The Silent Duck

It was one of those days when the sky was clear and blue

and the clouds just right, curvy and white and the right hue

not one of your everyday cloudy afternoons and looming sun; breezy, pleasant and a lazy stretch

not even those wet evenings asking for walk by the sea with the brumous air

though the air itself might be cheerful, the clouds are large, fluffy, muzzy

jaded and dragging themselves in tiredness, aged in spirit and jagged in grays

 

 

These were clouds perfect, small and medium

crafted to preciseness all white, perfect corners

you could see their slight shadows underneath against an all blue sky

and there was a duck on one of them

still and unmoving, perched on this pristine cloud

with a tear in her eye, stuck to that one cloud

because it cannot fly, cannot search the beyond

and not knowing it can search within

 

The tear made its way to the earth below

stripping part of the sky and a big chunk of the universe etched on it

starry skies, blue and black studded with stars and clusters of galaxies

rolled below, right through my roof

on to the dark brown mahogany wooden table

I had my shoulders bent upon

and dropped by side

the tear that would have rolled from my own eye

for the one who denies me

 

The universe in the lachrymal drop

revealed to my hazy gaze

planets and stars jostling with one another

with playful pats and piqued fists

a game of now near and now far

some showed quick wits

and some had resounding guffaws

shaking their satellites in their orbits

the universe reverberating in tandem

and the years rolled off for the moment

and I got reminded how much of a child

I still am.

 

We are all born with love

a burden we carry

as if with a duty beholden

And I seem to have been

bestowed in grace or frustration

more than my share

It is not as much important, the whisper then said

that you get loved but be granted the permission

to do so

so that you can exhaust this load

given to you

Both the carrying and the giving

will crush you with exquisiteness

burden they maybe but you will come back

asking for more

 

I have to move on find new cauldrons to

pour my love into

though how I wish it were you

I could love and give the biggest

portion to,

child that I still am.

Wrapping myself in philosophy

There is this … the Nasadiya Suktam which is interesting. It starts with a proclamation, that in the beginning, there was neither existence nor non existence. Death was not yet born and there was no deathlessness. What made everything born then? Wouldn’t the gods know? But they did come to be, much later. Maybe there is this single source, that would know, wouldn't it. But really, does even it know for certain. Maybe it does or just maybe, it doesn’t.

Nice. Something about it is liberating. A stream of water thundering down the high stony mountains, unbridled, with verve and freedom. Freedom.

As a child, it used to puzzle me, after spending inordinate amount of time studying the living and the non living, the sentient and the non sentient, the species and the taxonomy, nobody ever really spelt out what is life. The omission deeply puzzled me. There seemed to have been energies spent into researching so many things but none spent on figuring out what makes life life. And how difficult could that be. Or maybe I was being shut off.

It got a bit of getting used to, to the fact that one could hear one’s own voice in one’s head and hold long discussions. I would wonder why I would be able to do that. The travails of a shy boy. Day dreaming through the years. A rich pastiche of tales woven over the humdrum of the world where there were adventures none. The days when food and books made an exquisite combination.

The curiosity became less as the years went by.

I thought I would write something about something part of everything and nothing. At least I wrote something. The rest can wait.

Meaning of Love

Sometimes I wish I knew what love is.

When I was young I was certain I knew,

the meaning of life was always wafting

teasingly by in the vicinity of

my confined sentient view.

I had visions of being called upon

- uphold and be true,weather

in deliberate stoicism what love

would demand as it’s necessary due.

 

Now I am not so sure, but

I am not scrambling anymore.

I know what it is not.

It’s not my silent approval of

her beautiful face nor

is it her physical grace, intelligence and wit.

No

Though of course there is some of all this

in some potent mix, enough to

make me feel the pull, but not

surprisingly heady and heavy for her.

For she so bestowed sits

lightly wondering

slightly annoyed

at the insaneness of the world

or maybe she is just piqued at me

Though not for long.

 

It is puzzling and unnerving

to feel so powerless and helpless.

Though she can’t be but

benign and graceful,

her tolerant kindly touch

crumbling layers of stubbornness

and kindling the ardor in my soul

warming regions

that have been freezing dead and cold

long ago.

 

Now I no longer have

to scramble for things to say

or count the seconds

to call it a howling day.

I can bear her sudden ire

and her abrupt smiles

with the easy comfort

that love is now here to stay,

in my life

and in my arms.

Not every time I want, maybe,

not never ever enough

but enough for me to feel

blessed, enough to feel

grateful to this silent universe.

And I can feel the vibration

of our sacred beats in unison

echoed in every realm of the cosmos

and I bow and bend in tired reverence

as love bursts forth

and I am shushed to silence,

awed by the feeling in my roaring breast

watching her lie

asleep, lost in her dreams which

make her smile.

Maybe I am in them,

maybe I am not.

But her smile makes me feel

I am glad for this life.

And I am connected.

Castle of clay

(For one who believes in eternal optimism, niceness and smiles all around.. probably because of the philospophical bent derived from advaita and buddishm, hopefully the last of sad ones for some time .. I wrote it to a friend attending a funeral)

We are the living dead,
our pyres are burnt every day
The sky turns to dust
and sanity crumbles away
Muted seconds
till the end of life's sway
Lost hopes and broken lanes
ready
for your pleasure and play
we have it all in our
castle of clay

Loneliness

The sky looms over
like a gleaming ocean
- grinning wide,
blue, bright and white,
dancing
to the splutter
of your feet
on the damp soil
while the sun is aching
in its own
splendor

The small white flowers
,plump and pleased,
are darkening brown
in the splattered mud
whispering and
touching
in abandon glee
and giving away all
your heart's beats
as they listen to
your pelting
pace.

The warm breath
on your nostrils
flaring and
blending in
with the
strains of the
youthful breeze,
which is playful
in its circling
from the crinkle
of your eye
to your upturned smile

The trees are swaying
in sleepy meditation,
the bushes are whistling
in melancholy green
while the shade is screaming
in solemn numbness
at the place
where I had stood
cold
staring at
the drained blank horizon
statuesque
as in eternity

Watching and observing hurt eat
away spaces in my
body I never knew existed
till they burst alive
in pain
travelling at its own leisure
seething and soaring
in my nerves and head
long innumerous journeys
and crumbling in
loneliness
till I could not stand
the roar of the solitude
anymore

Thinking about something - I

It has been an irony of my recent life as I live through it that just about when I am comfortable with myself or at least blase about my own standing that i am jolted out as one out of an unreal dream. It is not confusion of who I am that riddles and nettles me. But the vacuous feeling of not knowing who I am at all, just when I thought I no longer cared caught in the gush of life. It is as if I were a red blue bird donning soft feathery white on my neck beneath my beak, pompously preening, looking out for a mate in the Amazons; when I realize the setting has changed and now I am in the Arctics, a snow leapord struggling and puzzled at how to survive. Sometimes the change in scenery is pleasant, new friends - penguins in the snow, if you like; but most times it is unnerving and paralyzing. Who the hell am I?

And what am I supposed to do now? Years gone by but nothing out there to give me a clue. There is no written script, no set of instructions - the luxury of an electronic toy; it is a fresh as in a blank day, the morning is hauntingly silent as I ruminate.

There is a certain loneliness in this. The type you can hear in a koel' chilling call as if it's mate has suddenly disappeared overnight. And it has now left nothing to live for, because it's reason for existence has just vaporized into nothingness. What is purpose after all? No, not - what is my purpose? What is purpose at all, the basis of anything to do.

Activity is a relief. After all, all said and done, what I have understood is this, even if there were no reason to choose to be preoccupied in one action or the other, no specific preference, it is better to choose than idle and linger. Death is never an instictive thought except for the rarer of contemplative minds. So the finiteness of life tends to not hover near, very much a ship far away in the horizon. But the earth demands what it has spring forth and there will be a time for me to lie down. So if not instinctive, even as a prudent thought, it would do well for me to put myself to fruitful action.

But what about inspiration. Love and romance maybe. Though as everyone knows they are also fraught with their own disappointments. You need to be able to hold your battered heart, ready to keep it open for inspection to the cold and heat of the relationship, watch it wither, quiver, anticipate and burst into pieces and miraculously watch it still exist so that the pain is excruciating both in bliss and despair.

Friendships of course are sacred. And quite few. Atleast the ones which mean something. But they also need to be tended with care. We are a cynical bunch and are getting warier by the moment.

But coming back to loneliness. And what is self discovery? Riddles. Next post.

Now I am part of your past too - Part I

we stitched the past
so that there was a path
to now
I wasnt there before
now I am part of your past too
We walked the memories together
and I held you through the times
so that there was no time
when I was not there with you
we stitched it alright
the past right to the current

we smiled to what was coming
there was never a need to say
we would be there and
we would be alright
if life carried you away
in a hurry
it wouldn't matter
there would be a room
in our home waiting for you
and if I turned a corner too soon
you know I would be around
flushed in rain
under the twilight sky
the present overlying the past
and the beyond
when there was never either
to say the truth