“Classical Bonding”


It was a chilly night. As usual, I was not lucky to find any seat to accommodate myself in the packed 7 o’clock local train. It was a first class bogie just for a titular sake. In actuality, it appeared as good as or rather as bad as a second class bogie with people jutting from edge to edge leaving no interstices for passage of air whatsoever. Only when the train caught some pace did the smothering passengers get some cold and frosty oxygen. In spite of the deplorable and over-weighed fettle of the bogie by the passengers, the only brighter difference was that I was amongst a mob with some class. A mob majorly consisting of working class people who commute daily to their offices. A mob that looked no different from the people of the second class bogies, with a pale plaintive malaise on their face, except they were in decent clothes void of an awful sweat-stench. After a few stations passed, I rejoiced for the relief of my caboose as I finally got a seat. I was sitting in the window seat when suddenly two individuals ran and got in the train as the train gradually began to estrange the station. The two men came and sat in the seat that was opposite to mine. One of them was pretty old in age. Perhaps in his mid 60’s. Dark, wrinkled, had eyes that spoke of having seen a lot of struggle. Wore mucky stained clothes that clearly proved that he had gotten into the wrong bogie. The other one was younger. Wheatish in complexion, he had shabby unkempt hair. Wore untidy loose clothes that were yelling out loud that their bearer had been tripping in muddy places. Evidently, I assumed both are drunk, but as they started talking aloud, a strong concentrated fetor of cheap country ale numbed my nostrils converting my allegation of they being drunk into a conviction! Generally, I believe eavesdropping is a bad habit ; but when you have two men yelling their lungs out for a conversation despite being separated by a distance less than a foot, you are helpless in ignoring their voice. They were apparently cursing someone who had conned them for 500 rs. A tad amount of cash for people like us, but a matter of great deal and a big loss for them. They were swearing at each other trying to shield their individual foolishness by playing the blame-game. And all of a sudden the younger of the two bursted in tears. Weeping remorsefully, he sank in the lap of the other and within a moment, the older man, getting back sober helped him get up. The old man said, ”How dare you cry when your father is alive? So what he conned us, he’ll pay for it. God’s watching.” ”I’m sorry father, I let you down” the son cut the father’s talk in between as the father hugged him with tears rolling down his cheeks. Suddenly all the disgust that I had for them had taken the form of sheer respect. I was humbled. I was overwhelmed. I was stunned. Barring all the negatives like- they traveling in the wrong bogie without a ticket, they being nastily drunk and high with stupor, they swearing aloud with coarse language, etc. what I was left to think about was the classical bonding of a father and a son. The way they embraced each other with a bear-hug getting helpless by emotion without thinking what would the surrounding ”first-class” raised eyebrows would think really kept me spellbound. A very ordinary episode parse but it really moved me in a very extraordinary manner. It made me ponder, how many sons today are bold enough to actually embrace their fathers and confess how much they love them? How many fathers today actually have time to tell their sons how proud they are to see their own blood winning laurels? Indeed our world is progressing with a phenomenal speed but in this materialistic evolution, haven’t we left our ethical sense of belonging somewhere far behind??? So what if a son grows from a boy to a man, he shall always be the apple of the eye of his father. Then why is there this reluctance in expressing love for each other? Is it shame or is it too immature to do so as per the social-convention? Yet another abstract incident that made me realize no matter how sophisticated and wealthy you are, if you can’t be generous with your love for your dear ones, you are poorer than the poorest. True essence of life lies in appreciating everyone and everything you love and if one fails to express it due to the shackles of shame, timidity, ego or social-convention, then he still needs to gain a life from his existence…

~Sujay Patekar
(C) Copyrights reserved




Yes, I am a Warrior,
A Warrior of courage and hope.
Despair and fear are my adversaries,
And with destiny I have to cope.

I fight a battle as ruthless as them,
Who bravely make the enemies in their own blood sink.
Except, I don’t wait for any orders to fire,
With gun as my pen & bullet as my ink.

I fight a war which began to never end,
In a place where you can run but never hide.
Only words to attack & words to defend,
The culprit who is our own dark side.

I write the cries, I write the laments,
I write the untold brutal tales.
When I rip off the veil of filthy lies,
Only the naked truth is what prevails.

Every malevolence is followed by guilt,
For strangling a million dreams.
I write those bruises given to the naive,
I bring to surface those buried screams.

I write of those who were shot to death,
Whose voices could never be heard.
That Father who was burnt before his son,
For the truth that he had uttered.

Every man is like another’s reflection in water,
Just a few spoil it by the ripples.
Giving pain to the weak can give one a gait of a lion,
But deep-down inside he shamefully cripples.

For the muffled many in the here and the now,
I am a roar as I keep writing.
With gun as my pen & bullet as my ink,
I am a Warrior as I keep fighting…

-Sujay Patekar
(C) Copyrights Reserved

“Being a Writer…”

E. I .Doctorov very beautifully quoted- ”Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader- not the fact that it is raining, but the feeling of being rained upon. ” So true these words are that suggest that writing is an art and has to come from within. If you are manipulating words, you aren’t writing, you are drafting or fabricating a content. Writing has to be an extract of soul on paper. Writing has to be your heart in ink. It cannot be cultivated as a habit but has to be nurtured and flourished as a passion. I love writing. Or maybe I would love to say I ”live” writing. Because I live into a different universe and dimension altogether when I sit with my pen putting down my thoughts. Writing has been my passion since childhood. It always captivated me and left me awe-struck how one can vividly portray the state of one’s mind and heart by the numerous combinations of those 26 letters of the alphabet. I’ve been writing a lot of poetries and proses cause its my way of chasing my instincts, my way of expression, my way of feeling contented. Calling myself a ”Scripturient” would not be an exaggeration. I believe that a writer never writes. A writer bleeds. Every single word by him is a small drop of the giant pool of thoughts meandering a way out from within.
I hope I am successful in portraying my thoughts across making to ponder on the most real things in the most surreal manner.

Thanks and regards,
    ~Sujay Patekar.