Ego's perspective

Houses of the blind Made of glasses and the light No questions asked  And nor do they care      The people are happy always so chatty Their smile never reach their eye the clothes they wear a well-fitting lie the love they share the roll of a die   I left that sight, for my poetic plight. a departure filled in delight   Now I wander, a failed commander Eating stale dreams for dinner      

 “I know he has one. I’ve seen him write on it when I was a kid,” a voice cried out from one of the rooms upstairs in that nalukettu. The house was searching itself one could say, as if a man was searching for answers within himself.  Sun trekked through the sky and reached its peak, everyone in the house heeded the call of hunger. Except for one young man. “"Why is he so adamant about finding that old thing, assuming it even exists?” an elderly man spoke sitting down. “He wants to show it off when he joins the party tomorrow. What else can create a bigger wave than donating the personal diary of a freedom fighter and the best friend of a great martyr?” a motherly voice spoke, coming out of the kitchen with trays and dishes of scented food in hand. The little girl at the table took a bite out of the pappadom and smiled cutely to avoid punishment. When she felt her mother's eyes on her face she asked her father to explain why grandpa was such a big name in the village.  Childre

  Good times make, fed men weak While hard times make good men great Wildflowers easy-bloom all around But a flower from a rock, there stories abound A tree standing alone gets right and rain But a giant in the thicket conquered all that he reign A house cat may be pampered and fed But glory to the tiger prey-folk dread Hot steel in the furnace, purpose awake While cold steel simply bend to break   Breath is free but bread is not Make fleeting pleasure an afterthought Flavor your bread with the sweat of your brows Make sure you reap what your hard work ploughs Each number you crunch and the lyric you write Makes your own future that much bright   Suffering is not a part of life, its life itself You can either survive or start to live To live is to stand, to smile and to start again.    

  It was a perfectly ordinary day by all means. The sun was shining on him, radiating warmth. The ground beneath his feet, a sense of security. Sometimes the most extraordinary things happen on days like these. For instance, the death of God. Joy walked into his new high school. Head held high with an invisible effort and his smile constantly changing and correcting itself. He knew no one would dare tell him that he only got into this school because of his father, Archangel Gabriel, but he knew. Lucian Academy for Angels and Demons. Here the best and brightest of celestial offspring learn and, once in a while, get the opportunity to be an archangel, an honour of the highest order. Archangel Remiel was old enough to die soon and the students would jump at the chance to be him. When an old angel dies, his body is destroyed but his soul remains with all his knowledge and memories concerning himself. A new student is selected and his body is offered as host to the soul. And his young sou

  Lazarus, that's my name. I was trapped on an island in 1944, for fifteen years. An Earthquake destroyed many underwater mountains making fishing possible for the region I was trapped in. It led to my rescue. When I was deployed in the war, my beloved wife and four-year-old son were heartbroken. After years of prayer, did we get our son. I couldn't see him grow up and become a man. I couldn't teach him how to shave or how to do basic repairs of a car or teach him how to ride a bike or shoot. I couldn't be there for my wife. She might have suffered a lot. Some part of me wishes that she remarried yet, my soul prays she is still waiting for me. I miss her smile when I would be cutting the firewood or sweeping the yard. She needed me for everything in the house. My heart melts when I think of how she had to take care of the house and raise our son alone. My son would be a man by now. The man of the house. I hope he is good to his mother. I hope he does well in school. I

 The broken winged wild bird is Trying for one last song, again. Sitting alone on a woody carcass left behind by an axe Preening her unbroken wing. And an arduous search for notes Between thin staves of pain. Cursed with the fate to sing it alone, No mate or flock to sing it along.   Children who drank her warmth Have long gone, pecking and pricking. As the night flower blooms in hopes of seeing the twilight. With light, songs and wind in her heart, not for anyone, The broken winged wild bird is Breathing slowly one last song, again.   To hear this song that shines in the dark Trees, rain and night chill stood mourning, around While the shadows, rivers and weeds kept the rhythm aground. Even if no one is here, there are flowers and stars around to hear it, Because the song is cheery as honey, kind as dreams And tears to bear it.   The pain of her wing; so dry,   Melts away in her one last song As she embrace the vast sky   In her fl

  I crossed the fence to my best friend's house and walked in without a purpose. His sister smiled at me, taking a break from sweeping. Her smile was gentle and warm, but those who knew her well knew she had teeth behind those lips. A long time ago, she caught me and him touching each other. I returned her smile genuinely and went in search of him in his room. I never needed permission to enter this house. Having my second breakfast with him, we went out, as we always do. But what we do always changes. Sometimes we smoke in the abandoned roofing tile factory, sometimes we play cricket with the other kids till the owner of the paddy field chases us away. One time we even walked to the nearest town on a whim, which was about 50 km away. We did everything together since we were children. Today the adventure was of a romantic nature. The new love of his life was going to the temple, and obviously, like any other "naadan lover-boy" we stalked her. He already wrote a disgusti