And the lid of Nature's patience has blown off in the air,

As she fumes out, out loud, "Man will run, run in despair!"

The great ice caps of the poles she melts with almighty rage

To bring mighty storms and billowing wind which no man can ever gauge.

Water gives life and taketh away with thundering lighting bolt

And it rains, rains, and rains endless making every man cold.

It rains on dirt and diesel and smoke washing them off her face,

On pipes and drains it rains so hard it wipes them without a trace.

The thundering bolt hits only once to strike that chimney down,

One more hit and up in flames go the machines that pollute the town.

What destruction that only man could make, come from the hands of nature

The war is start, to kill the dirt and see the new earth better.

Not like this was it always when man stood to breathe the green

And fated himself to build higher and conceived his own plans mean.

So he cut the trees and the small weeds too

And he built brick, by brick his human zoo.

He made plastic and cement and he made atomic waste,

Hydrocarbons, Chlorofluorocarbons artificially chaste.

And man made this and man made that, and he reaped harvest of all he sew,

Till foreboding Nature spoke in muted pain, "What you do to Nature comes back to You."

Dwaipayan Adhya

To search for sparkling water of the fountain

The fountain lies across the valley, hidden

To be trot along the path beaten.

But the path is hard and lonely too

The land is cold grey, the sky deep blue

Daddy doesn't want to leave his son alone

To bear the dark hardship all on his own.

The darkness is so deep that daddy still shudder

His courage leaves him and he relinquishes his partner

He is helpless and weak, irritable and all

Nature breaks his faith and he fall.

But little son is not a deadpan bloke

His mind is too fast to let him choke

He's sick of this pessimism and intangible danger

And he flies like a bird, paints like a painter.

The sparkling water is life itself

To have it means to purify himself

Little son falls in love with nature's party

He must reach the water to those who are dirty.

He gallops his way along green pastures

Picking the scent of green grass and hidden treasures

He conquers darkness and wants no more losses

The water starts flowing from every mountain he crosses.

The forbearers of man beware,

Your offsprings shall not care-

The pulling them into line

Is not taken to be very kind,

Nipping their ideas in the bud

Will only make monsters out of mud,

Because they are not lame

They can burn you in their flame.

They are the forbearers of the clan,

The child is the father of man.

Today, in this world, children rich and poor are facing the greatest crisis ever. While the poor suffer in hunger, poverty and pain, the rich suffer in unsatiated fantasies of their predecessors. There is no denying the pressure put on children today as more and more people and families live with the irritation of unfulfilled desires. The craving for more has never been greater as it is now, in the age when you can buy college degrees and pretend throughout your whole life of pseudo-greatness. Man has created solutions for old problems and in the process, has created new ones, the biggest being the problem of choice. With menus full of options and half-witted literature, man is often tempted to delve deep into his imagination and draw conclusions all on his own. The negative conclusions that arise out of man's fear and infidelity are usually taken as yardsticks of judgement, and the positive ones are treated as subjects of much skepticism. The only beings among us mortals who can truly burn all darkness in their path and scathe the non-believers with the undying light of a bright future are the children. So let them live.

"It should be noted that children at play are not playing about; their games should be seen as their most serious-minded activity." Michel de Montaigne (1533-92)

"When a true genius appears in the world, you may know him by this sign, that the dunces are all in confederacy against him." Jonathan Swift (1667-1745)

Dwaipayan Adhya

The world is mainly filled with people who cannot think for themselves and are too depended on others to do the thinking for them. It's for these people that schools and colleges have been made. And to be honest, these institutions are run by the same people as well! So where does ingenuity, creativity and the likes stay? They don't stay anywhere. They just move along from one place to the other in search of acceptance and love. They are "freaks" and they are nonsense, because they speak in a different language, and the rest are too dumb even to try and decipher it. The rest are just plain dumb who have peanut sized brains and precariously hold on to the seats they occupy. They are too happy daydreaming about the system and how it has given them life and living and how they can never have enough praise to shower when given an opportunity.

I feel sorry for these dumb, irritable people of this earth. I feel even sorrier for those who have kids but never bother to learn from them the immense potential of human thought and action, but instead are more satisfied imposing strange rules and killing the talent in the bud. It is a pity, nothing less. What pleasure they get from it I know best. To kill the move, to act wisely, to be the saviour of the vulnerable gives them immense satisfaction. But who is the vulnerable in such a situation? Is it the smart and desperate kid or, the irritated and uptight old fool?

How can man be so blind? Considering the fact that only perhaps one in one hundred in physically blind, you will be astonished to find out that the rest of the ninety-nine are mentally blind, and that blindness is undetectable and incurable. The average blind man lives with it in the hope that other blind men like him will help him and they will all live together in blind mediocrity. Strangely enough, nobody shows sympathy when you are mentally blind and when another blind man exploits you, you stand exploited without a question. Such is the system of blindness. It's chronic and it's catching fast among all of us before we can even know its there.

But, there are some who still exist in this harsh multiplicative world standing against the test of time in an effort not to lose the greatest sense that Nature has gifted us. These counted few will not be blindfolded, not at any cost, even if it means torture. After all, every man has the right to know the truth and it is only the class of 'blinds' who want to keep all others blind so that they are in control, in check. This small league of extraordinary human beings are the only force still left on the planet which prevent it from sinking into total darkness and into hands of machines and other such thought controlling devices.

So what is it about truth that everyone wants to hide? It's not the truth itself but the things tied with it which are of more concern. The secret love affair of the unfaithful husband, the espionage of trade secrets, rape murder and scandals. the list goes on, but to where? Anything done, which will undermine the social position of human beings and bring out the weakness and infidelity of character is bound to fall into hiding and thus suppression of the truth. The truth is often harsh and often very difficult, and why, because the rest are so used to listening to lies that any iota of truth comes as a big shock which may even result in heart attack! What a medical liability. The biggest weakness that truth exposes is the fear of death. Death is the biggest form of punishment for most of mankind and to face death is like death itself. The truth revealed may lead to death, so why die, why not live the ignominious life of a pig for a few more years? And you thought man is the ultimate conqueror of earth, the 'tiger' of all species, the king of kings.

Well, my point here is very simple and straight. Do not be afraid of the truth, and if you commit a crime, face the consequences with a full heart. Death won't consume you, it will hide its head in shame. It will spare you and accept you as its true conqueror. There shall be no punishment too great to break you and you can always proudly do what you have to do.

Dwaipayan Adhya.

ROI V: Tram

The Exteriors: A slick rendition of the modern-day train fit for Indian roads. Full-metal body covering the two compartments. On the nose is a 60W lamp of headlight. Very airy and has low ground clearance.

The Interiors: Passengers travel in retro-style is the theme of the interiors with moulded wooden seats, D.C. fans adorning the ceiling and the occasional fresco on the side panels giving a very old and nostalgic feel about it.

The Staff: The driver is tucked away in the anterior and the conductors are the easygoing type.

The Passengers: The youth despise it, but the old adore it. It is the undoubted king of the road, for which all vehicles move aside. They do not obey traffic rules, and passengers pride themselves at the crushing power of this Goliath.

ROI IV: Auto

The Exteriors: Nothing much, except for a prominent snout in the front, able to poke into any gap. Minimal exterior covering and indeed very "airy".

The Interiors: Three at the back, and one having an affair with the driver is very comfortable, unless you are not too comfortable with the latter. Night-time brings on a different hue with shining Disco lights in shades of blue to the passengers amusement.

The Driver: All are members of the Official "Himesh" Fan Club (OHFC). Some are humble and play the radio, while some just prefer it boorish, right into your ears. A difficult time for the elderly, but they really can't intervene on a most comfortable ride.

The Passengers: All kinds, but mainly locals, so you get a taste of the locality where you are when you are in an auto.

ROI III: Bus

The Exteriors: A hot tin body and a hot tin roof characterizes the public bus on a typically hot day in India. Flat-nosed, and does not have much to boast of in terms of style.

The Interiors: Four rows of seats on four walls distinguishing the women folk from the rest of the pack (the arrangement may be different). The empty spaces (if any) filled in by anxious-looking passengers. All wooden interiors and the seats not of much comfort.

The Staff: The driver is tucked away in an oblivious corner or even better when it's a totally secluded chamber. The treasurers (usually two) take charge to "conduct" all passengers to pay the proper fare of travel. They are often foul-mouthed and unconditional supporters of women and children (wish they were working for UNICEF).

The Passengers: "A museum of grotesque", is how a famous author quotes it when describing them. Indeed it's a treat to both eyes ears (if you haven't fallen asleep already) and often your sense of smell. For most it is a challenge to stay in upright position for the whole journey. Seats are at a premium and, sorry, no musical chairs here, just raw competition

ROI II: Rickshaw

The Machine: The structure is 24 carat wood made from hand-picked vegetation of the neighbouring forest.

The Man: Short, dark and agile bodied, the sweat drips down his twitching muscles as he struggles.

The Passenger: They are the most nonchalant race of all.

ROI I: Taxi

Exteriors: A full yellow or a yellow-black coat of paint interrupted at special sites by cracks peeled off by the unscrupulous road dog. Headlights may or may not work subject to weather. Window panes highly prone to getting stuck due to old age. Front windshield may have long fissures, thanks to stones pelted from the Gates of Heaven.

Interiors: Dull and murky, and reminiscent of the damp apartment building. The backseat carefully torn by the naughty nails of juveniles. Usually odoratous giving you bovine dreams if you accidentally doze off. Within sight will be a decked up fare meter as interiors exhibit.

The Driver: Dark man with grey overalls and a reddish mouth, a roll of tendu leaves sticking out. The occasional turban-walla may be visible. The air fills the scent of a man who's not had a bath for a year.

Passengers: Of all colours, creed, races, shapes and sizes.

Roads Of India

Decked in yellow standing tall

They don't answer when you call

They rove the roads of India.

The wooden handles on wooden wheels

Gone with the wind on his heels

They stroll the roads of India.

A hot body with a hot tin roof

Watch your back or you get the hoof

They drive the roads of India.

Their pointed snouts tend to kiss

When they follow in a row it's hard to miss

They scurry the roads of India.

Slow and steady wins the race

But not when Goliath walks at this pace

They ramble the roads of India.

Carefully read what will come

If you wish to understand some

Who rule the roads of India.

Deep Blue