Cherishing the Memories : A Tribute to the Legend.

Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar - the name itself is enough for a thousand hands coming together, each time the Little Master comes out on the field to play for his country. The name that echoes in our heart each time we think of the word: cricket.

I still remember; during my school days, whenever India played a cricket match, I'd rush home as fast as possible from school, tuition or any place I was. Hoping to catch a glimpse of Sachin playing. And he rarely ever disappointed! Every time he came out to bat, I felt my heart uplifted with an unexplained joy and excitement. Ever since I was a child, I bought only MRF bats for myself; I'd buy no other bat! I used to look into the mirror for hours together, holding that bat..and would try to play the drives and cuts the way he played.

When he opened the innings for India, he'd walk into the ground, his head held high. He'd look up to the skies, and walk towards the pitch. He'd take guard, ready to hammer any bowling attack that the opposition challenged him with. There was a fierce winning spirit in his calm eyes. A thousand emotions behind his magical smile. That brought me a rare feeling called happiness.

I grew up learning the fact that cricket, indeed was gentlemen's game. I learned the virtues of true sportsmanship and sheer dedication one must have to achieve the landmarks he did. He missed out the line on many occasions and had to go back to the pavilion owing to endless incorrect decisions. But he never flinched from his true character. The Little Master always kept his head high and bowed his way out of the ground.

He was the only reason that I learnt how to play cricket, and made this game my only religion. I grew up watching, copying and admiring those strokes he played, covering every nook and corner - inside and outside the cricket stadium. I grew up watching him fearlessly hammer the greatest bowlers of all time, who brought nightmares to other players in his team. I grew up watching him take off his helmet and raise his bat, on 100 different occasions. I grew up watching him achieve those paramount milestones with an untouchable and unparalleled record in the history of world cricket. I grew up watching him play the flawless cover drives, leg glance, sweep shots, inside out, upper cuts and his most marvelous trademark shot: the straight drive!

Even today; after watching him bat for almost two decades, my heart still skips a beat when the Master Blaster comes out to bat, with the same energy and enthusiasm of the 16 year old Sachin. I pray for his long innings, when he looks up at the skies. I can feel the echoes of the applause of those thousand people in my heart, when he connects his bat to get off the mark.

On October 10th, when I saw the news, I couldn't control my emotions and my eyes swelled up from crying for hours together. Its not the retirement of a batsman, its the end of an era. But then, I said to myself, "Don't cry because he's retiring. Smile. Smile and be proud that I'll get to see the God bat one more time. For those innumerable memories and the countless reasons he gave to make us smile." Sachin Tendulkar: a silent guardian, a watchful protector, a magician with half a kilo wand. The Master Blaster who donned the jersey no. 10, and achieved unbeatable class and excellence. The undoubted God of Cricket. Thank you Sir, thank you for everything that you gave to this country.

14th November, 2013 will be the day when that the God of cricket will walk down the Wankhede stadium in whites, one last time. That one last time, when millions of hearts will be uplifted seeing the little master playing for his nation. The day when people for once, will forget the nation that they belong to; and pay their final respect to the man who conquered the world of cricket for 24 years. That one last day, when the cheers and cries of the cricketing fans will echo with happiness, hope and unexplainable despair as we wave our final goodbye to Sir Sachin Tendulkar..

Mortals die, but legends live on. Forever and ever..

Shine on me, Dark Sunshine!

Standing at the edge of a glorious waterfall,

With some short listed memories to recall.

Shine on me, dark sunshine!

Hailing the flow of the deadly water,

For those mistakes that I couldn't alter.

Shine on me, dark sunshine!

The pages of past are now pasted on the Wall,

Your face in my mind once again starts to crawl.

Shine on me, dark sunshine!

I dug out the emotions with a spade and a shovel,

The blood splintered beneath the pages of a lost novel.

Shine on me, dark sunshine!

Trapped by the high walls in the mind's labyrinth, 

The story of love and happiness is only a myth.

Shine on me, dark sunshine!

Longing to come out of this lifeless maze,

Praying for the blue skies to clear the mist and haze.

Shine on me, dark sunshine!

Shine on me!

You dark and cold!

You witty and bold!

Imagining the gold!

You fake and crafty mould!

My soul is forever sold!

Shine on me, you dark sunshine..

The Black Clouds of Death.

The following is based on the events that took place in Uttarakhand, after the disastrous cloud burst that took the lives of countless pilgrims, villagers and rescuers..

The black clouds of death that struck with bad fate,

Marks the beginning of Lucifer's merciless estate.

For the passel of people dying, the food is found nowhere,

The water running over the cold corpses is stained red everywhere.

In the cold, icily numb winds of the Himalayan ranges,

A little frost bitten girl descends the slopes steep and estranged.

To those countless pilgrims who could never see the new day,

The light faded from their eyes, forever ending their way.

A lonely father weeps for his loss that he cannot measure,

His lovely daughter being his life's sole treasure.

In the debris, the children are still buried deep and cold,

The gorge reverberates with the pain of souls, evanesced and sold.

Near the distant horizon, the black clouds finally settle down,

Marking the events of the act of God, that ended life in a town.

The hair raising cries of anguish and melancholic despair,
Shall forever echo in the destroyed valley, where deaths are beyond repair..

Copenhagen

Welcome to Copenhagen, the town which is demented,
Which is ruled by masqueraders and the guiltless are cremated. 

Spiders weave cobwebs in front of the people's eyes,
Those poisonous green apples are blessings in disguise.

The smile on their face is plastered like a work of wax, 

For all they have grown up with are gore, violence and sex. 

The lady in black casts your prophecy with a smile that is wicked,
But the polished diamonds shine on what's real and stark-naked. 

The druggists and the rats pollute every nook of the city,
Each street and each household, where cocaine is in scarcity.

The Law is an impotent joke, just for the sake of it's name,

The democrats with money and fame play the odds in this game. 

To all those male-chauvinists, women are just an object to stare, 

Crafty saints and sages murder religion with panache and flair.

The atheists go to the chapel and the believers pray by the grave,
Immoral virgins dance nude in the parties of booze and rave.

Damsels, hookers and love are sold cheaper than dope,

Showered with flowers, in a black limousine comes the Vatican Pope.

The pied piper has led the toddlers to their doom,

Wars of hatred will now be fought in the hearts of gloom.

Running away from Copenhagen, I look back for one last glance.
Circling over the cold corpses, the vultures perform a victory dance..

The Cigar on the Table..

There is a flare of furious emotions in his bones and cold hatred flowing through his veins as he walks heavily through the hallway, lit with dim chandeliers. The effect of marijuana emanates through his body and he feels oddly calm for what he is about to do. He chucks the joint aside that he had been smoking for some last eight minutes and immediately lights a Cuban cigar drawing it out of his breast pocket. As he takes a long drag, he flexes his arms to reveal a large ambigram of life and death tattooed on his muscles. The unkempt beard, his sweaty brow, ragged clothes and a small scar over his right eye add to his haggard appearance. The weary, troubled and cold look in his eyes express the suffering they have witnessed and the torture he went through. In his right hand, he carries a pistol which he stole along with the box of cigars from an anorexic stranger he bumped in the dark alley about an hour ago from then. High on marijuana now, he can see the hallway swaying in and out of focus and the dim yellow halogen lights dance around dizzily. Even with all the anger surging inside him and the cannabis doing their bit, his mind is transfixed upon his target sitting in the room at the end of the corridor: Marlon Gonzales, the man who was directly and indirectly responsible for all the black marks, criminal records, wrongdoings, agony and loss in the present day situation of the man's life. There was nothing more that the man wanted, than unloading the gun into Gonzales's fucking head. 

Finally reaching at the end of the hallway, he reaches out for the knob to open the door which is the only thing now between him and his revenge. The knob feels cold as he wraps his hand around it and as the door creaks open; a room with a table and chair appears in front of him, with Gonzales’s back facing him. The man points the gun at the back of his head, as it cocks off the safety lever with a meticulous click and his finger moves steadily on the metallic trigger. Gonzales turns back slowly because of the stench of smoke and the click of lever, to face his assassin. He takes a look at the man’s premeditated face and nods with a lopsided smile, accepting his fate. The man stares back at the smiling face of Marlon Gonzales for a lingering moment, as if savouring it; and then, with a swift action he pulls back the trigger of his gun. The room that was swallowed into dead silence, echoes shrilly with the sound of the ricocheting bullet, as it fires out from the man’s pistol and leaves a conspicuous mark on Gonzales’s forehead. He can see the blood oozing out menacingly from the back of his head and splattering out on the glass windows of the room making it look like a painting of modern art. He can see shreds of the dead man’s skull covered in blood flying all around the place. Gonzales’s head comes crashing down with a bang on the table and his eyes stare away blankly into darkness. The man flings away his gun carelessly, sets the cigar upon the table and bends down to take one last look at the man who plagued his entire life. As the blood furiously gushes out from his forehead, he lies there spread-eagled and lifeless on the wooden table. Marlon Gonzales is dead and the evil has finally been vanquished forever, into the realms of hell.

As the man steps out of the room, the blood starts draining down languidly from the windows and the fragments of skull slowly fade out of existence. Hearing the sound of the gunshot, the guards immediately rush frantically trying to locate the source of sound. Quickly crossing the hallway, they enter the room and see the abandoned table and chair. The smoke of the nearly extinguished cigar has now filled up the room, and the guards take a quick look around for the shooter. They cannot see anyone or anything except for a rat eating itself lying in a desolated corner by the dumped weapon, a small bullet sized crater in the middle of the table, and the cigar burning itself away on the table.

The man breathes in fresh air and with a deep sigh of relief, he starts walking towards a small store at the end of the street. He enters inside and asks crisply for a pint of beer and a pack of cigarettes. As he reaches out for his wallet to pay the bill, his driving license slips out indistinctly and lands on the floor with a soft thud. As he bends down to pick it up, his eyes widen in disbelief and he is taken aback with an amalgamation of bewilderment, shock and satisfaction as the face of Marlon Gonzales looks back smugly from the photo imprinted upon the license. Finally, Marlon Gonzales smiles knowingly for what he just did.

Back at the hallway, the guards stare in confusion and astonishment at the spot where the rat ate itself away, and the now extinguished Cigar on the Table..

The Dark Passenger..

Guys, sorry for being AWOL for such a long span of time! Actually, I am not announcing my re-return with this post (It'll still take some more time :P). 

I want all of my readers to check out the link to the following video "The Dark Passenger". It's a short film, directed by my best pal, Krunal Bhalja, which features a schizophrenic guy who suffers constant hallucinations. 

Do check it out, and help us promote the film!
Thank you. :D