Winds

There is something less in the sunlight
The moon shines behind those.clouds
Every step ahead is a struggle
Did I forget something,
A step mistook in that blink of the eye?

In that darkness of the day,
Tired feet want to give up
But hope carries them on
That today those clouds shall part...

An inch by inch as if mocking,
The wind blows them apart
Only to bring them back
Or is it the eyes which have gone dark?

Yes today is another day,
And today it tries again
To stumble upon that mistake in the path
That has long been buried under
But is a haunting in the brightness of the day
and in the tenderness of the night...
If only the winds could blow from another side
And take me away to forever...

Q & A

There are so many thoughts in my head. How is it that none of them is worthy of this blank page? How is it that they keep talking to me without my participation. These are some questions a child would have asked. Yes, it would have... maybe i did too.. but I am asking the same questions as probably no one answered them then. It was a child' s curiosity.  Today it is an adult' s rant. So they remain inside my head...talking to me incessantly... proving that every man is for himself. That there is no point of expectations, of society, companionship. As no one cares about the questions which are so obvious, no one has any answers to them. Pursuing them is madness, or unemployment. Those that matter have answers, either you have them or, them...as long as an answer exists it is ok to ask questions...this treatment is so profound that there comes a time that I question those rare seekers. Those who try to make sense out of everything.  Who would tell them now, that as long as the end is poetic, the tragedy doesnt matter.

My Anchor

In the maze of words,
of causes and consequences
in the darkness inside..
floating, uncontrollable and lost
Thoughts look for a meaning,
to hold on to, to guide,
an Anchor, to keep them in the present,
In the Now.
To stop them from rushing ahead... and crawling back
Now is where they aught to be...
My Anchor.. would you come to me,
like yesterday, when meaning was drowning
in that forceful flood of thoughts...
would you extend that arm, to keep it alive
and burning ?
And keep me awake when the night becomes darker,
and my eyes heavy,
Would you help me stay, help me Be?

Hide and Seek

A silent, soft tune in the background, coming from the surrounding fragile trees, under a dimly lit sky, amidst a warm breeze. The beats are light, confident. When the warmth of the evening breeze falls on the tired back, it transforms itself into a soothing delicate touch of a mother. Every step is musical, every breath is a flower, and when the eyes search for something in the sky, you decide to play hide and seek. 

The beats become faster, the music louder, preparing for ecstasy, getting ready.  And as if in synchrony with the beats, drops start falling, one at a time, in the eyes, on the palm, one by one, touching in such elegance that the moment reaches perfection, and it is clear that as another second passes, it wouldn't be perfect anymore. With this knowledge, as if life is to be lived in its entirety in this very moment, every feeling, every experience, memory, every breath battles to be a part of it. And under the hesitant presence of stars in an incomplete dark sky, in this moment of everything, your game continues…

Reactions

Is there anything called a beginning? Didn't everything begin as a reaction to an end? Isn't life a reaction? Life- a desire to be happy, a means to exist- isn't it all  a reaction; desire a reaction of non-possession, existence a reaction to life...

The definition that is sought every second of everyday is a reaction to puzzles. To define is a need, a reaction to ignorance. when the world is busy reacting, pro-action then becomes a null entity. Something which exists just as a word with no real meaning. When the world is busy fire-fighting, what role does a fire safety drill play? Does it prepare? Or is it a reaction to a fire elsewhere?

Reactions justify the absence of anything new. Everything old wears out, or takes different forms. Formation to anything different is a reaction to ageing. ageing a reaction to time. Time is a reaction to itself, and that is where the loop forms, and ends and forms again. The loop doesn't have an escape, and those who are in pursuit of an escape may just end up wearing down and changing forms. The core doesn't change. There is no dynamic. The static is what exists, now and forever. The static is an impossibility to a pro-active. Pro-active assumes change happening in a certain way and reacts to this assumption. Either way, the end remains the same- the static- no matter which means are taken on the way- the forms. When the ends are similar, when the reactions are adamant, how does it matter the ways in which they are arrived at? Does it matter where the butterfly flutters its wings?

My Perfect World: Revisit 2

In my perfect world where the stars lighten the sky when the sun goes down, where a breath replaces another just in time, where we grow up and grow down... In my prefect world where do you come from, you who are that nothingness that pulls away this definition, that illusion that steals my breath little by little and stagnates the existence. In my prefect world where did you find your place? Did I let you in or did you let me?

" "

Grow old, let time do its job… for a battle with it would be lost.. the un-aged would be ghosts… seen only by those who want to see; while the rest remain blind.

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?