was he, a creature,
That anyone who met him was spellbound,
By his gregarious nature,

He too loved the Townsmen boundless,
His love was infinite,
Without them he was incomplete,
Could not pass a single night.

One day he got a call,
From his step-mother in his village,
Though she had been bad to him,
She was now struck ill by old age.

Without delay , hello went to,
The station and boarded the train,
He had just reached halfway,
When it started to rain,

It was a dark and calm night,
Then suddenly it happened,
A loud noise was heard and,
Soon, it all was helter skelter.

It was a train accident,
And so hurt was hello,
He could not think nor move nor see,
Oh , the poor fellow.

He knew his time was near,
He knew it very well,
It was all very clear,
There was nothing more to tell.

Thinking about his beloved townsmen,
He searched for his phone,
With great difficulty he found it,
Dialed them and heard the ringing tone,

Minutes passed but no one,
Seemed to pick it up,
They were either not near,
Or the post office was closed up.

Tired , frazzled and close to death,
No more pain he could bear,
He kept staring at the phone,
With his eyes full of tears.

He closed his eyes and reflected,
His thoughts were heavy, muddled,
He was so unhappy.
Hurt , sad and puzzled.

What hurt him the most , though,
Was not that he was about to die,
But his cruel ironic fate,
That he could not say goodbye.