8. The Violin Play

“Hey, Alex. I guess I am sick. It is time to wake up.” I could only feel the febrile decay of my strength. My body was warm to its core, the brittle memories from the weird dream added to the problem. ” I had a weird dream. Fever dream, I suppose..”.

“Good Morning, take an off today, Dr Atlas. You think so much.” she came closer to kiss, the touch of her lips was cold. ” It is bad. You should have a break. Stay at home, I will come early as well.” Her voice was comforting, yet my body felt as if it would melt from the shivers through my skin. I took out the medicine and swallowed it with the last sip of water left in the water bottle.

“Yes, I will text them that I cannot come. Have a good day. Make something delicious. I need some positive energy in my mind.” I smiled at her and kissed her for a brief moment. The moment was not enough, but my body was not normal. I smiled again and closed my eyes, afraid of the dream yet searching for the answer of the Vedas. Wisdom could not reach to me eventually, the dream made no sense.


The endless and immortal space, a dream again. A drop of sweat rolled down my face. Another dream with no wisdom of real context of my life.

It was the space this time, completely empty just a sort of a cluster of beautiful colours in front of me. I was not breathing, not moving, not listening, but I was there. Kept at the moment, waiting for something to wake me up. I placed my vision onto the bright colours in front of me, the cluster looked like a coloured river contained by the moment. I close my eyes, trying to wake myself. I was stuck again, sweating with the vision of a giant super nova. A dead star, ironically my mental status at the very moment; a mind incapable of allowing the wisdom of the experience, process through its core.

I helplessly stare at the blend of colours, a golden glow around the deep red and blue blend of its centre. To the little philosophy in my head, it reminded me for the colour of blood revamped with the blue of the sky. Symbolic of danger, life and peace. I was certainly lost. I kept looking till my mind could perceive an image of a women’s face in the dead star. A beautiful face, red on the inside and the blue slowly converted into the black like the rest of the space. A slow descent of the blue into the darkness. A sudden sound gave me chills, it was music. A violin, a sad-single instrument that seemed to be the void around me. The face had darkened on the edges of the colour. The eyes had the blue, rest everything was red. Red to the essence, I did not even try speaking. Waited for the silly dream to send more cues of my sub-conscious head.

The music slowed down with the image of the women blinking her eyes, the movement again went forth to disturb the darkness. Her lips appeared and slowly the space around me began to detonate with a powerful tone to go along with the violin.

Each word is supposed to uplift your existence from the hell,

Each phrase had to pull your essence to the blue,

But you desired the blood! The wars!

You belonged to the skies, But the hour is rather broken to fly,

The words were dead when the red had coloured the race,

Only a few remain in the isolated verse,

You sought wisdom and here you end,

Dying with the meaning of those words as the ornament,

Just keep your soul, listen till inferno,

Sophia from the Republic has died,

They never read Plato in the dim light,

I only exist in this lost cell of thoughts,

Inside the mind of a sick person, inside the blank pages that were lost.

My body was almost gone out in the darkness, absorbed and devoid of my sense to a greater extent. Her face, the face resembled Alex. Sophia, rather a philosophy from the book I am supposed to read.

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The Humane Stance 

From the stars to a canopy in our mind,
We keep discovering the sigh of the blind,
Enduring colours to fill the spaces undefined,
And often lost in the course to regain the sight,
Blended in the thirst to procure the atom to the universe,
Drunk with the symphony to discover the hidden element of our race,
And trapped with a struggle to advocate a begining of the sane.
Renessaince predicted the truth about the human kind,
And the degrade of the rebel announced a new mind,
We are not owned by philosophy in this time,
We are the writers, we like to rhyme,
And create a script unbaised of the religion and shrines,
The globe is yet a dynamic stance,
But our blood shall colour the world with a sync from this line.

Mira’s Darkness

Held by the symphony of the universe,

She danced to the music of the rain,

But the world, too rational to understand,

Drove a concrete wall to her land,

She blended her love into a rhyme,

For the world to dance in the night,

But how do they fathom darkness as their light,

How do they believe the world doesn’t render their dreams,

She plated the words onto a social plane,

Thinking maybe the souls will rejoice the claims,

And dance to the beats of the illusion that these shadows create,

But nothing was left of her to preach the world,

She went as one to the source of the song,

And the world was left with a blur of her aim,

They danced, but only on the plate she made,

Only her words remained under the literal space,

And here a son writes her account misunderstood by the human race.

Miles of Love

To the South Owl,

The sun is at the end of its line,

and stars are climbing up through my mind,

lights have gone off into the glares,

and all I can feel is the air,

Through your hair, I believe,

I see my senses breathing free through our dreams.

Miles away from our beating hearts,

We find our solace in the stars,

The place out of their reach,

Within the realm of love and believe,

Kept secret within our screens,

Not for the universe to peek through our need.

You rest your owl out in the south,

And my letters scream out the words aloud,

I hope these terms will fly out through our sigh,

and meet with the owl into your blood stream, high !

Hi there my dear ! I know we miss the bench and tears,

  But here we are again, assembling the stars to appear ,

  I know our faiths might not rhyme,

 But poems are for human’s mind,

 We don’t need these fancy lines,

 We will redefine the story line.

  Hear me out, I am screaming loud,

 From miles away from my lonely town.

Let birds sing our song to break their vow,

 Till then come with me and we will dance around to a song unknown .”

I wrote this from an ink of my crown,

And I will feel it till my end is announced,

This is not a painted noun,

 But a poet breathing rhymes, through your sound.

  • The North Parrot 

 

 Blended Perception

How do I name my existence,
Now that the colours are my heartbeat,
And these shivers are building my senses,
Can you feel me with the winds?
Can you sense me in the night sky ?
Because I dont see myself in this clay,
Rather I am the illude of colours ruining your days,
You see me everywhere, You use me,
To elaborate your perception through this world,
After each being crossing by your eyes,
You find me reaching your core to inflict a thought,
Maybe I am real, Maybe a realm,
An illustration of who you are,
Or a Shadow of your past,
I teach you life, yet you can’t find your own.
You cant find out who you really were,
And maybe thats why, I am unknown.
The most obvious phenomenon of life,
Yet hidden in the meadows of conciousness.
Nobody named me and still I wonder,
How do I name my existence.
Dont hold on to me, I said I will ruin you,
I am the poison in your social construct,
I make you judge the world,
Maybe I am your mind,
Maybe a sense,
Something rhat dwelled with the steriotypes,
I cant understand issues of humanity,
I am.
But I should not be.
So dont name me.
-Sagar Arora

The Story Of A Human Being

 

“She had blood, but no nation,

She had love, but not a destination,

She had colours in her life,

She was the Nur of Humanity”

 

She was trapped in a cell, grey walls were the only companion to her thoughts; no memory about her past, just the pain trembling through her nerves to the head where no questions could fall apart. A cell was her knowledge of the universe, somehow a woman in her twenties lost all her vision into an abyss made of four walls. She looked at the gate and gazed to the different colour in hopes, till her eyes lost the sense to behold the vision.

She opened her eyes in the hospital, she heard a lady near her calling out, “Nur?” “Open your eyes Nur”. The woman grabs a sense to a world unknown and he could decipher nothing but the colour of her cloths. She was in a hospital bed, with strings digging into her heart, has she lost it all? She thought, remembering herself, finding her consciousness. She asks out to the people around and the lady replied “My dear daughter, Alllha has blessed us! My dear child, you suffered an accident last month and just regained consciousness. I am so happy to see you, Nur.” She knew her name and the fact about how she cannot retain anything because of injury; she could not find herself within the mist of the situation, but she felt a sense of harmony with presence of the people around her.

Nur found a place in the Khan family as the only daughter and build up a new life, after a few years of regaining the senses of the world, she started teaching in a small school in Pakistan. She was able to educate herself with the new generation and her life was progressing with a normal phase of love and affection for her work.

Her injury remained subtle, but she used to have nightmares having no symbolic representation, she could gain her memories but her positive attitude lead her towards success. She fell in love with a man named Umair, they married and had a baby girl. Nur’s life was running through a simple and sweet approach of time and situation.

One day, Nur and Umair had a vigorous fight over an issue of her working for more hours and not looking after her personal health, the night following to the day bought a tormenting dream.

I remember what was told, shoot the prick in the face, that’s what commander general told me. Ahmed Husain, the man who gave coordinates to the secret Intelligence base in India that reckoned its faith to a terrorist attack. I remember what he said to me, “Neha ! Find the man and shoot the prick in the face”.

The target was aimed, I could sense the feel of accomplishment. I waited for Ahmed to be alone in the room, so that a hit can revenge the vice he initiated to my Nation. My aim was fixed on him, his family went out and the last member that went out was a small girl wearing a pink traditional wear, my heart throbbed for a moment, but I knew the mission that I had to accomplish.

I took the shot and that’s all I remember.

It was 3 am, she woke up with her heart running out a similar sense of pain to her nerves. “It was a dream, it is just not possible.”

She picked up her phone and typed the words AHMED HUSAIN. The search results flushed a sequence of visions, she closed her eyes and realised that Neha was never Nur.

The lady stayed there in her bedroom, with her eyes closed, with a heart throbbing out for something that cannot be described. The feeling could not be highlighted.

She opened her eyes and saw her daughter sleeping gently, the baby was dressed in pink and the single colour provoked a cry of her life.

“What’s the matter, Nur?” Umair asked her, as he woke up in fear.

The room with a family amalgamated through faith was reckoned to silence. The lady took her time to answer and after wiping her tears she said, “ I am lucky to have you, Umair. I love you”

Haunted by Diversions

The sphere of the mellow beings, linked through a web of dreams,

Guided by symphonies, rested through a legion of extremity,

Humans found their ethos, building coherence over a divergent identity,

Through the distinct culture and ways, a ghost of diversity came to play,

A ghost that haunted the zest sublime, reaching out to eliminate the colours to blind,

‘Terror’ was the phrase to define, the inhuman solace of the night.

The contemporary holds a vision of abhorrence,

The globe is held by the drought from the bane,

Terror found its peak for the reminiscence,

Eliminating life and love from the rain,

What we reckon is the cry of our faith,

And the cure to the demise, shall be a union of our names.

To save the mystical being,

To recover the scars of the fall,

An espionage shall emerge, seeking the ghost to preach,

Dealing with each move of the anomalous believe,

The symbol of life shall defend the one common deem,

The unique logos of the whole world,

A common name to call them all,

Shall uproot the occult of uncertainties,

And restore the regalia from the luminosity.

-Sagar Arora