Do you know me?

They ask me, “which people do you know?”… “which people do you understand?”… 

Do I know you, those in need, do I get that you aspire, and how much? Do I know you, with just enough… you who won’t look back but just ahead, ahead to those who have a lot, and who don’t look back at you when they pass you by? Do I get you, the Kings, do I know what you possibly may want more when you have more than all of it put together? 

Do I know you, quiet ones, who are constantly looking for something else, something not of this era… or you, the restless, breathing so hard, as if to turn the direction of the winds… 

Do I know, that a father will always love his daughter, or that a mother would always give up a bite to feed her child…

Or that a friend would always lie to the world for you, and never let you down. That you would do the same many times over, forever.

 That a lover would always make this world real, that an absence of whom would make the sun burn your skin, and the rain freeze you to the core, the wind blow you away along with itself.

Do I know, that a hard day’s work is priceless, that the price attached with it is just an acknowledgement. That, existence is an acknowledgement of the soul, that if anything that is more than this comes along, is immeasurable happiness.

Do I know that your feet don’t want to rest when you are happy, that you try not to cry when you are angry.

Do I know that you feel your heart beating when you doubt that you are alive. Reassurance. That you live for that every day.

Do I know you, and the other world that rests in your eyes, a world you dream of everyday, and work for everyday, and go through everyday just to be a little close to it. A world that is happiness for you, a satisfaction, a freedom, individuality, an idea.

Which one of you do I know best? Do I know the dreams, the urgency, the sorrow, the expectations, the fears, the joy, the faith… or is it only you?

I am you, in one form, you are me in another. I transform into you today, you into me tomorrow. Then how can I not know you all? How can I limit myself to only one, when I become all, every second, every day?

And when they ask me which people I know best, I tell them- that as long as you all are human beings, I know you all. I see you all.

I

Water freezes as an evidence of times stopping,

there is a deep darkness, soft and calm...

Where every breath is useless, every thought insignificant...

There is a design, of me, a warmth from my left to the tips of my fingers,

a sound reverberating from there, awakening the universe,

coming back to me bringing a message from everywhere,

making sense by my presence, by me...

There is a light substantiating a reflection of me that I see,

outside, assuring and affirming the design, of me,

In a breath, a blink, a heartbeat,

forming me into the universe,

I survive, me...The Existence.

The luxury of being Nice

It has been a long time since the last introspection, being busy with the latest hobby, almost perfecting it, of ignoring the unpleasant and uneasy; giving way to a subsequent occupational hazard, since the insides are a blend of everything, difficult to separate the good from the bad, if something has to be ignored, it has to be all of it. Or nothing. I chose all. Bidding goodbye to the self, I sought happiness in the bright colours in a dark alley, a faint smell of flowers in a trash yard. It isn’t difficult once you perfect the art of ignorance, happiness is a promise, contentment however, is to be debated upon.

Such practice guarantees a few beautiful lines of a poem, a flowery painting maybe, or a play with a happy ending, with a common theme of ignorance. And there is the time to think about all that is good, to offer gratitude, and consider paying back in some form. A consistent smile on the face is not a battle anymore, topped up with the common courtesies to bring a smile to any face that has not been graced with it yet. Ofcourse, one has to be fulfilled in all respects, the stomach is full, hair tidy, well slept the previous night. And you are good to go. You become a nice pleasant person. The one who is not affected by the sadness or the darkness outside. It is a package, being nice.

How is it different from the larger-than-life-content-with-little great souls? This question is to be answered by the ones devoid of such luxury. They would say, that today they were refused food 39 out of the 40 times they asked for it, or that they do not recognise a good gesture, since it has been centuries since it stopped existing, that they find the scent of a flower nauseous, or that they cannot sleep when it is quiet, that they do not respond to a child’s cry as a mother would because it so often is something they can’t do anything about. They would say, that their life is so small, that they are so bigger than life itself, that they find no reason in respecting its very idea.

Or maybe it is a responsibility to be nice, courteous. Maybe the ones with the luxury are accountable to maintain some kind of a balance. The justifications would keep coming; the reasons would keep mingling with them. The reality will always be one with the ignored. Or not?

The Incomplete Poem

I have crossed oceans, to find my answers,

To realize them taken by the skies…

I am deceived by nature; you didn’t tell me how to fly.

Soaked wet I came out, dried and glad by you sun,

But you couldn’t help but burn me, as that is what you do

So I run on endless deserts of plenty sands…

When it still rains...

Water adapts to shapes, adapts to colours, to temperature… it is science, it is fact, it is common sense. This adaptation is common for everyone, known to everyone, it is out in the open. But what is latent is the deceit of emotions that it bears. But it keeps everyone’s secret, like the best friend, honest and forgiving, accommodating.

A broken heart at a window stares at the falling rain and reminisces lost and distant love, a tear leaves her eyes and mingles with the thousands of heavenly droplets, or tears of some other eyes, for different reasons. The rain is the world crying for her.

A thoughtful heart looks out of another window, and looks at jumbled up words of a poem… the rain is music for him, the drops are words, the cold is the intensity of his soul, and the sky, his audience. The complete setting is a concert, the water is the orchestra.

A lonely heart has a companion; a confidante… the rain imitates a consoling friend. There at the other window, at the far, a buoyant heart dances with the rhythm, from the happiness of life, in sync and in love with the falling rain. The rain is a hundred vibrant colours to her, a bundle of faint scented flowers, a child’s crackling laughter… and the world, a better place.

The rain adapts to emotions, and mirrors the soul of the observer, mingles with existence, devoted to the existence of those at the windows, and itself existing in infinite forms…  and in strict confidence, in essential beauty, in importance of its own presence, in the songs, tears, laughs and companionship… in silence... it still rains…

My Dreamer

Let a dreamer dream, may he not have to see the filthy ego in your heart, and the fear it creates… let him not see your doubts, or he would shatter his world himself… let him see every impossibility in the eye, let him be the innocent challenger of everything, he may play with his illusions, for he would lead you to your destination. When a dreamer regrets his dreams, existence becomes a question.  A dreamer is your light, a guide in this darkness…let him burn in his fire… and you may prosper…

Faith

There were stars that ever shone so bright,

That ashamed of its morning light, the sun said, take it

That in this defeat, I rise, you are my star and it is all mine...

That never boast with spark that is stolen,

My presence endured by the dark,

And welcome in the beauty of my scattered glow..

Through you I reach out to those we once knew,

Who hide in the dark, and candles the wind blew...

You sparkle with reassurance, guarding my promise for tomorrow,

Is it not that you do, so divine and so pure?

That the light is not all that matters...

That the arrogance is not in the glow,

It is in the beauty of faith, in which you endure...

My New

A twinkle outside my window,

A happy thought or a child’s play

A hint of hope and trust of borrow...

Faiths of the worlds would deny

The rhythm of a simple song someday

Would engulf me in entirety

I would hum in different times

Smelling the roses of yesterday...

I would go to that place and sit down

Staring into distances, breaking them

Reducing the effect, polishing the edges,

I would make it new, shiny now...

The dirt removed, lustrous of ideas new

I will show it off, dare you to

come this way and make it anew, too...

Moments Random

If the world is a function of random events, then how is it that goals are achieved, that when someone eyes a target and works towards achieving it, why does not randomness set everything going in all different directions? Random? Why is it said that there is always a solution and a way of finding it. Doesn’t that ‘way’ refute the existence of randomness? 

That rhythm is everywhere, a pattern followed by every entity. The structures whooshing past a car, dancing with the music inside. Innocence confirming its presence by a child intently looking at a piece of sweet held by the father... nature dominating its creation in the form of a man mingling with his surroundings carrying traces of earth and mud on his person. A quick look over one’s shoulder doesn’t change bits of life one left behind; it exists for someone else’s experience, for someone else to question its existence before moving on. 

Ignorance becomes fate, gives way to manifestation of undefined events, to randomness. This non-acceptance of an egotist gives birth to destiny, and to powerless slavery to a non-existing reasoning. A moon will cast a soft light, a sun will always burn, a burn would always hurt, and a touch will always establish life. The functions would not change, the definitions remain intact. There is no help that goes astray, there is no action abandoned.

In your Heart

22 September 2011

Found a place in your heart, to sit and cry and laugh

It’s warm, comfortable, a delicate soft ray of the sun, on my arm, shining

Like the roads that make place for each to walk on, content to just tread along,

Happy to find that inch that is only theirs, an illusion of possession that yes it is mine...

Found that place in your heart, to close my eyes and wonder,

They remember when they are lonely; you miss me when I am...

Beckon me from the other side, I say wait, for another sunrise

Held your hand drifting to sleep, and dreamed

For ages gone in the dream, an echo in my ears, come back home,

Abandoned, gathering dust, come back and paint it again,

With the colours of this season, while the old ones faint...

But let me look for the colours, I have lost mine,

Lend me yours, just for today I promise.

A refugee in your heart, I dream about my home,

Painted with the colour blue, decorated white with snow...

Warm as this refuge, and beautiful as tomorrow,

My home forever to be, but I stay in your heart tonight.

Purity

Untainted by yesterday’s touch, away from tomorrow’s eyes...virgin, pure is when is today... an evidence of all possibilities...

Leftovers

7^th January 2012

Vast expanses now filled with colours so many, of flowers shouting of perpetual happiness. Not the best day of his life, for more are to come, holding promises no one can yet foresee... however the beauty is yet unmatched, envious to the most dazzling bride, to the starlit sky and even the rain. But he can see, hidden under this magnificence, there are the leftovers of that night.

Little does anyone know but him about the storm that stopped by. Caught him by surprise, or a trick so common? Unprepared, he hung on through the night, so he could catch just a glimpse of daylight in sometime. The day came, so did the patch-ups... here and there and there too. Everywhere... the brokens were mended, shattered dusted, fallen collected, lost looked for... the land of flowers, bare, torn down stared him in the eyes...do you dare? He did, and now the flowers let it forget that night.

The colours struggle to preserve their beauty under the unending fight with the dominance of that which is white...for it conceals, and doesn’t clean anything away, the nothingness is an illusion. Starting afresh is a deception, continuance and consequences follow, and go on as if to time without end. He might have ploughed the land to start anew, but the storm that had died has left its ashes behind, and it is a matter of time to assess the vitality of these leftovers...