CHERISH with HARISH

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...

(at Bhuj, Feb'10) That gate was open, we closed it so that people from outside could not come in. But are they actually outside? Are WE inside? Can't we be outside? I stretched my hand and opened the gate again, and suddenly... all of us were INSIDE...