Along came a feeling…

Fingers entwined,
Words long resigned,
A clandestine harmony in this duet of breath.
Along comes a feeling, a kernel of distrust,
Seed of dissonance did an ire unsheath,
Castle to dust,
In one twisting thrust.

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About Coffee

When the going gets tough, the tough takes a coffee break.”

                                                                                   

Tough’s wife in an interview to Tough’s drinking habit weekly      

 

…. And that is probably the only time this tough ever drinks coffee, if tough under consideration goes by a name that start with M, ends with L, and has R I D U in the middle, in the exact given order.

 

People have written ballads in extolment of coffee, some of whom I personally know. Others go overboard with adulation for it to show unswerving loyalty in a manner which suggests it gives them pleasures of the kind one does not talk about when old or children are part of the audience. For such, the worshippers and not the old and c., I have only one thing to say: next time you skim through the pretentious menu of the overpriced coffee shop, try a pint of beer sometime. It works better.

 

By now, you would have figured out that, I am no coffee worshipper, and I hate anyone who does so. To be completely honest, on a larger scale of things, I am a misanthrope, but I have a singular dislike for people with piety for the beverage.

 

However, it would clearly be a case of deceiving the audience if I say I do not drink coffee. I do drink coffee and in no small quantity for that matter. In fact, on very busy days, strong smell of coffee has been reported to emanate from my workspace, and a very similar scent has been sensed in restrooms as well. My boss has been seen noting a hurried point or two, presumably positive ones for my appraisal, as and when he gets a strong odor of the beverage with a justified presumption that Mridul Greenwold is working hard.

 

To cut a long story short, you must extend the story by at least a few sentences, for it to be noticed. Therefore, I resume. Coffee, one might say, is only my bad-weather friend (as in opposite to fair weather friends).

 

We are like two war-weathered comrades, having roughed many a fiery battles and breached many an enemy lines together. We first came together for 2003 War of Boards. We were together once again when boards reattacked in 2005. After the second attack, peace treaty was signed and we returned to our respective homes, into arms of our respective lovers. And when we thought we have already seen the last of each other, the chemists started their crusades and continued for three years, until truce was called and sanity restored.

 

The Joint Venture is mostly avoided but we would rather see each other, than face the battles of our lives alone. We do not share fond memories but the bond runs deeper than it seems.

 

 

 

 

The poet wizard

When you are sure that your words will pale in comparison, you know better than writing more.

Yeh na thee hamari qismat keh wisaal-e-yaar hota
Agar aur jeete rahtay yehi intezaar hota

Tere waade par jiyee ham to yeh jaan jhoot jana
Keh khushi se mar na jaate agar sach yeh aitbaar hota

Yeh kahaan ki dosti hai bane hain dost naaseh
Koi chaarasaaz hota koi ghamghuzar hota

Kahoon kis se main keh kya hai shab-e-gham buri balaa hai
Mujhe kya bura tha marana agar ek baar hota

Huay mar keh ham jo ruswa huay kyun ka gharq-e-dariya
Na kabhi janaza uthata na kahin mazaar hota

Yeh masaael-e-tasavvuf yeh tera bayan ghalib
Tujhe ham wali samajhate Joh na badaakhwar hota.

T R A N S L A T I O N
I N
E N G L I S H

It was never in my fate to meet my beloved.
Even if more years of life was to me allocated, I would have been still awaiting the prize cherished.

If you think that I had been living on your promise, it is a lie.
For, if I had faith in you, would not of joy I would die.

Woe betide, my friendship, that the friends give pious advice and sermons they deliver.
I need someone on whose shoulders could I weep, who could allay my grief and my fears.

Whom should I tell that the night of sorrow is full of pangs.
I would not have resented the death, if it comes only once.

Disgraced, as I was after my death, why didn’t I drown in a river or sea.
Neither, there would have been a funeral, nor tomb erected for me.

The marvels of ethical problems and your statements full of meanings.
I would have counted you, “Ghalib” amongst dearest friends of God; if only, you had not been a lover of drinks.

When you read this you understand what Byron talked about when he wrote:

“To such as see thee not my words were weak;
To those who gaze on thee what language could they speak?”