A House

A product of engineering,
A roof for humans,
A shelter - an umbrella of security,
Against unfriendly people and weather,
But is it merely a structure of bricks and mortar?

Housing people of several generations,
Its walls are stained with sentiment,
Its floors with memories, every room etched

With the feelings of its inhabitants, even visitors,
Perhaps it is something to do with hearts beating for a long time-
They induce life into even lifeless bricks -

Life of the immortal kind,

Turning the structure into a body,
That lives on for centuries-
An old person perhaps,

One who even emotes to those who listen,

In a strange, ghost-like way.

Written on 19.6.2016 at 4:30am, at B001, H13, IIT Bombay

The Bed

A home within a home,

A flat piece of heaven,

Be it soft or hard,
A cushion, for body and heart,
The most wanted comfort zone,
A source of peace to reach out for,
In times of distress, heartbreak or fear,
A lap for you to sleep on,
A shoulder to lean on,
To dream when lost, or to mull over things,
A refuge when sick,
Nothing short of a mother,
Ever available, but hardly thought of,
Clothed in a bedsheet of your choice,
It awaits you, night after night,
Drenched in your tears of yesterday,
Wrenched dry when you jump on it in joy or play,
Giving your body rest and your spirit hope,
To go out there, and live another day.

Written on 19th June, 2016 at 4:17am, at B001, H13, IIT Bombay (lying on my bed)

On Inspiration

It is purpose that propels life forward.

Purposelessness breeds stagnation - a state over which death would be preferable.

                                                                                                                            - A thought

At times when the human sees only void,
When one lacks purpose, that fuel of life,
Something comes to one's aid,
A source that inspires one,
In a manner that is straight or tangential,
Often subtly, for that is how one accepts,
It could be words, an example,
A thing of memory or a person,
A life account, narrated or read,
Sometimes a mere signal from naught,
It could even be an unrelated sight, or hurtful words,
That plunge one into into action.

In many cases, the inspirer knows not,
Sometimes even deserves naught,
It could merely be one's image of something or someone,
A mental projection induced by one's heart,
Perhaps by a narrator or book,
But such power it releases,
From a source the human known not,
Somewhere within the chest (heart) I feel,
Unleashing such strength,
Stirring one in to action,
Perhaps generating art -
That marvel that the world celebrates,
A wonder that amazes even the artist,
Or perhaps an achievement that turns heads,
Making this person an inspirer.
It matters not whether the inspirer deserves this title,
Or if credit is given,
For the human life is divided between
Displaying and living life,

It is that power that one must marvel at.

It could last for years until death,
Or perhaps just for an instant,
Producing genius, or perhaps nothing at all,
The true surprise is not the result,
But that spark that shakes one off,
The spark of life.

Written on 7.6.2016 10:36pm (conceived at 10:00pm at mess, written now at B001, H13, IIT Bombay)

A Glimpse of Life

A story only too common,
Lived and relived by countless humans,
The bawl, the struggle to crawl,
And later learning the scrawl,
The completion of education,
The pursuit of an occupation,
The marriage, the progeny,
The struggle for money,
The investments, the banking,
The holidays and camping,
The retirement, bereavements,
Death, then inheritance.

A path tread on by nearly the entire swarm,
So much that its every thorn is known,
Problems only too mundane,
That they can be plotted for each woman or man,
Cycles more precise than the best ever clock,
Studded with events to which friends flock,
Some moments, precious to close kin,
And others, known only to two or one,
Be it fun, work, love or even hate,
It all fits into one big template,
The thrill, the pain, the emotions,
It all feels new to the one who lives,
Strange indeed is the human's life,
For no one looks for where the difference lies,
The difference between what is seen by hotel staff,
And that by of the newlyweds, waiting to start off,

Perhaps that's where the difference dwells,
Between living one's own life and watching another's,

The difference between the emotional subjective,
And the logical, observant objective.

And while it all sounds great, I wonder,
If it'd be a terrible blunder,
To expend my life walking the old, ridiculous road,
Taking the trouble of carrying such load,
But such thought is snapped in an eye's blink,
And before I even stop to even think,
I am pushed into the eternal wheel of gloom,
By forces of hunger and fate, where I lie 'til I face my doom.

Written on 5th June, 2016 at B001, Hostel 13, IIT Bombay

The "Bigger" Picture?

I visited a country,

A so called enemy nation,

I saw roads and streets and people,

All like in mine,

I saw lives that went on like ours,

People who knew my land, people who didn't,

People who hates us, and those who didn't,

But people all the same,

So same, in appearance, character and heart,

That I could barely spot them as different from my own,

The grassroot is the truth,

People are the country,

And if such be the picture,

What can be bigger than that?

And if so be the case, who wages wars?

Written on 2/6/2016 at 7:30am at B001, IIT Bombay after reading some answer on Quora