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I wanted to meet him Sit with him With his eyes closed With my eyes closed With only the sound of heartbeat... I wanted to meet him Fill his fragrance in my heart Feel the ocean of silence inside him Immerse myself a little more... Alas! he has send the message Through the airs He is going home No more meetings for him.. Not now... My heart is filled with tears Are they of pain, I doubt Are they of joy, I doubt But, I know I will meet him Because, I too will go home one day... _/\_ Dunija Rothschild

राह में  मिले कृष्णा कहीं, मुझे अपनी  बांसुरी दे गए कान में मेरे चुपके से एक बात कह गए --         वह छेल छबीली पनघट पर         शिथिल , चुपचाप खड़ी है         वह जड़ है         लेकर अपना भार खड़ी है         अपने प्रिय की प्रतीक्षा में         कितनी लाचार बनी है         आँखों में, अंतर में, कुछ लिए         वह बेजार खड़ी है                  - अपूर्व ! तुम उसे                     यह बांसुरी दे देना                     उसकी अनकही बातों को                     उसके प्रिये तक पहुंचा देना                     मै फिर पहुंचा पनघट पर                     हाथ में बांसुरी लिए                     संकुचता हुआ                     ह्रदय  में संवेदना लिए                     लगा जैसे एक भोली बाला                     लाज में गड़ी हो                     प्रेम की आग दिल में लिए                     संशय में पड़ी हो                              दे दूँ उसे बांसुरी                              और खोल दूँ वो सब द्वार                              जिन्हे वो यत्न  से, सब से छुपा, बंद किये खड़ी है

Author: Dunija Rothschild Life a great teacher holds my hand every morning teaches me to laugh in pain and cry when filled with joy... Life a great teacher whispers songs of love, of hope in my ears and teach world is but a giant toy...  About the Author: Dunija Rothschild, is a writer, meditator and philosopher.  She enjoys observing herself and others in the varied colors of life. All her stories and poems take shape from the class called Life, they are inspired from the real life incidents.

Author: Amy Hofstadter I think I was sleeping, when a deep male voice woke me up. In front of me was standing a handsome old man, with all his hairs silver white. I saw around, the room looked different, it was not my usual studio apartment. The room was much larger and very dimly lit. The old man was standing about five feet away from me near a strange looking light source , surrounded by two coils glowing with light. The old man was talking perhaps to me or to himself! I am not even sure that he knew I was present there. His voice echoed in my ears, “Today I am 120 year old, almost the last surviving male of my generation!   Inventor of   life force generator, a device that can generate infinite energy from nothing.”   Saying this, he moved towards the central light source.   I don’t know if it is my imagination, or just pure sleep, but I am sure I saw at that moment the   light source flickered and few firefly like things flew from it, they merged   into that old man’

Author: Divya Saksena By himself again, Browning waited for the splinters of memory to hit him anew. Reading Tennyson again, m’dear?              My favorite poet, as you well know. Ulysses “Though much is taken, much abides.” We share a common history. We share. He looked down at the now clean inscription, rescued briefly from the onslaught of dust, and bent to touch it once…twice. Then, turning, he made his way towards the gate from which he had entered. The courtyard was now dotted with knots of people, chatting and laughing as they waited for the evening service. Several curious glances and some tentative smiles came towards him as he edged around the enormous plinth that was all that remained of the magnificent monument put up by Metcalfe for his murdered friend Fraser. A polite smile fixed to his face, he let out a breath of relief as he came through the gate into the street and paused to get his bearings. en.wikipedia.org On his left, a plaintive call

Author: Divya Saksena “The sun’s almost set now. It’ll be getting dark soon and we don’t want to be late for the evening service.” observed Father Antony. “Yes!” exclaimed Preeti. “They’re going to sing me happy birthday!” Father Antony explained quickly. “A little tradition. The choir sings it and the congregation often joins in.” “Come on!” Preeti hopped up to the gravestone and stood waiting as her father lit the long taper and carefully placed it in her hand. Gripping it tightly, she reached over to light the candles, then suddenly, she turned towards Browning and held out the lit taper. “We share.” It was not a question. Wordlessly, Browning moved forward, his hand closing over the little fist. Carefully, they lit the two candles together. Father Antony, Anita and Rajan stepped back, hands folded in a gesture of respect, and watched as two tiny flames sprang up and began to glow stronger as the rays of the dying sun slid away towards the west and the shadows beg

Author: Divya Saksena Rajan added, “She was just a few days old. She was born on today’s date, 27 th June, and we fixed the ceremony for 1 st July. And that’s when it happened!” Anita took up the story again. “We were early, and brought her out here to try and keep her calm, but we were still arguing about more names. Then suddenly Rajan stopped here and pointed out the names that we could just make out. It seemed perfect.” Rajan smiled. “Not just the names, the dates seemed to fit too. As a historian, it was too much for me to ignore!” en.wikipedia.org Anita looked worried. “We just took the names for our daughter. Please don’t be offended, but there seemed nobody that we could ask.” “I’m not offended!” said Browning quickly. “She looks a great kid. I’m glad that you found something that worked for you.” Father Antony joined in. “She is indeed a great kid. And here she comes again at sixty miles per hour!” “I’m back!” Preeti huffed up importantly. “And Fa

Author: Divya Saksena “Why? Why did you clean my grave?” “Eh?” He was momentarily speechless, and Father Antony quickly intervened. “This is Mr. James Browning. The grave is…ah…his family’s.” The child’s parents exchanged swift glances, then her mother said gently, “Preeti, go and ask Father Michael for two red candles and a lighting taper. Papa and I will finish up here. Hurry or it will start getting dark.” “Okay! But why did he clean it first? We always do that on my birthday!” Wikimedia.org “Yes, we do. But you see, it was his family there first, long before us.” “Hmmm…so we share it with him?” “Yes, if he doesn’t mind sharing with us.” Before Preeti could fix him with her questioning stare again, Browning spoke up hastily, “I assure you, I don’t mind at all.” “All right then, I’m going for the candles.” As she hurtled away towards the side portico of the church, in her apparently customary headlong fashion, Browning asked a question uppermost in

Author: Divya Saksena en.wikipedia.org Browning followed the priest’s gaze across the courtyard as a small figure came hurtling across towards them, a little girl of perhaps eight or nine years, pigtails flying behind her. She flung herself at Father Antony who, laughing, fended her off from clutching his legs as she skidded to a stop beside them talking all the while “Father Antony! Here I am! Are we late? It’s not dark yet… Can I get candles now? Mummy .and Papa are just coming. You must wish me! I got presents! Who is this?” “Hold on, Peapod! Let me get a word in! Wish you a very happy birthday!” The child shook hands solemnly with the pastor, eyeing Browning as she did so. Her parents came up, a young Indian couple, both carrying a bucket of water, washcloths and sponges. “Peapod! Stop bothering Father Antony like that! Come on, let’s get to work or it will be dark soon.” The little girl hurried to the grave that Browning had been working on, then stopp

Author: Divya Saksena We stared into each other ’ s faces, oblivious of the exasperated snorts and shoves of the populace whose progress we were obstructing. Then, very slowly, he put up his hands to straighten the clasp of his cloak that had gone awry as he had pulled me off the road. He looked around us as though waking out of a stupor and then addressed me again. “ Well, if you ’ re sure you ’ ve suffered no injury, we may as well try and pick up what ’ s left of your basket and its contents, ” he observed. His voice carried the arrogance of a man clearly accustomed to having his commands obeyed and without delay. But I knew I was responding to that unconscious assumption of my compliance contained in his casual “ we. ” He bent down to retrieve the few flat loaves and olives and fruit that had not been trodden on by the impatient pedestrians pushing their way around us. His helmet had tumbled off and rolled into a recess at the foot of the small drinking fountain that gush