My Lover

Breathe.

Breathe again.

I can hear the buzzing of silence.

It moves from across my right to my left. It throbs like the pounding chest of a lover.

And like the lover, I struggle to breathe deeply.

In this silence, I am naked, as is the lover.

So many of me, but the lover only one.

~

Breathe.

Breathe again.

The screen of my eyelids contract - dancing patterns of flame I see

There are so many of me - wailing, trailing, despairing

But my lover I can see - like a beacon in the storm

that keeps me going:

One lover of mine, and thus

just one of me. 

~

Don't let me fly my lover:

but make my thoughts soar high,

circle the clouds, flutter around and then

quietly perch upon the branch that is your arm:

sturdy as ever

Keeo me forever grounded, for

this is where I belong.

~

Give me, my lover, the courage,

like the shoulders of yours give my ailing heart,

to be true to me, and you

for we are one. 

To be here, foot on ground

head held high,

thoughts playing in the breeze of joy.

Hahaha! You wretched fool !!!

Hahaha, I was walking fast, I was running, I was dashing
Hahaha, I was a fool, I am a fool, I will be wiser

Hahaha, I kept running, across the meadows
across the farms, high above and beneath
left and right, always scared.

Looking over the shoulder,
that belonged to me :
looking at them , who were mine :
but never belonged to me ?

Hahaha, what a grand fool !
Splendid ! Atrocious !
Hahaha, madmen ! wretched soul !

So far am I ,
I look back and see :
darkness and darker-ness:

Hahaha! What a fool !
Wretched soul !

Look now. Stop.
Stop and look.
Where are u ?
Where are they ?
What is this ?
Who are you ?

Hahaha! You fool !
You thought you knew it all !

Running away from black orbs
encircling your to be tombstone :
sucked into the beautiful nothingness of your -
forever numbed soul !

Hahaha ! You wretched fool !

Bricks

You lay a brick. And another. And another. Ad infinitum. 

you get a wall, a room, a castle, an empire.

but, do you, if you break brick by brick ?

bring down a barrier, a cage, a lifetime ?

: ::: ::::: :::::::: ::::: ::: :

Love thyself :

Dream :

laugh :

jump :

cry :

Dream on :

through the hills and plains :

through dust and rain :

Dream on :

Can't be alive without a dream :

without something to look forward to :

 : : :: ::: ::::: :::::::: :::::::::::: ::::::::::::::::::::::

The Unnamed Lady

She was sitting all by herself by the traffic light. What did her eyes see ? They were cast down upon the road. Her fragile body was oscillating and the motions seemed to rise to a crescendo. Her hair was undone, big visible layers of dirt had made their texture like that of a jute rope. Her frame was bent in a squat and her overall demeanor was that of a frenzied stupor. She had big eyes, but they were cast down on to the road. Even as big vehicles darted across, her eyes did not seem to register the events. On her arm was a bangle. It was a set of glass bangle, red in color. But she had it only on her left hand. Her right hand was empty. 

I do not know why i was inexplicably drawn to her. I had just had dinner with a couple of my colleagues. We spoke about a lot of things. About how the politicians are making a mess of the country, about how the education system in India does not promote knowledge, about how the disparity between the rich and the poor exists, no matter what. All of them seemed very distant now. All that my mind could register was this fragile frame moving to and fro, ignorant about whatever was happening around her. 

Does she have a name ? Should I go up to her and ask her her name ? Would that be appropriate ? On retrospect, when you consider the questions that enters your mind, you realize how far we have come as a race and how far I have come as a person. The requirement of permission to initiate a conversation is symbolic of the mental leap that it represents. Would it be the same if it was a pretty girl at the bar ? Or a friend of a colleague who I was meeting for the first time. Definitely not, I think.

She had no name after all. She remembered nothing about herself. She did not know who her parents were, or where she was from , or how she was where she is now, or what her name is. For me, it was something incomprehensible. How does a person not know what their name is ? How does a person not know where they are from ? How does a person not know anything about their past ? I break my head about what my purpose in life is. I break my head over the question of who I am or who do I want to be. I break my head over the meaning of my life. I break my head about the events in the past. And I could not believe her. Here was someone, so completely oblivious about themselves that they hardly knew they existed. It was the culmination of her life that she had grown so alien to herself. 

Two hours had passed by. I was still sitting beside her. I do not know why. Am I exploiting her ? Am I using her to find my answers ? Am I trying to get into her head and explain my troubles with her solution. Her mind would be an interesting place to be. What would it have ? What does my mind have ? Whatever my mind has, I know for sure it starts with an 'I' most, if not all, of the times. Can you imagine a blank mind ? Subdued by years and years of substance abuse. Can you imagine a hollow soul ? Sucked up of life by years and years and physical abuse and violence. Can you feel it ? You cannot. I was trying to understand something that was beyond my capacity to understand. 

There are concepts. There are words. There are equations. None of them so difficult to understand as a single simple thing as an emotion. No word can convey an emotion that you have never felt. It can only create in you an illusion of having felt that emotion. I was trying to induce in myself those emotions by sitting besides the unnamed lady.  I was in search of self-pity. It was a desperate attempt to feel what I thought she would be feeling. These were not ideas conveyed through words, but by senses. 

I could not leave the place because I had found a part of me. And i wanted to run away from it no more. Fear made me stay there frozen. I was in that dreaded intersection of purpose where you do not know whether to plunge or to withdraw. Such a petty fool I am ! I thought. Half hoping that the lady would finally get up and leave or at least turn around, curse me, spit at me, hurl abuses and leave me laughing to myself. I guess that is what I wanted to do and I was projecting it onto her. So weak a man. 

I slept there at the pavement. When i woke up, it was 5 in the morning. For a few seconds, i had to scan the location to find out where I was. As i got up from the previous position, which was being stretched out dangerously on the road, i had a funny feeling that all those people who must have seen me, must have thought of me as a hopeless drunkard. 

She was not there. It gave me an inexplicable joy to be rid of her. It was like the clearing of shadow for warm rays to come in. Was she the shadow ? Or was my soul a shadow to my self ? I care not. I felt free. 

Maybe, someday you too will meet her. If you happen to, ask her name, please do let me know. Her face is stuck to my mind, but i have no label to put on her. 

Maybe if we stop labeling everyone, we will know everyone better because then we will not be concerned about details fabricated in complicated words but about the message that each soul carries within. Maybe, then we will be able to feel the joy in each others laughter and maybe then we can think of each other as same, as branching from the same tree of life. Maybe, then can we be unconditionally happy. 

The experience helped me a lot. I look up to the unnamed lady in times of despair.

If you meet her, say her I said "Thank You"

Will you ?

The bottle clanged by the dark corner of his room, as he looked at the ceiling fan which were diffracting the light from the tube , he saw a demon rise and fall in the shadows that darted across his ceiling - now rising now falling, now bellowing balls of fire ,smoke and ashes, now stabbed at the heart by a hero born out of the same ashes. As his gaze went over yonder, he could see little children playing in the garden and the sound of rain mingled with their laughter as the shadows lengthened and all sounds faded into the darkness, until all he was left with was the silence of his sorrow and pain and the feeling of head spinning around. He fell unconscious.

The river was flowing at its own ease, singing its own song, scurrying along at her own pace. Her voice echoed through the mountains and mixed with the fountains and added to the freshness of the water that fell onto the rocks - blessed are their souls to be bathed by such sanctity. She had to rush down like everyday to meet her lover the Sea, who like a true lover stood there waiting with his arms wide open. Everyday, every moment, all she wanted was to rush into the arms of her lover. Her smiles, her songs, her freshness, her life, everything was bundled into a singular intent - of being in her lovers embrace.

He woke up dazed. A very bad dream it was. He shook his head and pulled out a pitcher from the bucket lying near his bed and started drinking of it. The freshness of the water that hit his lips lifted his spirits like notes of music rising to a crescendo, like a woman seduced into a state of absolute nothingness, until the realization came crashing down on him - his love was no more.  The nightmares seemed childish, the headache seemed like a itch from the past, subdued, dead. He grasped his hair, and letting out a frantic yell put his head on his palms and started wailing.


His home, his bed has been this little device, cleverly designed to keep the crippled living, giving them the illusion of freedom. Who wants to live with a crippled ? Every day he woke up, he left a ray of hope that his love would come for him. Everyday he took his world, his wheelchair and himself to the Metro station and waited patiently, with a smile on his face for his love to come.

Who will tell him, she is dead ? Who will break his heart ? Is it not better to let someone live in the illusion of hope. Is it not better to let someone get up everyday and think that something different is going to happen and that their life is going to change.

Maybe it is. Maybe it is not.

Even today you can see him outside the A____ metro station, a smile on his face, a dream in his eye. Will you dare to break his hope ? Will you dare to break him? Will you ?

Wise words from the great Khalil Gibran

Seven times have I despised my soul, says the great Khalil Gibran :

The first time when I saw her being meek that she might attain height.

The second time when I saw her limping before the crippled.

The third time, when she was given to choose between the hard and the easy, and she choose easy.

The fourth time when she committed a wrong, and comforted herself that others also commit wrong.

The fifth time when she forbore for weakness, and attributed her patience for strength.

The sixth time when she despised the ugliness of a face, and knew not that it was one of her own masks.

And the seventh time when she sang a song of praise, and deemed it a virtue.

One

One blow of breath,
sigh ?
Daresay, I.

One strand of thought,
sublime?
Daresay, mine.

One swift blow:
Owl and the rat
Rat and the cat.

One rapid plunge:
hook and the fish
dreams and the wish.

Careless, agonizingly
unheard: silent sobs
innocence does rob.

Inherent flaws :
patches on flowery walls
one by one, crumble and falls.

Sorry, am I :
yes, aye aye!
Sorry i am.

Random Scribbbbbles :: Eyes

His keen eyes were darting from one stall to the other.

“15 ke half kilo” (15 for half kilo)

“10 ka ek pau” (10 for a quarter kilo)

Midst all the hue and cry, were hundreds of people buying food for their families. Haggling prices and selecting the best possible product. Some went directly to patronized stalls and got their weekly dose of vegetables and fruits. Some, more adventurous, ventured around in the hope of striking a better deal somewhere and maximizing whatever they got for their money. More often than not, these ended up not only spending more of their time, effort and patience but also ended up getting less of their money’s worth.

He had patronized stalls, but he was clever. He had fixed different shops for different purposes. He was aware that bending too much towards one particular person or stall would make him over dependent and vulnerable to manipulation by that stall owner. These were some of the lessons of life he applied in something as seemingly insignificant as shopping for vegetables.

As he went around he thought about the entire structure of the society that he lived in. The fact that all the vegetables were produced at one place and then brought by transport to mandis, where they were sold at a wholesale price in bulk to smaller vendors, who would then bring these vegetables from door to door for the consumers to buy. The farmer who put in his hard work to produce the vegetables and fruits got paid for their hard work, the people who brought them from the farmer and made it available to a much larger consumer base got paid for the effort they put in arranging for the transportation, the person driving the trucks got paid for ensuring a safe and timely delivery of the product to the market, the local vendors got paid for the effort they put in getting the products from the mandis at a wholesale rate, the end consumers got paid in terms of the energy they gathered from eating this food which in term helped them to go about their routine activities.

Contrast this to something as simple as everyone having a farm in their backyard, growing their own fruits and vegetables, tending to them and then using them to feed themselves.

But then that would mean so many people getting unemployed

….and so his thoughts trailed and faded.

Happy birthday

My heart dances, often, calms otherwise

My weight nulls, often, floats otherwise

My mind eases, often, melts otherwise

I live, often, love otherwise.

The pearls in you, unlike pretty oysters

shines through your skin

The shimmer of your love:

touches me, brings a smile,warm.

Blessed am I, my soul :

that walks besides of you.

Blessed are my eyes that rest on you

my arms that draw you close:

my ears that that echo your words,

your thoughts:

and most of all:

blessed is my heart, touched by your love.

Even you were ones a baby

The room was thick with the smell of fever. Smoke rose, as did the temperature. Sweat, fighting to gain the odor presence. Such was the air which she breathed for the first time. Her welcome into the world was not garlands of flowers, but beads of sickly smelling feverish sweat. Her farewell ? Was it more plush ? Who are we to say ?

When a stillborn is born, the mother knows something is amiss. But I guess it does not happen the other way round. Hence the conclusion, that she was crying out of hunger rather than out of grief.

There was no one nearby who was crying. Except her of-course. Grief, of the continuous and harsh kind, usually rends a human into stone. How then, did she learn how to cry ? Was it an instinctive reaction to the death of the one who just gave her life ? Was it a continuation of emotion ? That the mother and her body was already crying in pain, extrapolated to the baby born out of her, inheriting the same frame of mind ?

Even you were ones a baby.  

Angela

and the moon broke : little pieces of silver came dashing through the sky like glitters bursting out of birthday balloons. Trails of fire like a fast moving beam of light smiled at the surface they were to bombard. Enveloped by smoke, these warriors raced faster and faster and faster until....

"Yes papa", said the angelic little girl, as she cuddled up to her favorite soft toy "Blacky"- a stuffed black rabbit.

Papa beamed at little Angela from the twenty-one inch screen of the laptop that he had bought for her sixth birthday.

until they saw that the surface was sinking. The faster they hurled, the faster the surface seemed to cave in. The pieces kept flying and the  surface kept collapsing ...

Little Angela was now asleep. The recurring images of hurling moon pieces and collapsing surfaces keeping her mind busy: and the rapid flickering of her eye signalling to her Papa that his job had been well done.

"The sun seems fine today", thought Angela, "I thought it was the moon that came in disguise as the Sun", her thought trailed, "Oh! it must be the other way round" - so concluded Angela.

As she tossed pebbles across the floor of her room, the sound of pebble rolling against marble almost drowned the thought that said- "Aren't they the same ? If x equals y, then doesn't y equal x ?" The complexity of the question seemed to be beyond the grasp of Angela's mind, and she kept rolling pebbles until one of them broke into two pieces. That was enough to divert the train of her thought - the complex questions were left for Papa to deal with.

The ability of an object to transform itself upon manipulation, affects directly, its novelty. Object, here of course does not extend to Human beings, for whom the opposite effect is seen to be rather dominant.

The pebble that was dull from all observable angle, was suddenly transformed into a novelty - the jagged surfaces created on both the pieces, shone with a metallic brilliance. The crystals of silica reflected light into her eyes, and like the orbs that live on reflected beams, her eyes lit up and her hands quickly grabbed the newly created pebble-ite (what she intuitively called the two pieces that had been formed upon breaking of the bigger one). The lines upon the pebble-ite were fresh and powdered stone flew from it and the glittery silica rubbed on her fingers and they also shone. "Pieces of the moon", she thought and hurriedly stuffed the pebble-ites into her pocket and glanced at the big watch above the door to her room.

18:09

That meant supper time. Or stew time, as she liked to call it - because, she argued in her brain, that that is what it was - a simple potato stew: A simple Irish tuber boiled in simple river water with simple rock salt and pinch of simple special taste enhancers.

Rivers that flow through impossible terrains make their way out through practice. The water that melts needs to think not much, neither does the river need exercise her mind. Just so, does the stew make its way through the impossible terrains of Angela's gastric system.

Tonight she was well armed with questions and even physical evidence. Hence, she was very excited. Everyone around her could see her excited and wondered what had happened. Well, the ones who wondered must have been new to the place. The ones who knew her well, either through constant interaction or vigilant observation, were least bothered.

The clocks kept ticking. Wait, wasn't there just one ?

Yes of course, her ward had one. But then, didn't all of them?

The sound of clashing pebbles, howling, cajoling, whispering remained thick outside ward1809, Angela.

Love, you

Love, you are the teardrop on my eye-lashes :

dangling, i won't let you fall,

ill keep you forever within the grasp of my gaze.

~

Love, you are the smile that creeps in silently

and floods my darkness with the

cackling echoes of your laughter.

~

Love, you are the yawning gap,

that your absence leaves in me, a chasm

I fill with my memories of you.

~

Love, you are the bitter farewells

that come between our hellos and goodbyes :

they tear me, kill me, but don't let me die.

~

Love, you are the idea, teasing my mind

with its essence, sans presence

like words that refuse to budge from the tongue.

~

Love, you are a fluttering wave, a gallant sailor upon

a brewing storm, a distant light house standing firmly

upon the rocky abodes of lashing waves.

~

Love, you are the first rays that strike

the hardened walls of a cocoon, that is me

until from it I emerge, your beautiful butterfly.

~

Love, you are the first pretty petal 

that I perch upon and whisper lightly

so you know what you mean to me.

~

Love, you are the one that completes me. 

Courtesy:- Panaramio pictures

Him

His dark hands, huge,
tinge my senses with:
their softness.

His glances, playful,
numb me wherever:
they fall.

What measures us ?

Over the tip topping of the raindrops and the sloshing of the mud accumulated in the park overseeing my balcony, where little brats where cackling away in laughter, I could hear the jingling of her anklets as she came closer to me. Her fragrance sent fireworks through the closed lids of my eyes and I could hear her voice even before she said something.

Day and night were the same for me. The only demarcation in my life was defined by her. My day was when she was close to me and my night when , I , far from her. 

The cool breeze struck me on my face and she played with my hair, caressing it gently, as if to make sure that each strand of hair got an equal share of her love. Sometimes it was the breeze, sometimes it was her and sometimes just a haunting presence of them both. 

Her fingers felt as light and smooth as the wisp of air that once played hide and seek in the comfort of my locks. Her breath was warm but her hands were cold. I was colder still and so, it was okay.

The rain was now over, for I could hear the birds in flight, running back to their homes in far away places. The air also felt heavy, laden with moisture and I could feel the piercing prick of the mosquito just below my ear, where I used to be kissed by my mother as she bid me to school.

They measure light, but not darkness. They measure sound, but not silence. They measure life, but not death. They measure presence, not absence.They measure joy, but not grief. Do you know why ?

Do you know the different degrees of silence ? The one that screams at you and the one that shreds you to pieces with its force ? Yet, there is none like the silence that lets you hear you - because that is something you never want to. We can't measure silence. Silence measures us. 

Back into my room. Day or night ? I care not. I slip my pills and go to sleep - my dreamless abode. I remember asking my mother once - "What is it like to dream, mother ?" I don't remember her reply. Maybe she did not know too.

She looked over him as he went off to sleep. A long struggle he had had with his life. It would end today. She was at once relieved as well as sad. Relieved because it pained her to see him suffer and sad because he was always full of praise for everything around him.

"Although he could not see like us, he could see the beauty of things around him much more distantly than any of us", said the nurse, with tears brimming yet contained, as his  coffin was lowered. It drizzled again, as if to say goodbye as the tears rolled off her cheek and fell to the ground where he now lay, forever.

'Scream' by Munch

One breath of life

I was returning from the station after dropping dad. It was around 7 in the morning. The roads were relatively empty and i was driving home to go and complete my sleep. Surprisingly, I was able to find my way back without getting lost, which is was happens each time I drive alone. I was nearing Dhaula Kuan and now my home was just a few minutes of travelling away.

As I took the last turn into the ring road, travelling at about 60 kmph, I could see a few pigeons on the road. As I neared them, they flew away but in a flashing moment, one of them was struck by my car. 'Fuck', i said and stopped my car. I could see feathers from my rear view mirror. They were swirling into a vortex. I went and picked her up. She was dead. Instant death. One blow and her interiors were exposed and she had died then and there - without a farewell and with an incomplete story to tell.

As she lay on the seat next to me, I could feel the warmth that was still present in her body. A moment ago, there was life in her and now it was all gone. Gone in a wisp of air that she exhaled for one last time.

Such is life ?

Who do you burn for ?

Image Courtesy : Scott Sistek

The clouds look like mountains in the sky today :

and the sun shies away as the dawn approaches.

Do you feel the warmth of the sun ?

Do you feel the embrace of its rays,

bouncing in ecstasy upon your skin ?

Why does it burn ?

For you and for me.

Tell me love, who do you burn for ?

Does your soul light the way

for others ?

Does it burn to consume your age

while memories like thick smoke spreads ?

Who do you burn for , love ?

Who do you burn for ?

She's a mousy mouCe
as white a-as a houCe
silver sparkly whisker
makes u wanna frisk her
swishing her pink long tail
she gives them all a fail.

They set them up a trap
nice cheese rolled up a wrap
Sniffing she does come, now:
too quick, too smart, and how ?
Grabs the food, sticks her tongue
and makes them feel like a lump of dung