The Phoenix - I

The Phoenix – I
(Unfortunately a true incident)

1st Year Vacations…

I still surmise the day when I wrote my first poem. The only four lines of my very first limerick smelt rose and bled with the prickles in a nip. I laughed at myself and went to bed. I was oblivious that a poet was born in a boy who abhorred rewords and poems. A juvenile guy, who hardly knew about Keats and was once, caught unaware sleeping in the class when her very girl friend recited eternal lines of P.B. Shelly. The next day I made a verse out of almost everything I saw. I envisaged and conceptualized every thing around me in the form of poems. I had heard that empty mind was devil’s work shop, but this time it was exactly the opposite. My vacant mind was a poet’s work shop. A poet, who loved some one in some peal of time and was departed, detested detached and exposed to time. After being overjoyed, I was frightened with the changes coming in my perspective towards things. My brain became a churner, churning feelings finding characters and constantly matching rhymes of odes. A guy, who was ignorant of a place like Crossword, started killing whale of time there. The Dexter in me allowed doing so as it was the time when every one of my college mates was enjoying with their social cluster. And it was I who had traveled the endless journey of discovering me in an aboriginal sense.

3rd Semester…

The odd semester trashed in with some heart wrenching news floating around. We were all exposed to the semester scheme for the very first time in our lives. The quad lined verses now took the façade of a full fledge poem with a stroking in the end. I questioned myself about the central character of my poems and every time the answer came in a poetic way, hinting her presence around me. I still remember the day when I saw those brown eyes in my college. It was the day that marked the commencement of what we call reading vacation. The cupid struck me hard and the poet in me espoused the cupid. Technically speaking, reading vacation is an eon of 30 days, the only 30 days when technocrats open their books and pump their heads in. But it was opposite for me. Early in the morning, I used to sit with my textbook of electronics and even I didn’t recollect when I eschewed the book and opened a new file in MS Word, depicting a verse around her. Even I don’t know what happens to me when I sit before the computer screen with my fingers roving on the hieroglyphic keys, printing, weaving and rhyming a poem that was never heard, never thought of by me in my life time.

4th Semester…
I was jolted by the dates that calendar dated, it was the judgment day, and our grades came in. I felt like what a drongo felt while submitting the annual financial report. I swept the past list of toppers, but the only question that haunted me was the damn raison d'être machining this. A guy who divulged his reading hours in penning poems stood second in his own class comprising of geniuses. One may articulate that these grades of mine made me travel beyond the land of poems. But I still didn’t figure this alteration in myself. There were continents of stories beyond the barren waters of inky poems. I began penning short stories with me as the hero and she as the heroine. Finally, I paid the price of being an introvert lover. I discovered her throbs beating for some one else in her very brown eyes. My dreams were shattered to smithereens. This added more vim to my ditched pen and it penned scores of poems and stories. On the academic site things were getting worse and on the psychological site things were aiming new zeniths of agony. My pen echoed everything, even my heart…

Some one of my friends mocked at me and asked me to write a book if I had the real pain in my pen. I was fetish in my job from day one as an author. I selected 34 odd poems and 15 odd stories for my book, but every time I was provoked by the thought of dissatisfaction. And then my pen penned the story of my life, a saga portraying how I coveted to subsist this verve and I was subsisting? It was christened as ‘The Timed Love Series’ formulated in 10 parts, the only thing that gave my book a façade of a distinguished piece of art. The book was named after the core idea of my first story that was tipped by my pen in the early days of my secondary education. The book was christened as, ‘My Infatuation- Love Demystified’. Unlike others the book was in the form of an e-manuscript. Everything was written on the hard disks of my personal computer. The mad obsession of mine refrained me to take a back up of the electronic data garnered in that junk… I was unmindful of the thought that Bill Gates and Charles Babbage would together stab me in the back in a nip…!!!!!