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Mr.Reality Weds Ms.Dream

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The hype was in,

Stellar maze of effervescence

Hanging all over the mind

Roses were present,

Far away,by the

Shyness deemed upon

Angels roamed around,

Vibrant in limelight

Scavenging low,bestowing

Bliss and happiness

Man of present

Arrived,lightfaced.

Shoes of vanity

Dancing around him,

River of charisma

Flowing beneath him,

Leaves of euphoria

Flying with him,

Held his head high,

For the moment of his life.

The guest of wedding,

Arrived late.

Thunders of whispers

Tendered uniquely,

For the warmth of

The lord of realms.

It was Mr.impossible

Wait,wait,wait and wait

The abrupt laughings

Guests conjured

Wrecked the mood,

Rising the stakes of boredom,

Anxiety,fear.

But the look on

Mr.Impossible fades

The meagre notions

Of some tragedies.

Roses faded,fried,

Angels weeped,solemnly,

The scenario remained lost.

“The bride was missing”

Reports someone

Never known before.

Eyes thrown for

Mr.Impossible who’ve

Turned to Mr.Invisible,

Left there with nothing,

But the broken bangles of dream.

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What ‘The motorcycle Diaries” left in me…???

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I was deemed up to read ‘The motorcycle diaries’ by Ernesto Che Guevara, reverently called as ‘Che’ by people all over the world for time since the day I turned to be a Communist idealist. Last Thursday, I got the latest edition of this book and as soon as I started reading this, I could picture up the tenderness and humanity behind the so called iron heart of this Rosario born Revolutionary. Courage, Intelligence, plodding behaviour, implausible ideas and there’s one thing about Che which the historians failed to inscribe on the tiles of Eternity-his love for humanity. And  This page-turner is all about those.

This humanitarian’s placid and slap-happy journey right through the heart of Latin America reveals the need for such a revolutionary at that time. The role of his fellow comrades, Alberto Granado and La Poderosa,a 500cc Norton, in this journey is indispensable as they were being something entirely else than what you could anticipate.

The book starts with handful of wits, jolly scenarios (except some rash bruises from falling of La Poderosa) and as soon the plot turns up to the harsh, pathetic and heart dropping visions of the poor Americans, especially the proletariats. Considering the setbacks Che and Granado faced during the expedition leaves such an idea impossible for the ordinary. Leaving the motorcycle behind, lack of resources, shades and shelter, deplorable fettles of transportation, vulnerable set up of funds,  and the list goes on but the highlight among those is his never ending hype of along born Asthma.

The way of story-telling Che deployed is stone for stone and leaf for leaf. The descriptions are so mind tracing and eye catching that I got a vague feeling of sightseeing the likes of Argentina, the hospitality of Chile, The tradition of peru and not the least, the hunger of Venezuela. For sake of myself, the walk of those two through the Chilean mines not wasting the heavy sunrays, not even for their eyes, left me in a frying pan of which a break is not possible

These 160 pages guide us well thrashing the earlier set boards of brutality and hardness. And among what others don’t know, or never tried to knew, Che was a great footballer as well. And after finishing the book I sympathize for the blunt historians whom flaunt Che as a thirsty Murderer and not as a meek revolutionary.

Che is more than just those 3 letters

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