Kill Them All! Kill the already-dead Grandpa!

white wings

“Hey come on, I’m sorry,” I said again, but she did not listen, as always. “Yamini, I’m sorry.”

The girl kept on walking fast, away from me. I couldn’t see her going away from me. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” She kept on chanting the same piece.

“Hey, come on stop.” I held her hand, and she stopped. “Yamini,” I cajoled.

“Leave me,” she said, not even turning towards me, still sobbing. “I’m sorry, not you.”

“Yamini, look,” I pulled her hand, but she stuck and did not move. “I Love You. . .” I said softly. “I Love You Yamini, won’t you look at my eyes? Won’t you look into your sky?”

“No, I won’t,” she said, shocking me.

“What? Turn idiot.” I dragged her towards me, and by god’s grace, the next second, she was in my hug, getting crushed in my arms.

We were on her terrace, a pleasant evening (it would be much pleasant if she didn’t cry) with silky breeze speaking in a mellow tone. Who wouldn’t love that moment to spend in our loving ones hug? I too wanted the same, but I’m the Maestro of making disasters! That’s what happens every time.

I took her completely into my arms, tight; as if never wanting to leave her (I actually must leave in the next ten minutes!). Wrapping my arms around her slim, curvy waist, I looked straight into her eyes. Her glittering, glossy eyes into mine, “Won’t you look at your sky?” I asked again.

Her hair was falling onto her face getting disturbed by the gentle wind. Locking it behind, “I can’t spend a single day without doing so. . .”

She had wide opened, fish like blue eyes (Black of course, it’s an effect!) resembling a lotus petal, with  brown, shiny iris and black pupil. Her heavy, wavy eye lids were flopping before me, taking me completely in. They were gleaming due to the moist still present inside them. They really were mesmerizing.

Then, a tear gently rolled down her beautiful left eye.

I couldn’t control mine, as my eyes became moist that second, “Yamini,” I whispered, taking her cheeks into palms. With my thumb, I wiped off the rolling tear. “I Love You.” I said, trying to control my overflow.

“I Love you too. . .” she whispered back.

“I love you more than what you do.” I again started teasing her.

“Please,” she said, again the same lump in her throat, the same heaviness in her voice.

“Sorry. . .”

“Can I kiss you?” she asked, softly.

“What? Will you really?” I wanted to scream, but I didn’t want to scream and spoil my ‘First Kiss.’

“I think you can.” I said, not so confident.

Her lips were carved into a sharp smile, may be cause of my not-so-confident answer. Looking still at my eyes, she rose on her toes, closed her eyes, I was still looking at her lips, eager to know ‘How to kiss.’ Some how she knew me and she raised her left hand and herself closed my eyes with her palm.

Her lips were near mine, I can feel. I can sense her trembling breath on my chin. I can smell it (Colgate!). She was a second-far from my lips.

It’s going to happen, my first kiss.

First Kiss, yes.

After a second,

Lips didn’t touch but, I felt her both palms on my chest. All at a sudden, she pushed me away. In fear, I opened my eyes.

“What happened?” I screamed out in true terror.

She did not speak, but pointed somewhere, silently. When I followed her tip, the one I found was a white pigeon.

“It is a pigeon, so what?” I yelled out in real confusion.

“It is not just a pigeon, it is my grandfather.” She broke my rage.

“What?” I screamed as the huge tide of uncertainty gushed over me. She is white in colour, that’s okay. But, “Why don’t you have wings and beak then?” I asked, still perplexed.

“Stop it Vicky,” I saw some emotion in her eyes, “When my grandpa died, to control my sob, my grand ma said that my grand pa’s soul went into a pigeon. From then,” she paused.

“Come on say me.”

Giving an unsure-glare, “Nothing, come down.” She held my hand, “Let’s get down.”

I was terrified, horrified, I was ‘every synonym’ to these words. “What about my kiss?”

“What kiss? Come down, may be my grand pa did not like it.” She strode down the stairs.

“Your grand pa. . .” I clenched my fists and nerves pour out. “I will slit his throat out. . .” I mumbled. (She would kill me they were audible!)

“Are you coming?” she screamed after getting down.

“Yes,” I out cried double louder, trying to reflect my anger. “Before that. . .” I searched for some stone which I saw just before, and in few moments I found it. “Let me see your grand pa chock.”

“Kill them all!!” Picking the stone, I howled and threw it towards ‘him’ very furiously. “Kill the already dead grand pa!”

Do not bother, the girl and her grand pa had mastered the art of escaping!


My name is something which you can never make out of a Search Engine!

My name! I won’t say it is getting difficult, but it really is getting complicated.

Just as I said in my ‘Hello Ladies & Gentlemen’ post, my common name is Vicky. My parents call me Nani, my cricket friends calls me Wicky: A Wicket Keeper (from where my Vicky originated). My stage name is Ray, named by a girl who is beyond just-a-friend. I’m using it everywhere, when I play Guitar. Finally, my original name is Sharma. (Named by parents, named after a grand pa.)

And me, me friends, I love to be called as Janus; the Roman God of two heads, and the God of beginnings and transitions.


And I’m here because, ‘can you please check out my Assignment 1?’ I not any kind of lazy, but, you know, it happens.

Mission Accomplished.

Hello Ladies & Gentlemen, here I’m introducing. . . ‘Me’

Actually, I’ve never tried of introducing myself anywhere, and I try to avoid my introduction quickly as possible when it came to the need. I always make it simple; maybe I don’t know how to introduce myself.

But it a compulsion now! I don’t want to fail in my first assignment itself. Go on boy; let’s do the adventure, my heart said. So, here it is.

I’m Vicky, an ordinary 19 years old Indian, whom you can always find on streets playing guitar and singing out loud. At nights, I write a lot. I write everything which is running in my mind, and sometimes I end up with overly scribbled papers. I don’t know why, I quit my studies; (I didn’t find that ‘fire’ in it!) and I’m not so sure if I would start up again or not. I love strangers, they have lots of unknowing things, and I love knowing them.

I love opening the door which is present between the known and the unknown.

Actually, we friends are thinking to start a local Magazine with the name ‘Don’t Get wasted’ that is why we started this blog, and the other idiots threw this to me. So, I’m (Vicky) the one who is trying to manage this. (Taking on a mad horse is much easier than managing these internet-things which we don’t know.)

My blog not any kind of single themed; it flows on with my mind’s deepest feelings.

Be free, comment anything you want to say, I’m open to advice too. . .

I don’t think there is any kind of ‘more’ to say about me. Thank ya!!!!!

1st assignment competed.

Mission Accomplished.

The Dark World: (A true inspiring tale) Then he knew why he couldn’t actually see, even it is clearly visible.

Dark World1

Vicky is one of the most famous guitarists and amazing poets in the town. His voice is mesmerizing as are his words. He is a philosopher too sometimes, who could touch the floors of our hearts, with his impeccable theories. His songs were built on the same philosophical theories, which can’t be seen through a simple pair of eyes. He can feel the beauty of the world around him. In every aspect, he enjoys his life.

One can find him at the beach anytime. Clinching his eyes tight, with pounding nerves at his neck, just as if praying the sky itself, he raises his head singing out loud. He won’t bother the people around him, he don’t care. Why would he when he had a separate world? The only thing he knows is to offer his prayer to the great sea surging onto the beach before him.

He sits silently on the beach, zips off his guitar cover and places it beside him, and takes the jumbo guitar into his lap. As if taking all the sea breeze in, he inhales, and lets out a heart full smile. Locking his long hair behind his studded ear, he strums his favourite guitar chord ‘C’.

He lets out his fears, tears, his coldness, and his loneliness before the sea. He weeps sometimes. In the same time, he laughs out and spends all his day before it, singing or talking to his ‘friends’.

He says that the sea is his only best ‘friends.’

Everyone knows him in the town, and he too has a few human friends in the town, with whom he prefers to spend a bit less time.

“Why do you sit before the sea all the day?” one his friends, Lalitha asked him, for which he just smiled. “Come on, why do you sit before it?” she probed.

He didn’t say the reason, but said something unacceptable. “Sea is not ‘it’, Sea is ‘them’.” He said, zipping his guitar bag and taking his walking stick to leave home.

“Them?” Lalitha frowned in confusion, gazing at the sea.

“Yes, of course.” He said, wearing his guitar on his back, leaving. “Sea is ‘them’.”

“But, but how?”

With a chocking smile, he turned back towards the sea. “Can’t you feel?” he asked, placing his palm on Lalitha’s thin shoulder. “Sea is not just a sea. It is the combination of waves and still water.” He started explaining to her. “The still water is the bold husband, who stands fearless, courageous and royal, and the wave is the wife which is always possessive.”

Getting interested in the topic, Lalitha asked, “Possessive?”

“Yes, very. That is why she never allows anyone or anything alien to get mingled with her husband. Throw a stone in, it returns it to you, may be somewhere else. Not even a stone she permits to get inside her husband’s heart.”

“Beautiful,” Lalitha said, looking towards the sea with Vicky’s sense. “Then, what does this king do?”

“He,” Vicky moved a bit towards the sea, “He loves his wife much than what his wife do.” He paused, “Not for a second he can leave his wife. He keeps on dragging her towards him, the every single time she goes away to throw off the intruder.”

“Great love,” Lalitha muttered.

Vicky, inhaling for one last time that day, was walking back.

“Vicky,” she called, keeping up with him. “How can you see so much even though you are blind?”

Laughing out loud, “If a lifeless thing can have the never-ending love story, why couldn’t a blind man see it?” he asked.

Lalitha did not answer.

“I don’t see that with eyes Lalitha,” he said. “I see that with my heart. I hear their bickers with my ears. They are so much romantic sometimes. And finally, the couple plays a much better and beautiful music than me. I lose every time when I compete with them.”

The First Post. . .

Loving to work. . . Actually, loving to work what I do love to work. . .

dry colour

Taking the New Year 2015 as the mark, we team had started our work on set, a dream project. . . Don’t Get Wasted.

Wake up boy’s and girl’s. . . C’mon ladies and gentlemen. . . Let us help you to get your dream true. Let us be that gentle wind which glides you towards the path, which leads you to your passion.  Let us give you the helping hand to ‘compose’ your own destiny.

If you ask me ‘why?’ I’d say. . . Be the maker, not the created one. Die as a free soul, rather than living as a caged bird. Be the God, just not the Lord.

If you hesitate, ‘Hmm’. . . Bear your fate, lead it towards the shore, or drown it till the floor. Witness your life, try not to regret it. Don’t follow the path, build it.

I can only say you one thing. . . Look at the aspiration. Breath the inspiration. Just like the lava flowing through your veins, run and run and run, not just until getting tired, but till you die chocking. Then your life is not wasted, though it is!

Stop believing in yourself. . . But rely. . .

But remember this lad. . .

Just. . .

Don’t Get Wasted!

Life is an never-completed project on dreamzzz. . . . Jump on, start conquering, take over, and ride it.