CHERISH with HARISH

There are many around us. There are many which we are a part of, many which affect us. They are good, but only till the time they help us organise ourselves. Humanity has always fought for the idea of indepenence. Then why should these systems encage us. Culture, trends, pressures, assumptions, languages...We take up all these so that they would help us sometime , but not for the reason that we'll be enslaved by them! We need to learn things from the nature. It is so free, so serene, yet so peaceful. It shouts at things which try to enslave it. That's our true nature. Systems need to be broken!

I switch on my computer, open a new word document and start thinking. I think how to start. I type, I think again I type... It's time for my fiction film. There's a concept, an idea. There are characters, MY characters. Their lives will move the way I want. But at the end, they're all thoughts. At the end, it's not about their lives, it's just a film! I look around, for inspiration, for people, for actions which my characters would take up. There's a lot happening, both inside and outside. I feel I need to stop, take a deep take a breath. The characters are tired too. They are tired, they ask for some water. I give them. But the thoughts continue. I talk to a friend, narrate the concept to him. I share my mind with him. It's tough! I am talking about visuals which I would create. I am helping him see images which are not there. He tries his best. His inner world tries to accept my world, through a common worl in which we live. It's complicated! At the en

He had no money to spend on luxuries, no thoughts to waste on the heavenly comforts, he just had thoughts to make the world a better place. One day, after walking for miles, he sat down under a tree, he had no money to buy food, so he sat there looking at it. A rich merchant brought some food and kept it in front of the brahmin. The merchant said,"I would like to help the poor!" The brahmin smiled, is it money that makes one rich or poor? The Brahmin left the food and sat down under the tree with eyes closed, to raise questions whose answers were unknown to mankind. He went deeper and deeper, with every breath he took, he got answers. After a few days, he opened his eyes, he could feel the sunlight, he could smell life in the fresh air. And then he started speaking... every word which came out was of gold, there were stories, there were poems, there were ideas, which taught living beings to live, and smiles to flourish. He had no shelter, no money, but he was rich. Much riche

Now this is amazing. I reached home last week, and it was worth the wait, the journey and the tiredness. There's this special smell or should i say 'aroma' of home, that the moment I entered I knew what heaven was. This state of rest is soothing. You get to eat food, which you have had/admired/loved all your life. This is the place where you are protected (in many ways). And then the best part- You get to live with those two people who love you the most- the couple which the world knows as your PARENTS! Like all good things, this too would end. I am leaving for work the next week, but I am busy collecting memories, so that when I am at away, I can can look at those memories and feel the heaven! Ah, i smell good food. Dinner time! Cheers

It's a cage of bricks. We all enjoy, laugh on jokes which come straight out of the pigeon path or from the BM, but rarely from the heart. It's fun, but there's something missing. There are ideas everywhere, there are views everywhere, but very few voices. Everyone works hard for careers, for assignments, but what about that higher level which we all know of? It's nice, but the brick structures promise much more. Everyone studies of sustainability and shit like that, but the lights are left ON at 11 am. Nothing new, that's how careless youngsters are. But why? Then why do they call themselves 'elite'? And when they refer to the 'Common man' why do they address him as someone else? There's something missing...

the posters with blood on them, the red kurtas with hoarse voices. the eyes with all the veins, the hands which moved in every direction. the pens which wrote the scripts of revolutions, the papers which becam manuscripts. May be the voices were heard, or may be the voices just died down And we live on...

The same feeling, the same breeze, the same smell, the same images. Smells of memories, memories of joy, joy of freedom, and freedom, undefined. It's the same feeling, it's the same month of MARCH. It's back. I am a writier, as I have the same pen, and the same paper. BBut I am a poet, as I have the same zeal, the same smiles, the same tears. It is the same sound of the dry leaves. It's somehow the same poem, Suddenly, it's the same me...