And the tulips outside...

I am sure this is an illusion…my mind is squeezing, my eyes getting smaller around the corner and my sight clashing in my mind creating an illusion of no vision. The point here the sights of the left meet the right and strike opposite ends of the back of the brain, my sights clash and collapse – result no vision – an illusion.

Getting smaller and smaller as days pass by, these are my own pair of eyes that see me diminishing day on day. I see my reflection in the murky pond outside, it gives me no picture of myself. I looked covered in dirt as though I swam dirty waters just to look myself up in the pond.

There is a mirror in one corner of the room and me on the other, I watch myself diminish in that mirror. Self image have never been so difficult to accept. I don’t even dare to move from my corner or set the mirror up in the middle of the empty. The illusion keep me so occupied in my mind and enslaves me, these shackles do not let me move a thing. These are shackles of being in my own skin, and occupying my own space, the shackles of security.

Every day the same episode has to replay, I move in and out through the same door step on yesterday’s steps, place myself exactly where I have been placing myself since. If you think I play this game of watching myself diminish everyday anticipating the end and gambling in my mind the consequences then I need to correct you. Illusions are intriguing; they are like a sharp knife kept on your skin with a constant torque, at first it shocks you, then the first drop of freely rolling blood scares, but as the sharpened tip penetrates in and the sharp side of the knife starts to cut there is pain. There after follows a stage wherein pain becomes sweet and the drops of freely flowing blood tickle. But as the cut gets wider because knife getting in deeper there are a multitude of emotions fear, anger, anguish but what prevails is a sense of helplessness because you cannot do anything to stop all that is happening. And the last stage is I think of acceptance, to take your eyes over your skin and watch the knife penetrate from end to end. Let your eyes watch all of this and let the vision die off with the last breath.

I am at that stage of the Illusion where the tickles of having it are long gone and the whole idea and sight of me getting smaller day by day in the mirror is making me feel helpless. I want to see myself grow in my own eyes. Maybe the next time I get here, I would get something to magnify myself.

This thing does not help, I look larger than life, but in parts. What I am watching is magnified, but not me. Time is running out, I am diminishing day by day and a part of me magnified is again an Illusion, nothing so permanent about it.

So like a ritual I moved in again in the empty spaces. In the mirror I looked at my eyes first just to blame my today’s reduction on them. But if I would have done that, it would have been an utterly false allegation. So I kept staring at the diminished me, understanding that today the space that I occupy is going to reduce tomorrow, not sure whether accepting it, but understanding it for sure.

I moved out earlier today, I thought that as I diminish the time for which I suffer should also diminish. But the burden of the day was still there on my heart and like a daily wager who has to toil for fixed hours to earn his sleep at night I too had to occupy that space in the empty room for the fixed hours. I went back, well nothing astonishes me anymore (what could – I was carrying the brunt of me evaporating into nowhere) there was no room in my mind for amusements and astonishments. But the kittens where growing behind the mirror. I had never noticed them there while I served my sentenced hours in the space. The kittens were growing and where pushing the mirror away from the wall at an angle.

The refection was angled image of me. I did not displace the kittens and let them grow behind the mirror. But I changed something from that day; and so it’s called a ‘day’ now and no more ‘empty spaces’

And the tulips outside…are bright red.

FINDING WORDS TO PAINT

It was soon that I realized that I would be here to witness all that was to take place, but I was not clear as to what was the course things would take in the next few hours. How could Luke even think that this semi conscious tatterdemalion whom I could hardly capture in my frame because of his dwindling legs, could help him achieve what he could not after years of patience and practice. But now Luke that given up the idea that art like any form of mechanical activity would by practice and default be a part of the muscle memory. This belief of which Luke’s mind was the creator had made him redraw sketches of curvy bodies, messy lines and unknown self imagined shapes and structures using all means that had made him a skilled ‘copy artist’. I remember the day Luke had bartered his last piece of anything that could be called living room furniture for a old coffee table from the son of the old lady, who was about to take it away when his mother died. And all Luke could think of doing with it was to use it as a support to illuminate the sketches over a 50 watt bulb and then draw random lines over the tracing paper. Well that was the reason he got it, and it should not have been difficult for me to realize that; I mean, what Luke has done for any one (including himself) since the time I have seen him, the answer to that one is, nothing. The only thing that he did for me was that he got me, atleast I have someone to see now, though Luke has no one, not even himself.
It was only a few days back that Luke who stood for his ideology felt weak in his knees and bowed down to accept that art was for the gifted, and the bitter truth was that Luke could not acquire that gift even through his days of incessant rehearsing. Luke had a vision, but I guess he had seen it through a pipe, because the vision was like the end of the pipe, lit up and clear; but the path to the vision was dark like the darkness that prevails throughout the length of the pipe. In fact Luke’s vision had always been a never ending story to me, because he said it in that manner. If he were to ask me I would have told him he was better off being a story teller than being a visionary painter.
After Luke’s life had been partially shattered by the newly dawned realization of not being gifted he had resorted to this means to fulfill his unachievable dream or in his words vision. So that was of Luke, but of this intoxicated man with impaired abilities to move around, I knew nothing. Luke said he had spotted him on the lane next to the museum painting the emaciated kids of the nearby slums for the too fair or the too dark foreigners. The next day Luke had seen him looking at the wrinkled face of an old Gorkha to capture him on his canvas, and it was then that Luke made up his mind that he would be the vehicle for him to achieve his visionary art. I am sure not only me but even Luke did not know his name, he had been referring to him as Painter Babu for the past few hours and as usual narrating his art in words to the walls and of course me (‘cause Mr. Painter Babu had been snoring his lungs out for quite some time now).
Luke had known that the world was full of stories to be told and there were people waiting to hear them, but for him the medium was canvas and colours. No one knew why Luke felt that way, not even him; but for him it was his instinct that was driving him. So he set off on his task the next morning, but the man of action here still had his lids closed. Luke jotted down random notes on the other side of the tracing paper that he had used to draw his worthless sketches, and this all was done in low tones so as to not disturb painter Babu (after all his artistic mind had to be out of his previous night’s hangover - stiff and stimulating , ready to take on Luke’s mission).
So Luke sat down to scribble random notes on the pieces of paper that he could find, it was miraculous how he had got over his habit of writing on any solid thing that could support graphite or for that matter even charcoal marks on its surface. After days of practicing and rehearsing, his ideas were taking the form and colour of a painting and Luke was finding it difficult to roll out alphabets on paper, but ‘gift’ is what I call it was. Luke and his words flowed driving out all that was captured in the spaces if his mind into alphabets, words, sentences and a story – a work. He wrote of heavens, celestial life and the hymn of the earth as it revolves around its lover the sun, trying to have every glimpse of him all the time. Through all the changing seasons every part if earth yearns to see the sun again, to feel its warmth on it. Tries all means to get close to it, but the sun burning in its pride of being the provider, the keeper of life makes it impossible for any love to even come near. The earth fearing the rage of the mighty sun and the will of its lover restricts itself on its orbit revolving around to stay not very close but in proximity. But the sun unwilling to accept its love for the earth resorts to harsh means to keep the earth off. The winds, the water, the ice, and the heat all are the weapons that the sun uses, but love knows perseverance and the earth survives all this. The sun has to accept to himself that all this was nothing but retaliation to his fear of the amorphous, his unwillingness to fall prey to his inner softer core. The sun chooses his newly found love. But for their unification the sun has to give up what he is. His self is a threat to the existence of his lover if they would unite. But love demands no change and no returns; it curls back inside itself and feels warm only in it being there. And so the sun denouncing unification gives a part of itself to its lover (a part that we today know as the moon), a part that till today revolves around the earth and romances with the earth when the sun sets for the day.
So the day starts with a spill for everyone, for Luke it is the spill of brimming ideas and words and for Painter Babu it is the spill of water onto the ground. The prodigy (Luke thought of him to be one) had announced his awakening and with sun light striking his eyes Luke’s eyes lit up, and lit up with the fire of that passion that he saw soon being sufficed. Luke never ran short of words to explain what he thought he was destined to do, but Painter Babu seemed not to have the inner eyes of a visionary artist and got caught up in Luke’s words and then the entangled Painter Babu turned to a clueless victim (which he thought he was, to Luke’s strange idea of getting people to paint his words).
“Ok” said Luke, assuming that the ground rules of the game had been laid; “this is what you need to paint” handing Painter Babu what he had been doodling on the paper forasmuch as the whole morning. I was taken aback that the poor bum could read Luke’s cacography. Luke’s expressions were continuously changing, just like the clouds change shape on a rainy day, but Painter Babu seemed to be consistent with his expression of bewilderment. But the tonic to ease this discomfort in Painter Babu was known; all that Luke had to do was to show him green, the colour of hope for Luke and the colour and smell of money Painter Babu.
Luke’s dream was shaping up on canvas and colours today, words were being translated to brush strokes and fine layers of shades. But the essence of a book is often lost in translation, similarly the sentiments woven by Luke in his words failed to show up in the dimension of the story that Painter Babu had drawn. Time is what Luke assumed he needed and so he locked himself up in another room for a few hours, this too did no good. I had never seen Luke be so patient with any one from the newspaper boy to his cook and to me too (his self bought companion for almost three years now); staying with an erratic soul like Luke had its own perils.
The final product showcased by Painter Babu was highly disappointing, not only for Luke but for me too (or maybe I saw the painting thorough Luke’s eyes, I had seen them enough in myself for years now). Luke could only stare at the painting and try to comprehend what he had to do about it; after all, he had to word the reason of his appointment to the creator. But the painting looked more like a half ignored Solar system with Earth seeming to be the center of it and the planets and the Sun (at one corner) looking at the bluish green persona. It had altered the basic laws of the universe alignment, leave aside Luke’s imagination. It was more like a curtailed image from a geography text with the latter half of the solar system missing.
But Luke did not give up, this was his only hope and the last form of any resort that he had. And so Painter Babu was requested to try his hand again on another canvas in the hope of a masterpiece translated from word to paint. Luke this time thought of writing about a few more things so that the artist had options to pick from. So he created what he was best at, for Luke mastery came in with no effort, but the realization of mastery was needed, for which Luke had never cared or given even the slightest of attention. But after repeated intervals of defeat from Painter Babu’s unmatched idea perception, Luke was giving away. He was losing his ability to explain (which for the first time I witnessed him have) and moreover it was hampering him from writing. Luke was struggling to write now, what he was trying to do is manipulate his vision into something that Painter Babu could see and incorporate into a painting. Was Luke even realizing what this was doing to him? I could see it, and I wished that Luke saw it too.
It was only when Luke got back to explain what he had written to Painter Babu did this strike him, it hit him that what he had written for the canvas and what he actually felt were not the same. He had manipulated his thoughts for some one else's understanding. It pierced him sharp and he dropped his pen down, let the ink flow onto the floor and spread like a thin smear on the evenly laid floor, and then it stopped drifting. Now Luke could breathe this split ink and he knew he had let the writer in him flow, and most of all he could see it right in front of him. His Gift was smeared on the floor and was calling out to be rescued.
It’s not important to know what Luke did with the split ink or the half written manipulated verses meant for Painter Babu. But what I saw in Luke eyes that day was a not only a realization, but also an appreciation and admiration of the fact that his gift would now be translated into words by him. And about me; Luke left me in the same place and moved on. And now I see someone else in me, someone not ready to see himself, so let the journey of the gifted one begin from looking into me…

GUESS MY AGE...

Coming from a girl you might expect anything under such a header to be a set of consolidated beauty tips or another ‘look young’ or ‘hide those age lines’ kind of an excerpt. A few on the contrary would anticipate that the lines to follow will have harsh criticisms of the obsession women have with everlasting youth. But quite differently this ain’t about any of the above, in the age of metro sexuality redefined, femininity is often underlined.
What happens when someone, needless to say a guy (in the present context and for all further addressing) says something as bizarre as "this might seem funny to you, but it just crossed my mind to ask you this – what must be my age?" Ah…not forgetting to mention the line that follows, so he says – "the first thing that comes to your mind, just a figure first; we’ll come to the reasons later". With my eyes stuck on him, like his nose seemed to have been stuck on to his properly rolled on face, I uttered 25. A few more numbers (pretty random though) were heard. This was the easier part of the session, now was act 1, scene 2… (Now that you have been through with the guess my age thing, lets take this a step further – the why part of the question).
Setting – a conference room with a round table around which 6 chairs have been placed. 4 chairs towards one end of the room have been occupied by girls who look eager and ready to understand the situation that is going to be posed in front of them. The other end has a young girl making notes of the conversation yet to start and collecting and filing papers from the rest of the girls. Besides her is an odd man out.
The four of girls give their respective reasons...
The answers given have been omitted because of their irrelevance (to the guy off course).
Now, Act 1 scene 3… (Tell me your age)
Guy –ok, none of you are even close (maintaining the suspense).so tell me how old are you? Clockwise starting from you.
Girl 1 – 23
Girl 2 – 23
Girl 3 – 25
Girl 4 – 25
Guy – (after having carefully jotted down the numbers from top to bottom, aligning them one under the other and restricting them sideways by two vertical lines) I am exactly in between the four of you.
The curtain falls.
(Sorry to have disappointed you with this abrupt end of the play but this was only an insight into the ‘Guess my age’ syndrome. The further plays [yet to come] highlight a few more symptoms of the above).
After the whole thing concluded whatever had been his last statement to the conversation I do not remember, but the line that he actually wanted to word (his heart might be softly uttering out to his young looking ego) – and you gals always thought that age miracles only happen with women…haha. But he was not the only one who had not spoken his heart out, there was me too, and all I would have wanted to say is that – "dear Edward, in today’s era of twilight preceding the new moon and vampires being the heart throb of millions, you too could be one of them…the cold storage vampires 100 yrs old still managing to look 24."
Now that I have come to believe very closely in the six degrees of separation concept I’m going to set out these lines in the form of a letter hoping that the message is conveyed, but I’m still not sure that people who suffer from the ‘Guess my age’ syndrome understand its symptoms…

Autobiography of a cactus at the border

If I have to tell you for how long I have been here, all I can say is that I have seen one more sun than the number of moons. As the last grain of sand moved off from my tip and I was finally able to come up in life I had the sun over me like it is today. I could have told you about my age from the rains I have seen, but somehow I realize that they are not periodic and cannot be trusted. Some are mere drizzles that seem to fall but get lost in the long run. I understand as it took me a lot of time to come up, but coming down should be quicker, isn’t it? The solitude of the desert and the long silence of time though have broken down my dead spines but they have sent my living roots deep down. Going deep or growing high is either below or above in a straight line, but I am moving in circles and so I am spacious. Somehow I need to sense life and only because I do not feel its presence on one of the two sides, I decide to spread out.
My story is all here in the desert that shifts day after day, but still I lay amidst it searching for a horizon. But like oasis in the desert is an illusion, the horizon too is a mirage. The grains of sand fly from one side and form heap on the other, and then the same heap flows over to the other part. Nothing specific catches my eye; there is an obscurity whether things are non-existent or is it me who is oblivious of their presence. But it was not the same always, many a suns ago creatures existed; they trampled over the sand leaving behind prints that would remain till the dawn. They came in as crowds with humming sounds but some words were said in coherence-“sare jahan se achcha Hindustan hamara”.They said it, trampled the sand and moved on.
Apart from all these nostalgic memories I have something more to wondrously talk about. One of the creatures who moved ahead leaving behind a trail on the loose sand with a thin branch dropped something near the rock beside my newly growing bud. The object lay heavy upon that part of me, which then never came up in life. But then again there is silent youth down, and up here are only twilight ever, rising and fading between horizons. The object, I can say had sand but the colour was not the same as that of the one which surrounded me. Its colour was like that of the sky in the noon (only of the days that know not of raindrops).Surprisingly, that sand did not flow away even in strong winds. It was only later that I understood that it was trapped inside something that allowed it only to be seen and not to be taken away. Sometimes it lay higher on a side and sometimes on the other, but eventually it got equally balanced. Time passed and I studied stars and their motion, the full moon waxing or wading and forming crescents on the night sky; but the sand still remained trapped. It would not flow, it just would not.
Time forever did not look behind and I traversed along with it, but this made me understand the Eternal law of the Desert, or the law of the Eternal Desert-‘Whatever leaves, comes back; not transformed not reformed but in the same form. The sand laying flat on one side forming dunes on the other side and the storm again laid it flat on the same side. The full moon forming a crescent, vanishing and then growing again, only to brighten the darker crescent of its previous existence and form a fully lit circle; the sun, stars, moon, their motion all followed this law. Apart from these something else followed this law- the creatures that came long ago (at least they were in the transformation stage).Those creatures returned one day but there was a noticeable change, the crowds had turned into well defined rows, the haphazard trampling into rhythmic leaps, and their garbs were the same (the same way as all of us cacti have identical spines).It was difficult to decipher what they said, still I heard words like ‘war’, ‘Pakistan’, ‘India’. Again and again the same words, no ‘Hindustan’, no ‘Hamara’ this time.
But suddenly it was not the trampling that I heard; there was a ‘thud’ followed by many of them. It was no ordinary sound; it was sudden, more aggressive and faster than the sand storms; and whenever the sound was followed by a sound of lower intensity (as though it had got caught in between) their were many articulated noises that were heard (‘ahh’ …).This was said by those creatures, I felt it come from them…I do feel vibrations of things near to me. At once drops of something lashed me, it wasn’t rain of that I was sure; it was something that oozed out from the creature and spread over the sand. After some sort of a silence the other creatures picked him up and gave him raindrops, but again those were trapped (I wonder; most of what these creatures have is trapped).They carried him and while proceeding left a trail behind, but this time that was not made by a branch, it was something more dark, maybe the colour of the night sky, or in fact darker than that too. This was what made the loud sound (the loudest one).The liquid on me dried but its colour further deepened, while it was wet it was the colour of my flower…
Then on another day they came back in the same rhythm and destroyed everything. They came near again made some sounds and the old sand balancing object was broken, my newly blossomed flower was gone with them and I could spot it lying on a distinct print on the sand. All that remained were the prints, the alien sky coloured sand all around (now free) and the dried liquid on me. There have been a few rains from then on, but the remnants of the dried spot still remain. Their object is destroyed by them and now the part of me that lay silent has come up in life from its long hibernation.
I guess the law is for the Desert only, because I can see only transformation (in creatures that do not belong to the Desert) but they do not get back to the same form. One more rain and the last bits of the dried remains on me would be off and then there would be sand, sun, moon, and their delicate motions along with me (relatively still), the Eternal Law and my story, half of which might sound meaningless to you but which must be said so that the other half reaches out to you.

My experiments with touch

If I am exaggerating this while I narrate, read it the way it is, because as kids life as some point has been exaggerated and over magnified by all of us. We have all told stories of how we had beaten up the kid next door; or how a dragon had been the victim to our anger and then how virtuous we had been to pardon him when we’d see him weeping (then obviously concluding that it was a part of last night’s dream, when the whole thing had been dragged too long to be believed).
It was beneath the large mango tree that we first saw it, like all the other things around it was also green and that is how it was suppose to be. But there was something more that it was meant to do. And so to check it out all of us walked towards it. We were the regular visitors of this place but never had we been so careful about our footsteps and so vigilant about what was that we all stepped on. Before that day we had never seen the roots of that mango tree go in and out of the ground at intervals, as though been sewn into the fabric of this land. We had grown on the branches of this mango tree fighting on who was the one who that spotted the first ripe mango and then who would be the one to get it down. Running around to find every heavy but small round thing possible to bring down all that the tree had been bearing the brunt of through the year.
But today was not like the other days; today we were here on a mission to explore the unseen. To see how our touch could make the kind of difference that we were told of by our school master. We were a team of seven worthy men (boys would sound too armature) who were set out to change this world by their touch. Their were a lot many distractions that came our way, the other boys were up on the ground at this time, we could hear all our heartbeats rise and sink with every roar that struck our ear drum, some voices were loud and clear while some vague and unclear but none asked for any clarification from the other whether it was their team batsman that hit it over to the boundary line right now. We were all men who focussed on task and now that no worldly affair could hamper us from doing it.
After a lot of keen observation and finding from our side, one of us managed to lay our eyes upon that miraculous thing. His awe directed us to the thing that he assumed to be the object of our desire. Somehow this unsaid rule developed that no one does anything alone or by himself, the truth behind this was the fear of the unknown and also the fear of being mocked at if that was not the thing. Some one had to do it and I was stunned when all eyes stopped at me. Was I the one to take forward this mission and to complete it? To me it was more of a reward…but somehow the others knew that they were to follow the act and so it made no difference to them who goes first. Was this what I was thinking and was a myth or this is what it meant? (all this didn’t strike me then, it is only now when I write of it I think in this manner).
Before I noticed all the others were on their knees and then I felt someone pulling down my pajamas’ too, to me it was a clear indication to follow what was being done. We all crawled towards it and I bit more close. I brought my hand closer to it and got my fingers to touch it. I felt the blood rush into my fingers and as I brought them towards the leaves. I felt the space in between reduce and then as I neared very close to it I felt tingles in my fingers, I felt the space that separated us. If felt magical and magnetic, I felt it calling me or me calling it. And then I touched it, and it dropped, there was a silence and I could feel the happiness of having conquered, in that silence. It did not say ‘touch me not’ but we heard those words being said in definite syllable like the broken line of a nursery rhyme. I heard the drums and trumpets that rolled in our hearts. Then it was the time to see the touch of the ‘touch me not’ and we all dispersed to find our own touch me not’s. It was as though not we but they were touching us, and as they touched they sang to us -to…uch m…e not, to…uch m…e not.
That day taught me a lesson that takes a new face every time I think of it, it taught me that the small joys of life come coated with the silver foil of laughter that are born in our hearts and travel to our lips unknowingly. These laughs are not heard by our ears but give true happiness to us, and then the joys becomes larger than the objects that gave it.

SMILE AT ME

Smile at me, I like it when you smile. Just curve your lips a bit, let your muscles loosen and your mouth relax. But remember, do it gently, don’t force it. If your eyes close a bit its fine, there is not much out here to actually look at, nothing worth compromising that smile. But its now that you don’t smile at me, you don’t even see me, because I do not exist to you.
I still remember the last time I saw you smile, if I recall rightly it was a loud laugh and not a small miser smile. I was growing wiry of standing in that corner and watching people pass by. Popcorn dropping, the bubbles off a cold drink can, counting people go by and some things I don’t recollect. Oh god! I never thought I would ever wait for someone for so long. “Wait, wait…Stop. Why are you doing this to yourself? If you’re doing this for me, please don’t do it? It hurts me more than what it did that time…please be careful, don’t step on it, it’ll hurt, it’ll bleed…hush…now lie down calmly”.
Nothing has changed here, the same old bed sheets, the uncovered pillows, and half eaten scrambled eggs on the pan. I could never figure out why you ate them directly from the pan. I didn’t think of these things then I didn’t notice them either, because I could only see your smile. And now I don’t see your smile and you don’t see me. I see the night lamp across the bed is lying down and pieces of glass scattered till a distance. I think it’s still warm and you must have broken it a little while ago as the filament is still glowing. I don’t touch it, anyways I can’t. There was a time when you quietly saw me sleep and I didn’t see you. And now I see you sleep lost in the dreamy land and you can’t see me. How antithetical…can you see me in your dreams at least…can you touch me. I once read that in dreams you are unable to touch people. Can you touch me? In dreams emotions are overwhelming so do you smile…now that you see me do you smile? Let me blow on your fore head and see if you feel my breath “see…look at him, I think he could feel it”. I guess he just turned a normal reaction to all the discomfort in the body and mind. “You turned your back to me… I don’t think that way, because you have stopped smiling”. I wish even I could sleep like you. But sleep and dreams are all lost for me now.
You get up today again not with the rising sun but the rising volume of your alarm. I am surprised how it can dare to raise its voice even after being beaten on its head each day.
That evening was so much the same as the others, the same long wait and the promise to me that the next time it would be different. And then I saw a sight I had seen a lot many times before. You and a bunch of fresh tulips, both smiling at me. Not much was said, and the promise I made to myself was left to be mulled upon for the next time. There was the movie and I saw me in the character, a few warm drops rolling down and the cheeks and the same old hand in hand thing.
This was of yesterday, and today is what was tomorrow to you then. I hear sirens, I see panic and I again smell the last smell that I distinctly remember of. I hear the impatient shuffling of whizzing feet as I see red all around. I think of tulips…but what a paradox the colour now troubles me so much that I want it out of my sight. I see you unable to find your own breath, barely holding on to it. I see your chest moving up and down but your expression is cold. Never did I see your face vacant of emotions; I saw the smile being replaced by anger, frustration and helplessness. “If only I could have sustained that smile of mine that day”, that’s what you say to yourself in the mirror…do you see my reflection in the mirror? Do you confess that to me? You knew it that very moment I would never come back, but a little trust in me would have made it better for you and for me too. At least you would have not been so skeptical about my undying love and unseen presence. If you had not seen me in the mirror you would have known that I am in your touch…something’s are difficult to explain rationally but then see what acceptance of the worldly rational things have made of you. You lost your smile and seem to shut your eyes to me…the day those tear drops cease to exist and your vivid vision becomes unclouded you would see me. I am their; just a bit veiled.
I still seek that smile, a lost but found one travelling from ear to ear. Unlike you I do not have regrets about that day. Being with you would have meant a lot to me, but it was to feel your presence and see your smile, and not hoping that things would have turned out differently for both of us. Your guilt is not only eating you up but is killing me again and again everyday. Do you know that we relive those moments everyday? ...You through your guilt and I seeing you consumed by it. I am here everyday, just as you are. I travel in pain everyday, just as you do. I am but an adaptation of you. The only barrier is of existence. Only you exist for me and for you other than me everything exists; but to you it does not seem so. I am not indifferent to you; it’s just that presence is a bit different.
You see, but never observe, hear, but never listen, exist, but never live and today you only proved your indifference to life. I wish I could touch those cold hands of yours and breathe my life into your mouth, but I feel for the first time since long the absence of life in me. And then I see that smile across your face, I see that I is for me. “Do you see me; I have been waiting for this smile of yours for long. Now that you hear me I tell you that even if you would have waited and kissed me good night things would not have been really different…do you listen”. Destiny has a game for all of us; it played it and is pressing the pain of losing it on you. If not that day then maybe yesterday or even today…it could have been me instead of you under those wheels. You cannot change the game that has been decided for you, what is in your hand is the belief that life and love do not die they replicate in some form or the other.”But wait…how can you see me…stay away…don’t touch me. How can you feel me…how can I feel you. Life can’t get off you this easily”. If I need to compromise your smile for your life I would do. “Please don’t see me…please stay in your world”. You are a part of me that breathes the air of morning, feels the heat of noon sun, tires and relaxes in the dusk and sleeps the calmness of the night. Feel me now and remember it as a part of you that perpetuates alongside you.
Lie in that bed of yours and feel life, relish the taste of being alive and the freshness of a new life that you grabbed last night. And above all, smile…yes, I see it again. In the mirror when you see I know that smile is given to me. To me that smile is an acknowledgment, a sign, an indication, a gesture, an assurance that I am real to you. A consolation that makes me feel not alone, and that neither are you. So smile.

The Concept of Freedom

Are we free? What is freedom to you, to me and to all of us? Is it the absence of control or the lack of direction; a search, a path to be followed or just an urge to break open. Or is it just an adamancy to be able to have control and be the maker or the beaker. Well for all of these freedom is all about oneself, about aloneness and oneness. But is freedom a concept of the mind or an existing reality that is achievable for those who crave for it. The five elements of nature: - earth, water, air, fire and aether all are simultaneously in our being, for a living creature is not born bit by bit. The moon beams that seem to dance on still waters are the ones that cause the white horses to run on the ocean floor. The forest spread finds anchorage in the flattened earth and as it grows the roots go only deeper. The apple’s so called ‘free’ fall is also a myth, it is a slave to gravity serving its notice period on the branch before being put down by his master. The blowing winds are only a company to this terrestrial sphere that’s meant to circle a wandering star. The sun cannot stop burning, do you think if would have been free it would be blazing. The essence of us is so interwoven that freeing them would be like questioning your own existence. How complex it is to describe freedom, possibly for every action or inaction it has a new meaning all together. If one says he is free to choose his way of leading a life he probably is manipulating, because in life one action leads to the other and so nothing is independent. Every action taken by you is a by product of certain thoughts given to you by someone through some means. And that is the reason it is said that life works out in the process of life itself. In these entangled lives and decisions your action is only a speckle and the idea of have taken it independently is only a fantasy to savor your mind. So this concept of freedom is something that has been used very loosely by all of us. I call it as a concept as the idea of a free will or mind is an intellectual illusion that we create to have the satisfaction of atleast ruling something in this world, be it as inherent as your self