Ambiguity

What you see is what you believe on the basis of what you have conditioned yourself to
accept.

Your Negative Will Be Someone’s Positive

Pushkar Shinde

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 Foreword

When people started reading what I have written I was branded as a person with self felt
sorrow and grief, a sadist with a negative approach towards life, maybe its true, but then
again I have found myself incapable of painting a rosy picture of life no matter how much
ever I have desired.

For me life is more like the episode of “Crystal Maze” people taking chances with their team
members to the kind of game that they will play. The more I have thought of the people I
have known and my own small life I have come to believe that we by nature are addicted to
taking chances and take chances with everything from the friends you get to whom you get
married to the way you think and what you believe in.

I have been reprimanded for these thoughts as being shallow, but then again social dictums
cannot and should not dictate facts, and no matter how I observe, chances are everywhere
and we take them with a rosy picture and expectation of change or achievement of good and
well being, to be precise eudemonia

My question has forever been how many times have, we achieved eudemonia…. I haven’t
cause the craving for the unknown still drives me the hunger for chances is still burning deep
within.

I admire the Russians for “Russian Roulette” it mocks this expectation and I guess might give
eudemonia to some.

I’m not a philosopher or a genius and would hate to be called that I’m just a confused person
looking for answers that make sense I would like to be known as a common guy just with some
uncommon questions.

For the people who may find my thoughts negative I have one thing to say –

“Your Negative Is Someone’s Positive”

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Footprints

Footprints in sand, from someone gone before

Oh, how I want to follow them

But can I follow them with my tired feet, weary I’m walking so far

But these steps stand by me, through the ups and downs they still end up standing by me

Not knowing I who it will be!

Is it me or what I want to be?

Or is it what I wanted but never could be

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The Circle

Life is nothing but a tryst for me

Nothing added, nothing gone

Start and end at the same point I

Hovering about in circles am I?

Or does something fail at the start itself, and I never leave

Ending at the same place again?

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Eclipse

Why do I cry bitter tears, when there is no one to confide

People come and they go, on who do I survive?

Good I’m to some, some find me bad

But can anyone ever find who was the real I

Or will he forever remain hidden, in the narrow lanes of my heart

Shunned by the world standing far afar?

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Strength

There is a feeling of pain I want to forget, of betrayals and dismissals

Forgotten long back, by people down the memory lane

Fresh it is still inside, like a wound fresh and cut deep inside

Merciless mockery of this world I have seen

Why, why don’t these memories leave me?, Pain like a friend is forever by my side

Superficially smile and live for long can I?

Can I hide what I want to deep inside, or will it roll down through my eyes

My hands clasped in prayer that this day never comes, as I lay on the green grass in the black
rain waiting for the last drop to drain away.

Empty with the tears the pain is more profound, killing within me the only sane dew drops

I have grown cold, cold to the pain, happiness the sorrow, no longer a victim, and no longer in
misery

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Floral Misery

Flowers of a plant together at one end, yet so far from each other at the other end

Same fragrances share they all, but still one beautiful the other ugly called.

Withering all with the plant

One lives on in memory lanes and the other forgotten forever?

Is it one destiny to be loved and retained by a lover in his memoirs? And the other turn to dust
laying on the ground no one cared of?

Is it the maker’s versatility to be blamed for the diversity? Or is it only us who have these
diversities?

Is it for us to keep wondering about destinies, while each flower spreads it aroma?

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Me?

Thinking whenever, who am I?

Question arises, Who, What, Where am I?

Is this me the real me? , Or is it a projection of what I want to be?

Is it in my fate to keep drifting like a log in stormy sea with no horizon or anchor for me?

Looking I’m for the beacon of light, a friend a foe a guiding sign, help me to find me

Or will it just remain an unanswered question for me.. Who is the real me?

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Amour

In this battle of fortune and fame, Lost I’m without a name

Pain deep I cannot speak, memories I can’t share

Loosing without a fight, isn’t that unfair

Why am I feeling weak now? Sorrow unfelt is rolling down

Why did I forget to see, love really isn’t made for me

Destiny a major part of everyone’s life acts a blotch to my life

Tender feelings sharing of a smile, holding hands, feeling of being cared deep inside

For some these are every day words for me this is rare delight

Yet again they have forsaken me to a word I never liked

To be judged and like a culprit seen,

To be sentenced without a fair trial.

Yet I want to share this feeling love, but can’t share this feeling love that I feel deep inside

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Mumbai

Sitting beside the river through which once pure water flowed, I see people rushing to and fro

The noise of thoughts and things makes me go insane, even the mind is filled with CO2 instead

Lost every man, Lost every woman, Lost every child into this new age world

At the dance floor people dance, some for joy but most for no reason at all

People rushing to and fro just like inmates in a death row

Some laugh as they rush

Some cry as they rush

Some are frustrated, some anguished if they stand a chance in this rush.

As I looked up to the black sky I wondered why? Why am I just an observer and not a part of
the mayhem around me?

Today I feel im just an observer of destiny, due to which I see victims of joy and agony.

Contradicting though to one another, both share a common victim

We all are victims of joy and agony.

We fight futile battles against joy and agony while they parlay handing us over to one another
like prisoners of war never fought between them.

Yet every single moment we gear up for another conquest against one of them to be handed
over for the same treatment again till we turn to dust.

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The later years of my life

Having lost touch of mankind

I now lead a new life

A life of a vagabond, a loner

With no care for today and no lookout for future

Changed are my feelings for people and things around

Having lost faith in life and death, I find time the only factor I find belief in

Time? Because it moves, It moves me and my body as I find myself grappled by its theories

Situations calling sentiments get a cold glance from me

Blaming it on time I brush them past me.

Sometimes I wonder why, why aren’t sentiments affecting me?

I know what to react yet an absence of reaction seen.

Sometimes I wonder if this new life has killed the human in me.

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Joker

Sitting in silence, no thoughts in mind

No need of today, the past forgotten in oblivion

Stagnant thoughts to be drained, with it a new life to be found

Chaos everywhere but solace in the dead silence inside

Strong on the outside, but a cry for mercy from inside

Significance of a moment lost to the useless mockery of this world

Shuttling between dual existence, everyone in this world

Live for everyone throughout the day, sleeps when he can be himself

Wakes up in the morning to paint self for the world again

Doesn’t this remind you of the joker somewhere?

At the end of his time looks at his life like a defeat self accepted

If had lived a moment for self over the pleasing of others, would have shone like a star in a
stormy night

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Craving for the unknown

With present a mystery, partly caught in a transition from one phase to another

Rhythm lost but a new tune found

Weird concoction for a hungry heart

Flashes of memory, searching for a song of solitude for this hungry heart

Symphony lost at an octave, post a score well done

Mystically the rhythm starts at the octaves next curve

Such is life with starts and ends abrupt

Trying to comfort the hungry heart

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Futile Efforts

People say I need to learn, without telling what and from whom to learn

They say I’m sad when I laugh, I wonder who are they to judge

Interestingly funny and queer people around me stand

Grappled with their theories they judge me with all they can

Funny I find the need to know, what a person is.

Can’t I remain a mystery if I choose to be?

Yet unnecessary efforts I have seen to understand me

Hate I not the process of knowing but the conclusions drawn for me

As they say what I’m not and expect it to be me

So yet again I repeat will anybody know me?

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Reflections

As I cut my wrist, blood began to rush

As I saw it paint the cold floor without a brush

I saw it reach to crevices unseen; my deepest stains plastered in its color

I bent down to feel its warmth, a jittery touch I felt repulsed

Cold it flowed, without warmth, like me and my every part

It flowed without vigour, and without gain

Then I realised that it was cold since ages,

I had turned to dust long time back,

But the body prevailed and I misjudged

Life had ended even before it started;

The soul rusting through ages

I played with the flow of this cold blood over years

With nothing to gain or to fear, I finally let loose of my last tear

As I finally lay down to slowly disappear, I felt my warmth reappear

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Story Of A Sniper

A Sniper enters into the bush

Taking aim he knows what needs to be done

The target comes in the open, “clear shot” the sniper confirmed

The trigger pulled, the bullet fired, a clean shot through the head and the victim retires

The sniper retreats to his base, Accolades from his seniors await, a medal of bravery and
satisfaction of a job well done

In his bunker watches the news, filled with heroics and praises

He feels this was his greatest

As news rolled he sees women crying, calling him a killer with no feelings

A mercenary for a government which never cared

The sniper filled with guilt drinks, a bottle down he can’t forget, the women scream

Returns to his bunker, tries to call his wife, lines busy and his hope dies

Takes his gun points it to his head, closes his eyes trying to make sense somewhere

Flashes of his shot run to his head, he pulls the trigger yet again

In the news next day a story runs, “some homesick solider shot himself in the skull”

The ministers in parliament fight, discussing the apathy in which the defence lies.

The sniper was the tool, someone else achieved

Like the tool in the garden used for weed

The next day a new sniper was dressed,

He entered another bush and aimed at a target again

The killer himself going to dust, becoming a victim for else’s gain

This cycle has to end somewhere, or we all will be snipers in a bush someday

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Promised Land

A friend left for town faraway

Leaving me with thoughts to lead headway

Emotions he stirred from which I run

Thoughts he mentioned to me never occurred

When will I see him again I do not know

But his questions need answers, I’m sure

Packing my bags I leave for the path of cure

Trying to reach the Promised Land, of which I’m sure

Where life is in peace and thoughts are evolved

Where everything has a meaning no ambiguity involved

Where I can lead a life more resolved

Where dreams are revered and assumptions aren’t recalled

A sudden jolt wakes me up, Oh despair; I miss the heaven of my prayer

My friend is gone and that is the true, the land I think of is untrue

Yet again in dreams I wander, packing my bags which direction to take I ponder

Yet again I take the road hitchhiking, I meet my friend his thought blinding

Yet again I reach the pinnacle of grace, only to wake up surrounded in disgrace

Waiting for the eternal trance, the Promised Land, is all I recall

I don’t want to wake up from this dream, I want my mask unveiled

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Last Thoughts

His deranged mind called me last night

Love he had lost which he felt, was his right

Spoke to me for hours, told me history, for me it was an overdose

Finally it ended; I popped two pills of peace wanting to rest

Next morning a call waked me up, I recollected the discussion I had last night

He had killed himself I was told; he slit his wrist and went into heavenly abode

Next to him, they found a letter with my name, the last thoughts before the grave

The letter read, “My Dear departed friend, you will be alive I will be dead

But I live and you die don’t be surprised at this thought, and don’t dread

I wanted you to feel what I felt; unfortunately your heart to me was dead

You were my hope while the rest had failed

But to dust those hopes are laid

I die in sorrow not in heartbreak, she never cared

But you my friend I thought would be there

Alas though failure I see, trusting a friend with no mercy for me

And so my deranged friend’s letter ended, I was shaken, it felt strange

That night I sat and I called a friend who I felt was mine

I spoke with him for hours; I spoke for really long time

I kept the phone and realised, no one truly is mine

I opened the drawer and loaded my glass with tablets kind

As I slipped into the eternal depth, I knew my friend would be saying

“His Deranged Mind Called Me Last Night”

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They died last night a hero’s death, the whole country debated about their fate

Why they died, who killed them, was it the bullet lodged by the assailant, no way, I say

Online blogposts and comment sprang, orkut and facebook groups called,

Join us in remembering these martyrs they said, a month later these posts go dead

Ministers comment “A Tragic Loss” in tone full of no remorse, a vague display of remorse

As people moved with their day to day life, small issues started ticking their mind

As the memories of these heroes quickly sublimed, we created the scene for another set of
martyrs some night.

In memory of 26/11 martyrs – the police, NSG and army personnel who fought and died for
people filled with the attitude of non-gratitude... These heroes will be forgotten by the
people of this country in a month like Lt.Saurabh Kalia and many others who lost their life
while defending the countries from Pakistani Intrusion, parliament attacks, action against
terrorists at the Batla House and the infinite others who have become victims of some
irrational religious belief which is not supported by the same religion

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I stand on the plain and I walk tall

I see forward, not above at all

Surrounded by beggars of happiness I toil

To reach a land of content I guess atleast that should suffice

I choose not to see what is shown, but to create euphoria for me

I choose to be content in tears, I guess that should suffice

I choose to see the victim instead of a victor

A victim of victory I see

Getting used to winning a rat race, run by rats, how can it be a pleasant sight to see

I choose to be the bystander watching the rat race, finding content in the result of this rat
race, at least this should suffice

Heaven calls so does hell, misfit I’m to both and hence caught in this worldly spell

Content I’m neither being the saint or the sinner, Is there is a middle path I wonder

Does it matter if I’m a sinner or a saint, Or is it important to be somewhere

Does it matter to lead than to be lead, Is it important to be a victor always.

Does it matter if you are wrong, Is it important to be the beggar of happiness

Is it important to have an extreme or will these questions remain unanswered, and I reach the
land of content, And It will certainly suffice

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They pounce on you with their might

Every piece of your flesh is their right to bite

Slashing and bruised you remain, a helpless victim with no say

Like victors they stand besides your fallen frame

Waiting for you to drain away in an ambiguous solace

Yet again they start the biting and slashing

The gashes so deep even pain is not igniting

You lay there like a chosen one, lost yet privileged

Wondering on the fate of the victims before

Looking around you see more victims, none bereaved

Whilst they prepare their final blow you wonder what’s in store

Will this at least be enough penance for bliss, Or do I have to yet again surrender for peace

While I ponder they strike, with ruthless mockery of me being of mankind

My own have me perished to dust, I find no one to mistrust

Gnawed to the bone, ripped of my flesh

I can now be new without the traces of self

I can now stand slashed and bruised again, yet not a victor

But a victim who stood against his torturers way

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The Human Empire

The blades are drawn in a final battle of the empire with self

War cries turn the sky, blood red

A friend once, foe today

Planning and scheming for against others weakness

Supporting both has left me drained

A blank bland curtain covers me like a shroud, like a castle grand yet dead, Existing yet
demolished, An untimely death self accepted

From the rubbles of the carnage a new empire rises, small yet grand

Fosters with itself its own doomsday clock

As the empire grows in boundaries and grandeur and length

It forgets the clock with its timer running out everyday

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Realization

A glorious day at the break of dawn

A new light fills the heart

He wakes up to the sounds of the chirping birds, filled with anger and disgust

His head hurts from the hangover of last night’s dumping from the one he loved

Getting out of his bed he opened the window, Oh! The air so fresh

Where did the CO2 in it disappear? ,

How did this smog filled sky clear?

Pondering on these thoughts as his coffee simmered, He opened the news paper for new news
of carnage and bloodshed

Surprisingly there wasn’t any to be read

Sipping on his coffee he read on, reaching the obituary column his heart stalled

A person he recognised was there, he rushed to his room feeling dead

In the mirror stood a fazed image of him he felt was untrue

The scenery around him now changed, the chirping birds around him lay dead

There sat his family bereaved, As he realised what had changed

The beautiful light shone on him, and realization reached everywhere

As his anger and disgust vanished in to this light he felt his being subliming

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