Can answers be tagged?

My middle-class upbringing has pushed me to test my emotional and mental boundaries. There was always someone and something to compare with. Little did I know that my efforts to appear as a classified, cultured and socially-qualified human will take almost two decades (still counting.). I still wonder, how many complexities can survive and sustain in one person. The mind is always running in roundabouts and the heart is always beating on an unspoken range (in the hope to bump into another self-reflective beat).

In this entire journey of creating a self and surviving through setbacks, heartbreaks, complexities, insecurities, doubts, fears, reassurances we sort-of grow up. Yet very few of us accept that it was the mind that touched through the years of survival while the heart was still a kid (jumping in the park to get on its favorite ride). I have seldom allowed myself to be captured by dusty dreams of the past. Mostly, because they helped me stay sane and did not allow me to tread further and be adventurous. Each phase that flowered came with a gush of emotions. Sometimes, I was taken by surprise while at times was contented with what I had. Yet, there was a pixelated feeling of non-belongingness. It did not just occur out of nowhere but from the series of unspoken and unexplained mishaps that I still try to mentally answer. The best solution was to either make people my teachers or regard them as mentors. They might just release me from my mental fetters. Or maybe not.

This question-answer trial has forever resided in one part of my brain and knocks time and again searching for explanations. In the pursuit to fill in the blanks, I managed to forge time-specific deals with strangers. They would let me into their world and in return cause/frame marks that would probably never heal. Little did I realize that these marks will eventually heal and develop into sharp blades. Most of us think that the past is a memory that can either be forgotten or pushed aside. The crumbling truth states that no matter how often we push memories under the carpet and control the mind to leak the vivid flavors of each, it is humanly impossible.

The lost years continue to teach me this lesson. Placing trust within those who reflect our misery is probably the only tool we are familiar with. For those who still stand the test of diplomacy continues their struggle to survive sanely. Most of the teen years passed by in confusion and willingness to learn, unlearn and relearn. And yet today, after a decade I’m still haunted by the question of ‘did my deals fall through?’. With the hope, that their answers will be revealed over time and spill-over seconds.

 

Advertisements

If you were unreal

You of all the people,

I dreamt about,

Never retiring from the constant faith,

You of all the people,

Will free me from mental shackles,

Pull me out from the deep end of torn waters,

You of all the people,

Saddened from my fate,

Will let me arise, be reborn,

Never questioning the how or the why.

You of all the people,

Left me single-handed in the dark bylanes.

The wait turned into spring,

Yet it was short-lived,

I shivered and moaned to stand upon my feet,

While the crutches slept in your arms.

It took me a while to realize,

Could it be the fool in my mind?

That stood transfixed to your reflection,

Or just another soul to test my grit?

Time didn’t matter while I searched for answers,

Yet the seconds spent to continue to pinch me to the core,

You of all the people,

Stood there while projecting to be of help,

Laughed at my misery,

While extracting the feathers off my skin.

 

A chance meet-up

How often does it happen that you wake up in morning wishing for a miracle and voila, your instinct guide you through the day and gift you one. It was one such morning for me. I greeted the sun while it beamed loudly on my room window. It was a weekend and hence the bonus sleep.

My father had returned the night  before from my sister’s place and I couldn’t have been happier. Home looked fuller and so did the walls. My parent’s conversation in the other room brought to my attention that they were planning a visit to the bank. Without a moment of delay, I sprung on my feet and waltzed in their room suggesting to give them a lift. ‘Oh no need, dear’, chanted my mother. Yet, I insisted. Having experienced the scorching heat of the city, I did not want her to go through such turmoil for a 10 minute visit to the bank.

An hour later, we both were on our way to the Saket. For me, Saket, was not just another nearby market but a bagful of memories. Each time I crossed the market, my mind would wander to the hours spent with college friends and colleagues in the colourful market place. Yet, today it felt different. What was it? That feeling, that brush with an old memory, I jut couldn’t point my finger at it. Something was awaiting my presence. An experience.

I dropped my mother at the bank and went off to a quick visit to the Sai Baba temple next to the market. My gut insisted that something was about to be revealed and yet I wasn’t ready to acknowledge it. The darshan were smooth and peaceful. As I sat inside the car, my stomach gargled. Ignoring the sensation, my mind focussed on the nearby cars trying to make their way through the narrow by-lanes of the temple. As I was about to take turn to the exite, a subtle knock on the glass pierced through my ears. An old acquaintance was smiling at me.

‘Rohit?, Hi!! Such a long time. How are you?

He kept gushing and his eyes twinkled. Yes, it had been a very long time. From college friends to spiritual talkers, we were a quite a team back in the old days. Yet, today seemed like nothing had changed. He looked exactly like an aspiring artist who would keep explaining me his source of inspiration to paint and draw. Honestly, I was a bit overwhelmed. Art had been my favorite hobby. Hence, the soft corner for budding artists and exceptional ones. What did I ever do that such beings crossed my path time and again?

We instantly decided to catch up and went to a nearby coffee shop. It seemed that time had never stopped. Last two years were just a limbo. He explained about his masters while I told him about my professional work. We went back to being students who were always excited to carve our future identities in our conversations. The only difference was that this time, we WERE them. Time to create a new thought form.

 

His eyes kept searching for one answer.

‘Hope you are still writing?’

‘Haha, yes! but this time it is for corporates. You see, my words could never be my persona because they belonged to my soul. I instead created what could be my persona.’

Somewhere, back in his mind the question still remained unanswered. And somewhere in my heart, I knew why.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“She”

Her foot was unsure where to step,
It had been a rocky road before,
She; still undeterred by challenges went ahead anyway.
First five steps did not feel a thing,
she could not believe her senses;
was the road so smooth?
some rocks awaited her attention.
to arouse her fears, to augment her insecure eyes.
She stepped 10 further, to find her last.
The secret puddles had rearranged themselves,
How could they ever leave her alone?
how could they ever satisfy her warmth?
She was meant to last, in foot.
Night stroked her senses, while she figured a new turn,
Tomorrow maybe a new dawn will rise but it wasn’t there yet,
She still needed to protect her skin against the thorns of envy.
While she waited for the sky to turn dark blue, a faint voice pound into a thump;

“Have you never been crossed before? When the night shall end so will your sorrow”

She, unalarmed, waited in quiet. It had been a merciful summer,
why allow it to ruin her autumn.
The shades of leaves may turn as red as they could,
her innermost pocket still savoured the snow of the winter gone.
Keeping along the memories she fell into a slumber;
only to be awaken by a dew on her shoulder.
She began her journey once again, alone, unattached,unperturbed;

“How soon will the path unveil what she feared during the night?”

Virgo Women – Survival of Few

What is it about loyalty that makes us want to kill someone? I am not bragging but then Virgo women cannot survive without loyalty. Maybe the reason is that they never go behind someone’s back and unveil a piece of information that can harm someone. They have a clear fundamental of keeping all the news locked and zipped in some corner of their heart where they are not allowed to talk about it. In an extreme scenario this information, will never be let out. Even if it is a matter of life and death, they will go to the end of life to protect those secrets instead of letting them out and feeling light. In short, they are the best vault you can hope for in humanity 😉

The extreme urge of being protective comes from a space where they have experienced things like no one else and have heard tales that people still quiver to lend their ears too. Their strong gut feeling of wrapping arms around an exposed wound never allows them play with sensitive feelings.

That’s why maybe Virgo women have trust issues. They either trust people blindly or they never trust them for a second no matter how many gestures point out towards them being “okay”. Maybe for Virgo, its never Okay. They value things, people, feelings only if they are entrusted with them. The moment that trust breaks, they become impervious to former’s existence. The phenomena is often called detachment.

Since life is a concoction of events and moments that make it sweet and salty, shouldn’t we hold on to the taste? Even when there is an urge to spread it, one should at least consider that the person at the receiving end is comfortable for the new taste or should they instead gulp down the foreign ingredients without knowing what they would do to their body?

This is still just a small preview of Virgo women! They rule their own heart because it is locked and covered with jewels of eternal emotions and tales of others and some of their own.

Measuring Miles

Photography ignites the traveller within me. Little did I know that I will ever accept this fact. The best way to feel motivated is to hear stories, read tales of far far away and sing tunes that never knew floated around you. I am a dreamer, but a unique one at that, who has several miles to cover and millions of people to greet before I finally sleep.

Photographs always have a connection with the photographer. Many a times we form a visual in our mind and search for places that can come remotely close to look the same. My visual, hasn’t met its perfect match yet. At times I get that visual when I see a quaint street of Mexico filled with grey-haired graciously smiling beauties selling brightly adorned hats to its tourists or a cafe owner cheerfully chatting with his string of customers who have stumbled upon that coffee shop for the first and the last time in their lifetime. That is the very unique thing about travelogues. They exist of sceneries which speak of thousands of stories that have taken place and are going to take place in the space–time continuum.

While I like being known as an explorer, these places will surely happen to find me and keep me with them till I let go of the physical body and transform into a spirit with a pre-historic passport, floating through gothic castles, lush Amazonian forests, deep-azure oceans and red-hued sunset setting of its charm in some part of the globe with a tint of relief and happiness.

Communicate with Self

We are driven by our own fears, insecurities, judgements, reflections and perceptions that we build along the way as we grow. To closely observe, how we develop, we constantly refer to our potful of experiences, good or bad, and draw the best possible conclusion to undertake decisions that will help us construct our future. I for one, has always been smitten by the theory of communication. The word itself has such depth that I sometimes think all universes, worlds, cultures, languages reside into this one term; communication.

Today when we speak to each other, we are never selflessly driven towards the conversation. There is a thick thread of intention that rears behind the talk. Being part of a society which is multilingual and multicultural, it is rather difficult to not approach strangers without intentions lurking in the mind. At the same time, several countries across the globe have been awarded to being the ‘happy-go-lucky’ and ‘stress-free’ nations. Not only that, the natives too boast of leading a long and peaceful living.

Communication thrives in the darkest of hours but every land differs in how it decides to nourish itself. My appeal is to those who will begin their journey as ‘workers’ in the field of communication. You decide your conversation, not your thought. Being reflective is not the key, being aware of your habitual thought-process is. Only then can we break through the limited and mundane thesis that float in our surroundings.

A Writer’s Enigma

I often get bored and sluggish of following my heart. It should be the other way round, considering talent begets inspiration! However, I always get pulled down by my enthusiasm. Luckily for me, several noble souls around me share a similar passion and interest in writing. Whenever, I read a new soulfully drafted article, my mind gets titillated and I don’t want to spend another second ‘not writing’. It’s a funny thing though, that we have the power of being silently motivated and inspired by other people’s good deeds. When writing, one hardly intends that their thoughts will be replicated by others. Instead, it comes as a pleasant surprise when readers themselves comment on their drafts as ‘beautiful’,’inspiring’,’motivation’ and so on.

I am quite sure that medieval writers such as Charlotte Bronte, Charles Dickens, Jane Austen would never have thought that their words would empower the future generations with the creative power to reciprocate their sense of writing style in a modernistic manner. The intention itself puts me in a sense of wonder. How, where and why would a stranger read a new article and fall into a tumult of thoughts, only to discover that his thoughts were an extension of another’s writer’s expression.

I am amazed to see the current generation of ‘creative writers’ who hardly take the time to ponder upon their own thoughts and blindly succumb to trashy and by-the-way means of writing. My intention is not to demean them, but re-assure them that they are not building new forms of literary dimensions but are simply rotating the existing creative structures to make them appear new and ‘like-worthy’. Even my education causes me to ponder over the current templates and leaves me with heavy pit in the stomach.

Are we really losing the battle against keeping the classic writing alive or over-looking the authentic and popular pillars of teachings left behind by the classic wordsmiths?

Dream Big, Walk Tall

When did I learn to dream so Big?

My eyes wonder;

It must be the books of fantasy,

Speaking slowly into my ears,

Showing me how to build castles,

With borrowed sand.

No one showed me the way,

I was a curious mind,

Traffic covered the directions,

Feeble noises led me to new places,

Some of them were green,

While the other shone blue,

A few pelted grey stones,

While the rest seemed anew.

Life is growing too fast,

Yet my curious mind dreams till date,

Now there are other voices to stop,

And bigger feet to thump,

But I still follow the beaming traffic lights.

Wonder who made them?

Was it the crowd,

Or, a herd,

Could be the grass,

Because it can cover anything.

Atonement

I don’t know who to turn to,

The weather seems as unfamiliar to me,
People are wandering at their pace,
Yet no one to stop and speak to in peace,
I don’t think tapping someone for help is the answer,
They might breed a new thought or two in return,
I am wondering and waiting for the right pair of ears,
They might listen to what I want to say,
But no one has the time anymore,
People have their destinations to cross,
Milestone after milestone await their attention,
A feeble voice will hardly divert their attention,
Yet I am hopeful,
Of death and rebirth is lurking around the street,
Even if nobody stopped to look at my shout,
They could order another person to sit me down,
Maybe then I can tell them what it is,
Something that occurs as a fit and a seizure; innate,
Maybe then instead of crying I will talk,
Of hours I was hurt and left alone in dark,
But I still wonder,
If people will have the time,
To trust my conscience and believe this plight,
Night will pass by and sun will be born,
My call for misery gets dim,
Even if the shouts are constant and tall,
Attention is what I badly crave for,
It’s different from listening,
All you need is a hand that holds out to your wish,
But people’s hands are dirty,
They are not fit to be held,
Their skin has tasted flesh,
When the twilight ran into invisibility,
That’s what I am afraid of the most,
No noise, no call will make me enclosed,
Soon a day shall dawn,
When people will go to their businesses,
Stomping upon a dead corpse,
Yet whistling at the sky’s seashells.