Be my sunshine
peep into me
dive into my heart
sing along with me
come walk along with me
walk with me a while
come and be my smile
be my seventh sky
be the wind in my soul
let me fly, let my fly
come, be my seventh sky.
-
Anant Dhavale
Copyright © Anant Dhavale
All rights reserved
A bit cheesy but yeah why not lol :)
I been writing this story for fun. Here's the next ( rather the first) chapter. I have pasted some chapters on the Booksie website.
-
The mist
-
Kaniu's hands were frozen with cold. His eyes hurt so hard did he strain to see ahead. His boat moved slowly but constantly, pushed away by some secret wind. The water was eerily quiet. The only sounds he heard were the water lapping against his aging boat and the occasional creak it gave as the boat moved. It seemed as if the haze was frozen, making a thick shroud that hid everything that may have existed in these parts - these mythical, magical waters of the Rinayars.
Kaniu had never experienced this extreme cold or seen such misty waters. His heart fluttered with fear. Something is bound to hit my boat. It's only a matter of time before the old thing's shattered. He was convinced the boat would not survive another blow. It had taken a significant beating from the roaring waters of the Macareth sea. It was a miracle he had made it so far in the boat.
But nothing happened. Some unknown force was keeping his path clear. The old boat kept moving into the unknown, cold mist. It kept getting colder every few strides. Now his teeth chattered, and he crouched awkwardly, wincing and writhing in pain as his back felt a sharp tinge of spasm. This is it. I am dead. All of a sudden - by a flash of survival instinct- it occurred to him he still carried the shawl gifted to him by the old painter back in the city. It definitely looked warm. Now was the time to use it.
He fumbled for the leather bag his father had packed him as he left. Bread, a few coins, a change of clothes. And the old shawl. But all he could see now was faint silhouettes of things around him. It must be here somewhere. He tried mumbling, but his lips were so cold the words hardly came out. Unable to stand, he rolled down from one end to the other of the small, creaky boat, trying to feel for the old leather bag. Every time he reached his trembling hand out, all he could feel was the cold touch of wood. The whirling motions he earlier experienced while crossing the sea of Macareth must have thrown the bag into the open waters.
Kaniu began losing the hope he felt a few moments ago. Now, he pulled his knees close to his chest. His whole body ached and pained with the cold. He could feel something hard and sharp pierce through his left foot, but the intense cold had numbed his feet. Pictures flashed in front of his eyes as he tried closing them. His father's weak, ailing face. The vague contours of his dead mother. Their home. The wooden toys his father had made him when he was a child. Lecki. Her beautiful, comforting smile.
I must be dying. He thought as his mind jumped from twig to twig. Dying people see their lives flash in front of their eyes. He had heard old people in his town talk as they drank and smoked and told stories of bygone times.
Several moments passed. Or probably hours. Kaniu must have fallen asleep. He came to, feeling something resting against the back of his head. With great effort, he stretched out his hand. He could feel the touch of leather. He yanked the bag to his side and pulled the shawl out. Aching, paining, and wincing, he managed to pull the shawl over his cold body. The soft wool felt comforting. Soon, he began feeling the warmth. His body no longer shivered. The shawl was working magic. This old, tattered gift was probably going to save his life.
Several hours passed. The pain numbed by the cold this time had reared its head back under the warmth of the shawl. Kaniu came to with a sharp pain in his left foot. He pulled himself up, feeling and fondling his way to the side of the boat. The mist was still thick, but now he could see what was nearby. He had probably brushed his foot against the sharp edge of an old iron hinge. He must have been bleeding. He could see faint blobs on the cold floor.
Soon, there were voices coming from beyond the mist. Drums? Some weird music - rhythmic beating and thumping. This felt strange but also mythical. Somehow, though, Kaniu was no longer scared anymore. He felt a reassurance.
- Anant Dhavale
Copyright Reserved.
A tale of the fantastical, the brave, and the chivalrous.
--
Eight thousand years before the common era, the world was not so much different. Were the means vastly different? Yeah, perhaps. But people were just like they are now if you know what I mean. Kimayar was still the biggest plateau on the whole of the Earth; at least, that is what the inhabitants of the great kingdom of Soloma believed. There was nothing more glorious, prosperous, or beautiful. The plateau overlooked the giant sea of Macareth. The wise men had forbidden crossing the ocean. It was sacred. Crossing the Macareth would have invited the wrath of the sea gods and unknown maladies unto the people of the Soloma.
But Kaniu did not believe this to be the case. He was a young man of twenty-three, all brave and strong from growing up in the alleys of Soloma city. He had survived the streets of the city known for its crime and thuggery. Bamik, his aging father, was the only family he ever had, except for an aunt maybe, of whom Bamik sometimes spoke; when tired from all the day's hard work, he drank Davu, the hard country liquor popular among the commonfolk of the city. Kaniu's mother had died from a plague outbreak ten years ago. Bamik never re-married.
"I will die alone, a widower, but not betray her." Bamik had vowed on a drunken night. Ten years gone, he had stayed true to his word. But he had aged more than his natural age. Kaniu could see it in his father's tired eyes and his thing hands that shook on their own now and then.
"You don't need to work anymore, Father," he had once said to Bamik. "I am earning now. I can take care of you."
"I don't want to stop, my boy," Bamik had responded. "Life is all about hard work. We must work until our last breath, as the gods wish."
"How do you know the gods will us to do only hard work? What if they want us to make money and live a good life?" Kaniu had asked.
"I am a simple man, Kaniu. I do not have the answers to such questions." Bamik had responded in a low, resigned voice before dozing off to sleep.
" I know the answers, father." Kaniu had whispered, "And I am willing to go to great lengths to change the story of our lives."
**
All rights reserved.
Copyright © A.S.Dhavale (Anant Dhavale)
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at once alarmed, the
flock takes off in a jiffy
sounds of flaps linger
*
at once alarmed, the
flock takes off in an instant
a flutter reverberates
-
Anant Dhavale
Categorizing this book has become hard for me. This book has sci-fi elements, but it is essentially about human behavior!
Anyways here's the link :
.jpg)
On whose shoulders perches the eagle?
Who mourns through gusts of eastern rushing winds?
A boy who grew up in dullness could never escape it
gripped by a melancholy
too great for his little heart
But the band marched on
he watched decades descend on the great delta,
hoping for better days -
an ascent of his own
Grief is borne out of grief
and nothing more occurs
The valley surged with new delights
newer clans took over the streets and the
capitalist mansions of hallowed democracies
But his rising never arrived
He wrote, and he kept writing
To the rise of the valley and his own ennui
Everything shall pass
Nothing will remain :
the tree that gave you shelter,
the 'you' that took the shelter, the shelter that gave,
or the act of taking.
there is no greater conundrum,
than a meaningless wait,
no sadness bigger than what dwells in your heart
you, the tiny island of life
in you, revolves the end
He walked with a peasant's feet,
with smells of soil in his soul
through his eyes flew the monsoons, the dreary summers
the toil of generations – scattered along the sparse shadows of Neem
We were no warriors; our king taught us to fight.
Cities – glittering settlements of hollow people in their
grim, sky-high sepulchers of opulence
Cities – the urban barrens of wealth and dust and smoke
they mocked him,
Pushed him back – crushed him to death
Never the truth – and the truth lays
scattered in feathers of slain birds
sullen backroads covered in blood and soot
He walked into the cold, dark gray blossoms
"Who am I, my beloved?" he asked the universe
"Where am I headed?"
decades have passed, and he hasn't reached anywhere,
And the Godavari, she
has flown past another
million years.
-
Anant Dhavale
I have kept this blog as a journal up until now. Most of my work here is largely unedited and needs cleaning up - which I intend to do over the coming days.
Thanks for your patience!
at once alarmed, the
flock takes off in a jiffy
sounds of flaps linger
deep blue and
untroubled - this pure
thought of yours
-
I want to let go of
a few things urbane
be the simple kid I was
-
Anant Dhavale
Copyright © Anant Dhavale
(Wote this poem many years ago, and I have kept editing it since. )
Nuggets from ‘Nobody’s War’
‘Liberals, my friend, are bad for business.’
‘Politics and poetry betray logic, Kwaqa.’
‘It always takes an outsider. For better or for worse.’
‘I do not age. I may die, but only if a system somewhere thinks it’s my time.’
‘Men my age die alone, in sleep.’
‘One must be in their element, no matter the situation.’
‘There is a certain joy that poetry exudes. A sadness too. A beautiful, blue sadness.’
‘Trust means nothing to us. It’s a phony construct. We do not deal in such currencies.’
‘For some, information is a deterrent. For some, it is a call to action. For us, it is plain and simple leverage.’
‘Her face shines in the moonlight like a sculpture. It’s his sculpture, a picture he has imagined and drawn and chiseled in his mind, a ripple of glimmer, a momentary breeze. For him, this togetherness lasts forever, though his mind tells him otherwise.’
Anant Dhavale
Now this calm, now this tumult
how we’ve closed these circles - a lapse,
a gossamer of things gone, things to be
When old age strikes, and we wince and writhe in pain, what would these loves mean then? Broken statuettes of yore. Faded artifacts from another time.
Guilt hangs from the gilded gates -
years recounted, faces rehashed
This, here is how looking back looks like
-
Anant Dhavale
