Night after night She first scatters flowers Then herself on the bed, The vision-barred snake Now awakens: Hissing! Her body akin to a pungi Of a snake-charmer Hypnotizing with lust- This limb-less creature, That till the time music plays on Or all the venom that there is Gets spilled out Does all the act As directed by her, Blindly, faithfully Hissing futilely inside A dead flower... They all watch this 'Tamasha', Clap and laugh, The Charmer and the snake Feeding from it - Their failures, Their incompetencies.... But they know- all those spectators Are nothing more than Half-Dead humans, Cherishing that all they have Is failed lesser than someone else.
(P.C. - https://www.artstation.com/artwork/qAY3nz: Art by Maya Kern)
I keep rummaging, searching incessantly - Making further mess of my snake-pit wardrobe, Looking for that fallen eye-lash: The one that will fulfill my wish, no one's granting.
I hear laughs, a mockery of my state, The voices sound familiar, I look around - all faces known, Showcasing their perfectly arranged wardrobes: Some placing their belongings in accurately fitting luggages.
They call me slow, reckless, unportentous, In response to which I scatter my stuff even more, I wonder if it's my vulnerable imperfections that make them look perfect; Or their pretentious perfection making me the rebel, I've become?
Why is it that we have to label everyone- Put them in boxes, black or white? And judging by the qualities itself - weren't Ravana more virtuous a person? But we chose convenience, we chose conformity -
All we have known is tradition, a lineage gifted for all to glide through, And when a lamb from the herd tries to wander, there's a shepherd behind, Who bulldozes it to follow the line, showing his stick, While the lamb that persistently refuses to follow, aint found in the mix anymore.
I always wondered what it would feel like having drugs? The mysticism around it and it's effect always made me curious. The so-called being a "Good Boy" never allowed me to cross that Laxman-Rekha I had drawn for myself (Not yet at least).
Yet, the fate had it to pit me up against occultism - unarmed, vulnerable. The name given to this 'love', a (brief) phase when one feels like their body is in a permanent state of levitation, defying all the rules of gravitational force, when even the spouting by 'the one' feeling like listening to symphony, while the breeze is perennially perfumed with the nectar of lavenders and lilies. A sip of plain water dripping down from the throat gushes in to the blood like the Scottish legacy. All the four dimensions are experienced.
//Can I still plead about my innocence, or the deer allured me akin to Maa Sita to cross the Laxman-Rekha?//
But as they say, everything that has a beginning comes with an end. And I always feared beginning contemplating about the end. But, life had it - it had decided the course for me, all I had to do was follow the footsteps it already imprinted. Naive, unaware, I kept following until I crashed on to a stranded Island. Screaming, Screeching out of pain, agony - loud enough to reach the sky, but not enough to reach the nearest 'human'.
//There are some battles, one needs to fight all alone.//
How does one fill the void? A question I kept asking myself day-in and day-out. Absence/ Denial teaches you more in life than anything else. Ravishing tides hit my shore for days and month.
//Now I have made peace with the sea, which since has been calm and I stranded//.
We arrive as aliens in this world, All for our own motives- Some to fill their loneliness, Some to mend their heart, Some to find love and Some to sculpt their words. But we can't help notice Having arrived at An alluring new world.
A world whose population Believes in one religion, has one faith, Are enwrapped in one skin, Speak one language, Transact in one currency, Talk, walk, eat, drink but one thing, Dream but one dream- Words. Words that move them, Words that inspire them, Words that mesmerize them, Words that gave them an identity, Structured in the form of verses, Poems, stories, proses, essays, Speeches, dedications and what not.
In no time, the outsider Becomes a part of community, A member of a family That wishes his/her growth. Art inspiring artists here, Artists inspiring the Art itself. The bonds flourish with fellow members As hand-in-hand we sit together, Gathering around gaining wisdom from This tree of Soul! Whose roots being passion and creativity Spread deep and firm in the ground. The tree has been a protector for some, A healer for some, a teacher for some And witness to love, loss and all that's life of all. All it does is gives, without any expectations- And it shall do for generations to come, Just maintain it's sanctity and piousness.
When someone you love dies, and you're not expecting it, you don't lose her all at once; you lose her in pieces over a long time—the way the mail stops coming, and her scent fades from the pillows and even from the clothes in her closet and drawers. Gradually, you accumulate the parts of her that are gone. Just when the day comes—when there's a particular missing part that overwhelms you with the feeling that she's gone, forever—there comes another day, and another specifically missing part. - John Irving