Er.aadil jahangir

The school gets over at four And by six thirty the church closes its door. It's just the priest and the village school master. The dusk becomes darker, the night settles faster. The village surrounding  us becomes quiet. Holding on to its hearth warmth tight. The fog comes rolling in from the mountains behind. The marshy pond an injection of chill does find. Dinner is generous and at seven. The place feels like a fortified heaven. The cold is sharp and constant. The dusk surrenders to the night, unnoticed and instant. There is no going out after this. In the house of God, obedience is bliss. The stone walls are stubborn and thick. Time travels slow, forgetting to tick. By nine the village lights are all out. Even the shadows then are not up and about. A presence unseen takes dominion. The dark unleashes its own champion. Both of us feel a force just outside. To which we shall never abide. And it will never be able to enter this place. Consecrated by His power and grace. @Er.Aadil J...

I love this quiet hour. The shadowy trees tower. The house stands dark and silent. Like always strong and resilient. Grandpa and Ma wait for me. Watch me return with glee. Then the lights do come on. For some time the gloam is gone. I return quietly at this quiet hour. To the cosy embrace of this blessed bower. Where my failures are all forgiven. Here my ordinariness has always thriven. Enough food but not enough light. Little savings, little income, just about right. A house in which each corner is treasured. Shadows, whose depth cannot be measured. We watch the night surging in. It's shades obscuring each sin. The silence binding us together. Caressing our souls with its tender feather. I love this quiet hour. It's a calming, assuring power. This feeling of true belongingness. In the bosom of the wood dense. @Er.Aadil Jahangir

The drizzle turns into a torrent. The wailing skies their darkness do vent. Luckily, I am just in time. Escaping the onslaught of the turbulent rhyme. My room at the top is just the same. At the same old house, in this village of ancient fame. Grandma serves me a steaming cup of tea. I feel so relaxed and at last free. "Your Grandpa got all provisions in the afternoon." Granny says. "For the next two nights you won't see the moon!" I know, the rain here gets harder and harder. Ma gets some old cookies from the larder. "Folks don't venture out much in the rain." Grandpa sips his tea. "There's nothing much to gain." "Nature tells us when to be indoors. When the dark has permeated the night's pores!" "Are you doing too well in the city?" Grandpa asks after dinner, with some pity. "Grandpa, is there a place for me here?" I speak, with some reluctance and fear. The rain pours down, the darkness creeps in. ...

 A lot of work to be done for sure. To make this again strong and pure. A quote of paint to cover its decay. Iron railings to keep monsters at bay. But still I know this is worth it. Every dream, every penny, every bit. This old soul, just outside the woods. Where shadows converge and the waning day broods. Away from the din, far from the bustle. Cosy and serene from the hiss and the hustle. To look at dusk from the windows old. To sip tea at the round verandah is just pure gold. I got it at a very modest price. A house abandoned with no proven ties. With the next house almost half a mile apart. This place is not for the faint of heart. This place has a sinister history and a foreboding mystery. Rain soaked chapters of violence and gore. Starting secrets at its resilient core. A round fortified castle I will make. It will be worth whatever it does take. A round house, round verandah, rain and cold. With secrets and shadows, fearsome and bold. @Er.Aadil Jahangir

You can see the moon, past my window. Soaking the night in her ethereal glow. Full, luminous, tender in  brilliance. Unperturbed by the clouds' restless stance. It's a full moon night again. Fear in the ascendancy, terror does gain. The streets have long been deserted. Folks have retired, assured and gated. I feel the fear crawling up the street. Like a shadow palpable, each soul does greet. True, fear is such an equaliser. It makes you alert, practical and wiser. The night holds its sway tonight. Smirks in sarcasm, at the streets' empty sight. It relishes the pulse of panic and  terror. It waits patiently for one fatal error. I hope no one ventures out tonight. Until the tomorrow sun is up and bright. And I will peep through the curtains at the street. Perchance the werewolf's demonic eyes to meet. @Er.Aadil Jahangir

 IS THE BATTLE WORTH IT? As the night fire is at last lit, I wonder whether the battle is worth it. Has the cause long been defeated? And the heart of a warrior simply cheated? Am I the only one left in the fight? For I have only loneliness in sight. Is the battle won or lost? And is my soul the only cost? But I am the one who picked up the cause. Defended it fiercely without pause. Shed unrestrained blood and tears. Pierced mercilessly by swords and spears. But suddenly I realise nobody fights any more. The philosophy of compromise reigns to the core. Somewhere down the line the battle has lost its way. Meekly surrendered to corruption's sway. But then a warrior is all I am and ever will be. From the war I will never be free. My ego and honour are deep as the night. I must do what my soul feels right. A warrior will find a true war. Where compromise is not a bar. I know some place or some people will need me. From tyranny and oppression to set them free. So yes, a battle is always...