Saturday, October 2, 2010

Helen of Troy...

" Priam: I have heard rumors of your beauty. And for once, the gossip is right. "

Helen of Troy was beautiful.
So beautiful, that her face could launch a thousand ships to bring her back home to Sparta.
So beautiful, that the Trojan War, that would go down the annals of history as the unsurpassable model for all the wars that were to come, was fought over her...

My first soliloquy 'Helen - The Queen of Sparta' captures the heart-wrenching grief of Zeus, the 'King of the Gods' and a witness to the death of Troy...

Stunned beyond belief, Zeus watches the burning of Troy,
as his worst premonitions come true...

Zeus
Thou wast Lord of the Greek pantheon
Thy mighty czar of heav’n ‘nd earth;
But b’hold, what thine daughter hath done
The cinders of Troy burn’th in the hearth.

How did’st though, thy daughter of Leda
A cherubim born in the mortal orb,
Launch a thous’nd of the fam’d armada
In quest of her, around th’ globe.

The war waged on for ten long ‘eons
And cities burnt on th’ pyre of men.
Oh! Thou, Lord of the Greek pantheons
But a mute spectator to th’ misdeeds of Helen.

Zeus sighs and shakes his head disbelievingly as the conflagration
engulfs Troy and Menelaus impales the lascivious heart of Paris...

Zeus
Helen, b’hold! What thou hast done
The Spartans dance on cadav’rs of men.
Oh! had’st thou not plott’d thine abduction
Vultures would not feed on Troy’s r’mains.

Uncanny though, what thy see’st in the fire
The wr’th of men and their unholy curse,
More pot’nt than God is man’s desire
The true rul’rs of the mortal univ’rse.

Zeus realizes that in spite of being the Lord of the world,
the events of the mortal world are beyond his authority.
Man is the Lord of the Universe…

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Veni, Vidi, Vici...

" Cleopatra: I will not be triumphed over. "

She was not either...
But the legendary conquests of this charismatic beauty included Julius Caesar, the emperor who lived by the adage - 'I came, I saw, I conquered' and Mark Antony, the man who would be king.

My poem 'The Last Rendezvous' captures the unyielding fortitude of this pharaoh who held sway over the hearts of the most powerful men in the world but let none dwell in hers...

( The ship sails being set ready to leave for Egypt ;
  when Marc Antony comes to meet Cleopatra, for one last time... )

Cleopatra
Antony, in Rome I shall not remain
But go back to Egypt, my country, my people;
For whom, God and Cleopatra, is one and the same.
Not here; Where the king is murdered in a temple.
                                          
And why should I risk the life of Caesarion
JC’s last sign;
For though my own life, may be undone.
To my cursed fate, I shall not resign.
                                          
Also the cause for which Caesar bled
Is now of no consequence to the masses;
For there in my land, we preserve the dead.
And here; Their thoughts are burnt into ashes.
                                          
And the world, shall hence fear friends, not foes
After what Brutus did to Caesar.
For there the enemy, one knows;
Would attack from the front, and not the rear.           
                                          
But JC for his unmatched deeds and valour
Shall go down the pages of history;
But uncertain lies Rome’s future.
Without the grace of his Majesty.

Antony
Cleopatra, your views are wholly justified
For Rome has nothing to offer;
Except for those ashes, which you specified.
And friends, none better, than traitors.
                                         
But then JC too, withheld violent protests
And defeated all his enemies.
So would you not, at my behest;
Help out Rome in her crisis.
                                        
But I will not hinder your decision
And prevent you from leaving.
But wait for you and Caesarion;
To return, and fulfill JC’s undertaking.

Goodbye…
( the ship sets sail )

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Why...

" I know the world isn’t fair,
  but why isn’t it ever unfair in my favor ? "

This question by Calvin to his dad forms the crux of the 'Why' questions that we keep posing to the world, without ever being satisfied with the answers offered.
Are we too curious, too demanding.
Or are we denied answers that could convince us enough to believe in them...

'Why' explores a few such questions that we are still seeking an answer to...

Why do we smile, or why do we cry,
Or why do we laugh when spirits are high;
Or why were we denied wings to fly,
Could anyone ever justify?

Why do our songs reflect our moods,
Or why what we desire, forever eludes;
Or why no wealth, can us satisfy,
Could anyone ever justify?

Why what we preach, we never practice,
Or why we wage wars and still desire peace;
Or why some are daring and some so shy,
Could anyone ever justify?

Why do we mourn for those who have died,
Or why our feelings, we just cannot hide;
Or why some people do we glorify,
Could anyone ever justify?

Why what we hear, we tend to believe,
Or why most work, unfinished we leave;
Or why always truth is hard to deny,
Could anyone ever justify?

Why do we hope, our dreams come true,
Or why is life a variety of hue;
Or why are ambitions forever high,
Could anyone ever justify?

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Save the tiger...

" Tiger, tiger, burning bright
   In the forests of the night,
   What immortal hand or eye
   Could frame thy fearful symmetry ? "

It's the Year of the Tiger, but sadly, it is no longer burning bright.
The forests are but a pale shadow of their former self without the halo of the world's alpha predator.
The hunter has been hunted down to an abysmally low figure of 1411 in my Motherland.
When will Man stop his nefarious activities.
When will he stop poaching the world's favorite animal.
Will it be the day when we will be speaking of the Tiger in the same breadth as the dinosaurs.

The pride of Tiger is dwindling by the day.
And we refuse to allow an attack on our Pride.
We will fight back...

I signed up for the "Save Our Tigers" campaign by Aircel today.
I hope you join and pledge your support as well.
It is upon us to ensure that the finest of our fauna survives.
Let us show that we care for this maneater that does not necessarily make the world a safer place but definitely makes it a better and an exciting place to live in...

Friday, August 6, 2010

A dangerous game...

" Hobbes: How come we play war and not peace ?
  Calvin: Too few role models. "

The atomic bombing of Hiroshima exactly sixty-five years ago had shrouded the orb in a cemetery light.
The 'Little Boy' had played a dangerous game.
A game that had trivialized Death...

We are still playing a dangerous game, the big game hunting.
A synonym for mindless killing in the garb of a sport.

My poem 'The Hunter and the Lioness' explores this game where the only means of winning would be not playing it at all...

The rifle’s mass made my fingers fumble
As memories of the past flooded my mind;
And it raced back to the times in the jungle
When my cognition was completely blind.

I could see the smile on the hunter’s countenance
As the bullet pierced the maned forehead,
And as the smoke veiled the rifle’s lens
In a heap lay the grand lioness dead.

Unaware of the unforeseen peril,
She sauntered on the grasslands, rightly her own
For little she knew of the marksman, who to flaunt his skill,
Would depose her from her lawful throne.

But today with my skills and senses dulled
I repent for the hunter that was I myself
When I realize there was place in this world
For both the lioness and the hunter himself.

Sunday, August 1, 2010

Till the curtains come down...

" The world's a stage where every man must play his part. "

A rare few are born with an innate ability to sleepwalk through their part. A victor by destiny...
For the rest in this mortal orb, it's more about adapting to the part to emerge unscathed at the end of the play...
And that I believe is not a mean feat either. But there needs to be some constant source of inspiration that would keep the blood flowing in the sinews long enough to ensure that you sojourn on till you take the final bow...

And there will never be a greater source of inspiration to journey on than the sun...
For you know deep within that however dark and despondent the night may be, the sun shall rise again the next morning and chase all the shadows away. Its done so before the diluvial and will do so beyond it as well.

This unequalled heroism calls for an ode to the beacon of our lives... 

Thou beauty stands undiminished
Having survived the ravages of time;
Thy burning passion cannot be extinguished,
For Thou art so noble, so sublime.

On the Earth on which Thou shines
Where good has always been ephemeral;
Except for that divine beam of Thine,
Which has been forever eternal.

Thou splendour melts away the darkness
And with it the unwonted fears of night;
For even ghosts, with all their vileness,
Would endure not, Thou unusual might.

Only Thy can say good from evil
For Thine has seen all; one by one;
The newborns and the dead, the saints and the devils,
For there is nothing new under the Sun.

Saturday, July 24, 2010

The Pandora's box...

" Hope is a good thing,
  maybe the best of things,
  and no good thing ever dies. "

Aeons ago when Pandora fettered Hope in the confines of the artifact, its fate looked grim.
Would it ever survive the aeons of captivity ?
Would it ever be unchained to warm the hearts of men ?

The world of mortals was still not ready to give up on Hope.
The man who had sunk the 'Titanic' to infinite leagues under the sea, descended further below.
This time to free Hope from the bottom of the Pandora's Box.
James Cameron revealed Pandora in an incandescent light that the world had never experienced before.
Pandora, a macrocosm in the Alpha Centauri star system, populated by Na'vi, a remarkable kin of the sapient humanoids.

'Avatar' is the beacon of Hope that Man will constantly endeavour to achieve the impossible.
'Avatar' is more than just a movie. It is an experience that would outlast a lifetime.
An experience that redefined the art of watching movies.
An experience where while watching a movie, you felt that you could pluck the flowers of the Hometree and embrace the portents from Ewya, the Mother Goddess.
An experience that seemed hyper real but still believable...

Besides the brilliant 3D images and the spellbinding visual effects, 'Avatar' also conveys a very strong message - 'Tomorrow is Another Day'.
There may come a time when Man might cease to be the cynosure of eyes in the cyclopean environ of the cosmos.
He might cease to be the omnipotent on earth.
A message of love would ensure the co-existence of Man with his brethren.
He would survive.
Hope has survived as well.  
What else could have been more important...

Monday, July 12, 2010

The eighth wonder...

" The best way to predict the future is to create it. "

As the curtains descend from the African skies on the greatest spectacle on Earth, the eyes are transfixed on a cephalopod with eight limbs, each seemingly more potent that the 'Hand of God'.

'Octopus Paul' not just predicted the outcome of Germany's matches or the winner of the World Cup, it also revealed an innate human nature - 'The eagerness to see the future before it happens'.
And as the time machine remains an unfulfilled dream, our choice of soothsayers keeps getting arcane by the day.

Whatever be the oracular skills that the octopus might be endowed with, I somehow see a greater prophetic ability on part of its keeper.
The octopus never knew that it was being used to predict the outcome of the World Cup matches. The keeper did. 
The fact that the box from which the mussel was devoured indicated the winner of the match was also an interpretation of the keeper. I always thought that it is the losers that get gobbled up, but this time around the symbolism was different.
The keeper also seemed to know from before-hand that the group matches would yield a result. Uncanny, since a draw would have been an equally likely event as a win or a loss. 
So what to Paul was actually food, seemed to have become fodder for a chimera that unveiled the future.

Whatever be the human urge to learn about the future, and whatever be the contrivances to unearth it, I believe that the present has enough conundrums that deserve a solution before the vision for the future can be enlightened.
And let us not strive to take a glimpse of the future without trying to create it ourselves.
For us and our posterity...

And as long as 'Octopus Paul' is engaged to predict Spain as the winner of the World Cup, it is not much of an ado.
I only hope that its soothsayer skills are not honed to predict a solution to Spain's economic turmoil...

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Give me some sunshine...

" Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy
  Sunshine in my eyes can make me cry
  Sunshine on the water looks so lovely
  Sunshine almost always makes me high "

 What could have inspired Denver to pen such beautiful lyrics ?
Was the song meant to be an allegory where the sun was Lady Justice upholding whatever you did ?
How would you ever bathe in sunshine without meeting the sun in the eye ?
Would the moist eyes never desire to illuminate the countenance with an unparalleled light ? 

Perhaps the cascade would be able to answer...

The cascade rambled down the craggy stones
Dislodging the pebbles in its hasty dash,
And silenced the trees deafening groans
As they were uprooted like a brutal knife’s slash.

And the rocks on which it thundered down
Bore the grunt of the fall passively,
Like soldiers in their armoured gowns
Would impale the hearts of the not guilty.

And the waters splashed and left a mark on all
And crippled some and left some lame,
For it had been assured by the mighty fall
That things would never again be the same.

And the cascade was being backed in its infernal cause
By the sun behind it, shining bright,
As calm and serene as she always was
And smiling as if it was the fall’s birthright.

Monday, June 7, 2010

My blog turns one...

Today, I celebrate the first birthday of my blog.
" Kushan's Musings " provided me the ideal platform to share my literary work with people around the globe.

Over the past one year, I have posted quite a few of my poems as well as my first short story...
With most of my poems, I also posted the emotions behind penning them.
To me, poetry is a very strong medium for expressing my thoughts and desires.
It is a true reflection of man's inner soul...

I believe, poetry is like strumming the strings of the heart and creating such sublime music that it could raise spirits from their graves and make their shadows dance...

I hope you enjoyed reading the posts on my " nascent reflections " and will continue doing so as I keep updating my musings on my journey on the highway of Life...

Saturday, May 22, 2010

The band of colors...

" If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
  If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
  If you can meet with triumph and disaster
  And treat those two imposters just the same; "

A dream is one big candle.
A candle whose flame is kept alive by the warmth of the sun, by a burning desire in the heart, by the smouldering fire in the belly, by a blazing passion to perform and leave a scorching trail behind...
A trail that could scorch the blades of grass and leave footprints behind for the posterity to follow...
But a torrential rain can extinguish even the fiercest of fires...

What happens to the dream then ?
Does it ever realize ?
Or does it die a premature death ?

Deep within I know that the fate of the dream is beyond me. I'd rather try and keep the candle burning and hope that it holds its forte against the rain and makes life a kaleidoscopic odyssey. For only the sun and rain in unison can make a band of colors appear stretching over the wild blue yonder...
A band of colors that is an outcome of the dream and the theme for my poem...

A thin band stretched across the immeasurable,
As the child looked on with an unknown mirth
Gazing at the wonder from his rocking cradle
Unaware of what that stripe was worth.

All the riches of the world that man desired
Would pale in the contrast of its illuminance,
All issues of the world that man measured
Would fade in the bearing of its significance.

Each colour that stood out in the infinity
Had its own poignant tale to narrate,
On the facts of life and its vitality
That no gold or silver could ever satiate.

And the transfixed eyes continued staring
Unmindful of the truth that the vision could imply
That life was worth celebrating,
Was the harbinger of the rainbow in the unbounded sky.

Sunday, May 9, 2010

The eternal song...

" Music is poetry in the air "

Music is a consummate experience...
An experience that gives a cherubic soul to the universe, unfettered wings to the mind,
an unbounded flight to imagination, unconditional love to the heart and an unparalleled charm and gaiety to life and to everything...

Music is like a sliver of the moon in the dark nights of your life.
And the moonlight pervaded my soul on one such night and overwhelmed the heart in such a manner that while penning the lyrics of " The Eternal Song ", all the sorrows seemed to have been muted forever by the infinite power of Music...

The clouds swayed in the moonlit night
Intoxicated by her music;
While the stars shone with all their might
On the face, so cherubic.

That the moon’s beauty paled before her’s
And she hid behind the mirthful haze;
So divine a song, made her wonder
So beautiful a mortal, made her gaze.

And the trees awoke from their slumber
Entranced by the melody, the winds did bring;
No nightingale, could they remember
Such music, to them, ever did sing.

And the waves rolled on and rocked the shores
Dancing to her melody;
As they for centuries, or even more
Had never felt this ecstasy.

And her rhapsody quelled the sailors’ fears
Stunned by the tides in that lyrical night;
Their joys unbounded, for land was near
Her music being their guiding light.

And I stood as if a spell was cast
On me and my fatigued mind;
For as long, as would the harmony last
No sorrow, my heart would ever find.

Saturday, May 1, 2010

Keep Running...

" Every morning in Africa, a gazelle wakes up.
  It knows it must run faster than the fastest lion or it will be killed.
  Every morning a lion wakes up.
  It knows it must outrun the slowest gazelle or it will starve to death.
  It doesn't matter whether you're a lion or a gazelle; 
  When the sun comes up, you'd better be running. "

This African proverb has been a great inspiration.
The gazelle has survived the odds.
Now it moves to a different terrain with different challenges but keeps the same hope.
That someday, the gazelle will be a lion. But it will still have to run. And keep running...

Fifty yards to the crossbar, he stopped in his tracks
As racing thoughts outpaced his leaden feet,
"Should I pass the ball, or should I hold back,
And keep running till there's ground underneath."

And he chose to run and dribbled past
The swarthy knights decked in ebony hues,
He was now in sight of the goal line at last
With the ball steadily glued onto his shoes.

And sixty thousand voices joined in chorus,
"Keep running till you've reached the goal."
Before a stab of steel impaled the dermis
And floored him with a deadly foul.

With bleeding feet he started running again
And this time, with him, raced a thousand souls,
As he shot ahead of the armored men
And curled the ball into the abandoned goal.

Friday, April 16, 2010

Let there be light...

" Superstition is the weakness of the human mind;
   it is inherent in that mind;
   it has always been, and always will be "

It's time to break the shackles of superstitions that fetter our emancipated souls.
My poem " Superstitions " takes a strong stand against this irrational belief that has harboured skepticism in our fertile minds since time immemorial...

Why should man, so rational a being,
Be frightened of the number thirteen.

Why the mind, so logical in nature,
Occult and mystic ideas, do nurture.

Why the only thinking animal, ever born
With amulets and stones, his body adorn.

Why should a being, whose every thought is clear
The unknown and untold ever fear.

And for this I wish, the human civilization,
Would erase from their memory, such futile apprehensions.

And prevent man, the greatest creation,
From losing his way, in the dreary desert of superstition.

Thursday, April 1, 2010

Ahoy! Springtime...

" Spring has returned. The earth is like a child that knows poems. "

It is time to put the dark days of winter behind and welcome spring...
The leaves shall grow anew and drape the forests in lush green.
The grass shall rise in every barren stretch of land imaginable.
The rivers shall flow with an unquenched vitality. 
The birds shall flap their wings joyously, the wind lifting their spirits and ours as well...

In such a beautiful environ, can " An Ode to Spring " be far behind...     

The frosty white mirrored the golden hue
As the rays glimmered through the misty haze,
And the ripples transpired on the pristine blue
As colours shrugged off their torpid daze.

For there was red and blue, flowering the blazing meadows
And the dainty forget-me-nots blossoming here and there,
A delightful herald of things to follow
For springtime was tangible in air.

And the winged ones, twittered in their weary flight
Their hiatus, a wait too long to bear,
Since now they would frolic in the gleaming light
For springtime was tangible in air.

And mischief sparked in the soft hazel eyes
The reverie, a musing of their debonair
A time for cream on baked apple-pies
For springtime was tangible in air.

And it was time for men to allay their fears
And shred the fetters that could them restrain,
A time for sybarites and their hedonist pleasures
For springtime was time to be free again.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

The sound of silence...

" How many times must a man look up
  Before he can see the sky
  How many years must one man have
  Before he can hear people cry
  How many deaths will it take till he knows
  That too many people have died
  The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind
  The answer is blowing in the wind "

The answer has swept across the terra firma, pausing in its endeavor to dwell in the hearts of the benighted souls and also pausing to re-affirm the goodness of peace in the noble souls...

But its voyage is still incomplete...

The answer seems to have fallen on few deaf ears which refuse to acknowledge the sound of silence...
The silence that is an aftermath of the booming guns, of the ear-splitting noise of the grenade blasts, of the deafening wails of mothers, of the incongruous chirping of birds jolted by ammunition from the azure...

How do we deal with such silence ?
Maybe my poem 'The Mind of a Terrorist' will provide an answer...

Aphorisms; None obstruct his way
For the heart is dead and the mind’s gone astray;

His conscience today tells no tales
For it has drowned among those deafening wails;

And anguish and pain and grief and despair
Of those whose loved ones, did never he spare.

To him, sympathy and love, would be abstract phrases
For a heart bred on hatred, throughout the ages;

Barren deserts would reveal more fertile features
Than this mind, supreme among all creatures;

And today, he is a threat to the human civilization
Which preserve can we only through his elimination.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

A blanket of red...

" Where have all the soldiers gone ?
  Gone to graveyards, everyone
  When will they ever learn ?
  Oh, when will they ever learn ? "

I think the color of blood needs to be transformed...
Because unless we change it to blue.
The earth shall cease to be the big blue marble.
The sun would no longer descend into the oceans. It would be lost in a wilderness of red.
The lotus would lose its significance in a rubicund landscape...

So how do we change the color ?
My poem " The Price We Pay " shall answer... 

Ten thousand, my eyes scanned at a glance
Some battered and bruised, some denied a chance;
To play with their children in the next vacation
For death had played spoilsport on this occasion.
The war ushered in a premature end
To many a lives, lost every second.
“ My brother! ”, he wailed; “ My son! ”, she wept
Though all through night, Peace blissfully slept;
For there was not much that Peace could have done
Against the desire of potent humans.
For more strength you have, more blood you shed
More land you gather, more wealth is bred;
And wealth is something we curb cannot
For wealth yields power and wars are fought.
But is it too much that we ask for
When we ask the world, to refrain from wars.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

The world is not enough...

" To dream anything that you want to dream,
  That's the beauty of the human mind "

There is something inside our cranium that is beyond human measure...
Something that propels man to reach out for the stars...
Something that is unfathomable even to the highest prophets of learning...
Something that makes us who we are and who we want to be...

My poem, " The Enigma ", deals with this incomprehensible power of the human mind...

With the light of the sun, the serene moon glows
And the river from highlands, downhill flows.

And the birds flap their wings, which we cannot
But airplanes we fly, where eagles dare not;

And scale, do we mountains however high
And across the globe, we at our will ply.

And talk to one another, whenever we yearn
For the love that binds us to our loved ones;

And ventured have we beyond the realms of the sphere
For the unknowns today, we no longer fear.

For the mysteries, which were once so alien
Have been solved, at large, by the human brain;

But the solution to the mystery we are yet to find
Is explaining, the enigma of the human mind.

Sunday, February 14, 2010

Never having to say sorry...

" Doubt that the sun doth move
  Doubt truth to be a liar,
  But never doubt, I love "

Love is unconditional. It asks no questions, demands no answers...
It is akin to poetry of the senses...

My poem " Love " explores this nonpareil emotion that can overwhelm even the adamantine hearts...

No fleeting sensation, it was that day
But a memory, which would, forever stay.
And there was so much that I longed to say
But so little time, I had that day.
To tell her, what she meant to me
To my life dearer, than anyone could be.
For I, for once knew what true love was
Unconditional, in its every cause.
Nor ephemeral, as all things were
But a feel, that I would, forever treasure.
For with memories of that passing moment, with her
A lifetime, I could spend in solitude forever.
And a complete man I would prove to be
Till the time, her love would remain with me.

Sunday, January 31, 2010

R.I.P Will Henry Abercrombie Ever...

My first short story...

How he became a worshipper of chance, how he survived insurmountable odds, how he kept incognito the ubiquitous truth and how he became Major Henry Abercrombie, a recipient of the Medal of Honour.

Henry's was no ordinary story but rather the legend of a man born and bred in the pristine wilderness of Alaska. A legend which saw the rise and rise of a man, until his confrontation with the inescapable truth.

His paternal grandfather, Solomon Abercrombie, had served in the U.S Army. He was a master raconteur who thrilled Henry with war stories, in his childhood days.

Barely into his teens, Henry hoped to join the army and emulate the bravura of "The Basilisks", the "Guardian of the United States of America" in most of Solomon's narratives.

As the years progressed, his well sculpted arms, tall height and a face chiselled to perfection not only won him female admirers but also made his intent to join the army stronger by the day.

24th September 2000

Finally, the time had come. Graduating from college Henry enrolled himself in the U.S Marines. In the gruelling training, often considered the toughest in the world, Henry still found time for something else, something passed on from his grandfather's genes to that of his. Though, he had a handful of Solomon‟s attributes, a primary one he had was his ability to win friends.

Henry and his uniform friends, six of them, called themselves the "The Mighty Lucifer", and they believed that the enemy would feel that too. They bonded like blood brothers who could unconditionally lay down their lives for each other. The "Mighty Lucifer" would be the modern day "Basilisks". And then the enemy struck.

11th September 2001

The twin-towers that symbolized the prowess of a nation had been reduced to a pile of dust and a superpower had been brought down on her knees. The Wright Brothers who taught Man to defy gravity would never have imagined that their invention could be used to such brutal effects, with precision greater than laser guided missiles. The Holy Grail of Superman's words, proclaiming that flying is still the safest way to travel, had been profanely desecrated.

13th September, 2001

America would strike back. Not just to avenge the thousands killed, nor just to uplift her blood smattered image, but to tame the Frankenstein that she had unleashed on the world herself. Henry was to be a part of the contingent to Afghanistan, "to root out terror", as Bush proclaimed.

7th October, 2001

America launched "Operation Enduring Freedom" as the Lockheed Martin F-16s' started pounding the dreary barrenness of Afghanistan. The Marines would land shortly and so would Captain Henry Abercrombie and his "Mighty Lucifer" team.

17th November, 2001

The U.S Marines had landed on Afghanistan soil and they were to consolidate the advantages the military fleet had won in the Tora Bora Mountains. Initial difficulties in acclimatizing to a highly unfamiliar terrain were compounded by guerrilla tactics employed by the Taliban.

Henry remembered the trials and tribulations faced by the four "Basilisks" during the Vietnam War as narrated to him by his grandfather. The U.S forces unaccustomed to guerrilla warfare had lost heavily in Vietnam. But this was a different time and a different place. "The Mighty Lucifer" would win, whatever be the costs.

23rd November, 2001

This was the first time that Henry was engaged in a real battle. There would be no second chance out here. The blood was for real and so would be death. Their military truck had been ambushed by the Taliban and Henry was lucky that a bullet aimed at him was taken by another Marine. Surprising, but yes, he had got a second chance. A second chance for survival.

6th December, 2001

The "Mighty Lucifer" count was down to four. Two of them had valiantly laid down their lives and Henry was lucky to have survived on at least four occasions. He ought to become a worshipper of chance, a chance to survive. There are not too many who get so many of them in a battlefield.

8th December, 2001

The U.S Marines were to launch a ground assault on the Tora Bora Mountains. Armed with M-16 assault rifles, M-249 Squad Automatic Weapons and grenade launchers, they would be combating against around a hundred Taliban fighters holed in a cave. "The Mighty Lucifer" would be a part of that assault team.

12th December, 2001

Four days into the combat, there were heavy casualties on both sides. Around a score Taliban fighters had been killed but the U.S army had lost eleven of their best soldiers too. "The Mighty Lucifer" were down to three. Henry waged on the war along with the remaining Marines. The Taliban fighters teetered on the brink of losing their last bastion.

14th December, 2001

The combat finally came to an end. The Tora Bora Mountains had been freed from the reins of Taliban. Miraculously, the only survivor from the Marines was Henry Abercrombie. Was it fortuitous chance or unbridled valour or something else…

21st December, 2001

"Operation Enduring Freedom" was a success. The Taliban had been routed. America was proud of her brave-heart soldiers. Back in Alaska, Henry earned the nickname of the "Guardian".

Solomon, who recently celebrated his seventy-third birthday, was immensely proud of his grandson's heroic exploits.

16th July, 2002

"The Guardian" came back to America to a hero's welcome. The American Government wanted to commemorate him on his success and they awarded him their highest gallantry award.

11th September, 2002

Solomon had organized a grand party for Henry. A rousing reception for a hero, who was the guardian of his country. He introduced his grandson to three of his best friends who had all served in the U.S Army. And then Solomon told Henry, a story he had never told him before.

A story that had a "Basilisk" locked in a dogfight with the nonpareil Red Baron, who had already shot down a couple of F-16s'. A story where the "Basilisk" stared down the Germans and defended the army base till reinforcements came. And that the "Basilisk", was none other than Solomon Abercromie himself, the first Alaskan to have won the Medal of Honour.

Solomon and his three friends, "The Basilisks", were proud of Henry as he had rivalled their heroics. A grandfather blushed when his friends mentioned how he risked his life to save theirs. But someone in that room appeared pale, very pale in what confronted him now…

He stood there in his bejeweled uniform
As the medals glistened in the incandescent light;
He was greeted with aplenty handshakes warm,
But decked up in green, he appeared all white.

For the mirror that now confronted him
Spoke not of a man of unmatched valour;
But of a coward, of a spurious being
Who deserted his friends at a time of disaster.

Not one of them lived to tell the fact
That the dastardly soul ran for his life;
Nowhere to be seen when the enemy attacked
While his friends boldly continued their strife.

And while they weathered the unholy storm
He fled, apprehensive of his own well being;
And now, facing the mirror in his full uniform
It seemed to him as if he wore nothing.

24th September, 2002

Major Henry shot himself at point blank range with his grandfather's Smith and Wesson .38 Long Colt. A bewildered nation mourned the death of a hero, but will rest in peace, Henry Abercrombie ever…

Monday, January 11, 2010

The colors of life...

" There is not one blade of grass,
  there is no color in this world
  that is not intended to make us rejoice. "

Man's existance could very well be described by the infinite colors that drape his life...
My poem " An Autobiography " sums up the colors that provide the different hues of life...

The colours merged in the painting I drew
Merged and lost their identity;
Like the placid sea with an azure hue
At the horizon meets the blue infinity.

Though some shades of dark grey and black
Stood out, as if it had a story to tell;
And speak of events that happened long back
At the thought of which, my eyes did swell.

And some portions of brighter tints and colours
Were too conspicuous to have faded away;
And reminded me of some blissful hours
Memories of which were as bright as May.

And there was a time when newer dyes
Were added at the crack of dawn;
But today when the sun does rise
Fresh coats of paint, is a hope forlorn.

And the painting may have paled a bit
With some shades of affairs lost in obscurity
For time had taken its toll on it
‘ It ’, the canvas, I call my autobiography.