You

You're what I can't see. 
You're spinning. 

You're sung, recited, and chanted.
You're sculpted but in vain.

You're darkness and light. 
You're also that flicker where they meet.

You're neither matter nor energy.
You're a ~vibration~.

You're a dichotomy.
You're everything in between.

You're fermions and bosons.
You're in three degrees of freedom, yet free.

You're neither here nor there.
You're becoming THAT.

You're in every lie I've heard.
You're in every truth spoken.

PoeTRY

That forgotten art. 
That love letter to yourself. 
That ode to a bird. 
That note to a stranger, who once upon a time wasn't.

Those scribbles on paper napkins hurriedly written with a Reynolds ball pen.
Those remains of your innermost pieces churned, squashed, and ground to finer pieces.
Those four verses of Haiku and two lines for a sonnet. They, who yearn to come alive but lie unread between the last two pages of a gifted, unopened book.

That purpose seeking moksha.
That which remains unruined among ruins.
That which fire can't burn.
That which words can touch.

Go. Pick another word.
And, come with me.

The Art of Getting By

There are few things in life that make you feel good about life itself. Without any memories or associations of the past. Just feel good about being in the moment. These moments may not be grand like your biggest wish being fulfilled or you backpacking across the world or your works getting published...But things such as watching a creation, a piece of art coming into being... 

I have read what people, who were privileged enough to sit through the Beatles jamming sessions, said. They said that it's far better than being at their concerts... Now, I agree with them.

There is something about amalgamation of thoughts... Erasing ideas off a canvas... Eureka moments... Evaluating your work with a tilt of the head... and painting a few strokes more... 

There are very few things that match the grandeur of watching a master painting with measured strokes and curves unhurriedly. 

And every once in a while, while watching The Art of Getting By, that moment hits you: You watch the art devouring its artist hurriedly.

words and pictures

"Words and pictures. We live among their shadows almost always.

Why do we need art? Who do we write and paint? Communicate? When did mere paint strokes, cave paintings, and grunts take the form of hieroglyphics, various languages, and written words?

After all, isn't the written word also a picture? Isn't it a painting, in fact, that has a specific meaning in a specific language? 

What is typography then? A space where the two meet to form a new type of art...

If and when and where both words and pictures fail, we need music...Do they fail? Have they ever?"

Such thoughts have been circling my mind ever since I watched words and pictures starring Clive Owen and Juliette Binoche. Written, directed, and produced by Fred Schepisi and Gerald DiPego...

A movie that reminded often about Dead Poet's Society (even without the not-so-subtle references to it in this movie). It's a very moving film that deserves to be watched again and again... And yes, it helps when you have a writer and a painter watching the film together.

Maybe after five years when we rewatch it, we may see it differently because our definition of what art is changes every few years... Or, does it?

We'll wait and watch.

You still don't know?

It was late evening. Twilight was bidding goodbye to its light. 

They were sipping black tea. Few cookies were left on the plate. Cookie, their cat, was eyeing them. 

They were talking about the first month of marriage that just flew by. How life had been a series of events and decisions that led them to themselves. About their past lessons and future hopes... 

It started to drizzle a bit. The coconut palms were swaying in the breeze. 

She shuffled into the kitchen and returned with a large bowl of pasta. She placed it beside him and proceeded to fill his bowl. Her wet hair, her scented body mingled with the delicate aroma of hot cheese, white sauce, and mushroom intoxicated him. 

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He inhaled again sharply. "It's awesome! If there is any heaven on earth, it's here, it's here, it's here!"

“Thank you. You are very kind,” she exclaimed. They laughed after tossing out all worries and cares in the wind that caressed her tresses.

There was a bit of love in the air. Like a feather, it settled on her nose. He touched her there. 

She turned red and blushed, "“Hmmm! It took you a while.”

He answered while devouring pasta, "I am sorry." He touched his heart and looked inside his inner chamber. "I wanted to know what is love. All over again. Freshly devour it just like this pasta!" 

She looked straight into his puppy dog eyes, "You still don't know?"
 
They ran into the dark night as fast as they could to get away from each other's eyes. From one dream into another.

Boon and curse

A poet's boon becomes a writer's curse. They pay a price for each other's deeds. Sometimes, peace of mind is the price you pay for brutal honesty.

Is it worth it? 

My answer is yes.

My letter to a young promising writer

Remember, a writer is not just writer. He/she is an observer of people and places and things. Of seasons and rains. Of loves and lovers. Of laughs and joys and tears. Of cats and dogs. He/she is a historian, seldom a judge, and an advocate sometimes. 

He/she experiences: fear, courage, love, and hatred. And all emotions in between.

He/she learns, unlearns, and relearns. 

He/she has opinions and reads well. He/she listens to all but keeps his/her eyes open. But most of all, he/she keeps an open heart and an open mind.

Keep imagining, keep observing, and keep writing.

Mein kya hu?

Mein wahin hu
Joh badhti hui aag mein
Paani daaltha chala gaya.

Mein wahin hu 
Joh bin kuch kahe hii
Kaafi kuch suntaa gaya.

Mein wahin hu
Joh dur se hii logon ke
Paas aata chala gaya.

Mein wahin hu
Joh bin matlab ke hii
Matlab samjatha chala gaya.

Mein wahin hu
Joh kuch kiye bina hii 
Parayo ka apna bantha gaya.

Haan, 
Mein wahin hu
Joh apno se hii 
Apno ke liye ladtha chala gaya.

251

Long ago, I remember Prashant reciting a very fear evoking poem at our school elocution. It went something like this... "Fear, Oh little hunter! This is fear!"

I still, however, remember the way he recited that poem. His voice modulations and changing tones actually got me goosebumps back then. I visualized myself as a hapless little hunter in the deep, dark forest.

Over the last few weeks, there's an innate sense of fear. Of the unknown. Of the strange. Of changes. Of things new. Of people and relationships. Of the past meeting the present and the present being apprehensive of the future. 

As my little-known life trudges on, in about ten days from now, I'll reach a milestone in my mundane life. 

No, I don't think of it as a crossroad. It's a milestone because I am sure it's for the better. It'll be a turning point. Where my life turns for the better... where two like-minded souls come together to create meaning of their individual lives, to share their stories of the past and write a new story together.

That was my eternally hopeful, realistically optimistic mind speaking. Once in a while, but fear creeps in. Fear that stops my dreams. That stops my mind and heart from reaching out and talking it out. Fear that stops my writing. 

What if I don't make it large? What if we don't make a great life out of this coming together? What if I don't play an 'ideal husband's role' well? What if I don't prove to be a good father in the future? What if financial obligations and expectations create unnecessary frictions? What if we lose our ambitious life together to paying bills and loans and other such realities of my sad, inherited economical situations? 

We both have learned our lessons from the past. From non-examples. From unrepeatable situations. From what-could've-beens. From what-ifs!

Then, like a ship on sail, my mind steers course. It wavers here and there on over the rough seas and tides. It chugs along pulling all the wagons of my train of thought over the steepest inclines. 

It whistles. It can see the time and space conundrum coming together. This is unlike most weddings. Unlike our earlier weddings. This marriage is not just a new beginning for two individuals but it means a lot more. Not just for us but for our parents, our brothers, and all our well-wishers. 

There's a lot of thought, anguish, pain, and hope that has gone towards making this marriage a grand event in our lives. There's been sacrifice and lost loves. There's been understandings, misunderstandings, tears of sorrow and tears of joy. 

As I write this, my heart heaves and sighs. It hopes and prays for us. It wishes us the very best as it goes over all the moments in our independent lives that brought us together. :-)

May this marriage be the beginning of our inner quest where we discover each other in ourselves. And more importantly, discover ourselves in each other.

Anew

my train of thoughts chugs 
between thoughtful feelings
and feelingful thoughts.

scattered on the plateau of life
like low-platform railway stations
where only passengers stop.

each desolate station represents
a place I left unexplored...
a place I never wandered.

as I tread with caution and gay abandon
my mind and heart stare ahead
at the next desolate station.

at the approaching event horizon,
my end meets my beginning.
time stops.
 
Life begins anew.

A different kind of pain

It's a different kind of pain. Like...

A flower fallen on a concrete floor.
The last dew drop on a cactus.

The missed, last train home.
A tyre puncture halfway home.

Dark days. Testing nights.
Resignations to fate or god or love.

Singing the same ol' song
For some kind of consolation.

Seeking validation,
And closure...
Like that ol' book read halfway.

Confusion amidst prayers.
Bruised soul amidst clarity.

A beautiful person.
With ugly wounds and cosmetic scars.

A longing for urgency,
Wisdom, and compassion.

Assuaging your own grief
With handmade band-aids.

The leavee just leaves
But the leftee gets left behind.

Walks of life

As I walk, I see.

Moth-eaten curtains. 
Cobwebbed balconies. 
Twin girls in similar colored dresses.

Splashes in the pool.
The evaporating Jakkur lake beyond.
The pregnant lady on the phone speaking to her beloved.

The setting sun.
The long shadows gets longer. Playing hide and seek.
A motor car swerves by my side and parks itself.

Azure skies turn purple.
Few children scream, run, and hide around.
With each passing round.

She walks afar as we talk.

Secrets, giggles, observations, gossips.
Friendships, events, fears, loves.
Missed calls and calls missed.

And amidst the humidity and heat,
Kisses, and sweet nothings.
I circumambulate her.

Baggage

There are pauses between their talks now. Some silences that speak unspoken words that convey few fears. 

He reads the book, Ishmael, her first gift to him. He looks at her picture. He smiles.

She paints Shiva in a thousand different ways as only she can. In between their talks and her paintings, there are brushstrokes of assurances. There are a thousand wishes waiting to be painted and sketched and written upon.

Two lives, awaiting a common destination on the same journey, are waiting in this waiting room. Soon, they hear a whistle of an approaching train.  

They get up and hold hands; she lifts his baggage while he carries her's. They're ready.

Us in ether

The hill has a certain kind of magic, a mysterious potency that can convince the strictest of skeptics.

Climbing up to Virupaksha and Skandashramam always had a certain significance to me that I can never capture in words. But this time, it was special, as our walk was the shortest ever. Holding her hands made it seem as if time stood still and space made way for us to reach there. 

Though we were huffing and panting all the way, when we reached there tears of joy and bliss came from our eyes as our combined love for Shiva just overwhelmed us. 

Even before that, I saw tears streaming down her eyes every time she was at Ramana's samadhi and more so, at the old meditation hall. And when her tears rolled down, I went into a trance. In that trance, we were in union. A holy communion of sorts. The kind I used to seek always and never got. 

Our first pilgrimage convinced us that this is just the beginning... 
Of a lifelong pilgrimage together. 
Of a lifelong quest of seeking and becoming one without the other. 
Of creating our own myths and legends out of our own love story. 
Of discovering and reading books together. 
Of walking a path of love that consumes itself. 
Of life crafting our love for each other through air, earth, fire, and earth and preserving it in ether.

Nothing else matters

A sense of space and time. 
I occupy in our brief lifespan on planet Earth. 
I move places and time changes. 
Or, times change and I move places.

Far ago, had discovered the Titan 
Through long lost Venus' telescope...
And I had begun to realize 
My space and time
Across multiple dimensions.

Meanwhile, suns rise and suns set.
Moons rise and moons set.
Somethings never change while changing.

And then I smile 
Because I know
In this vast time-space continuum, 
Am just a third dimension of love.

The bride

The glance in her eyes tingles
few fears and tiny tears
inside.

The hesitation in her steps charts
known past to unknown future
Beside.

Her painted face and braided hair shrouds
secret stories and fairytale fantasies 
never shared.

Her effervescent smile and jasmine fragrance colors
years of sweat and shame
concealed.

She whispers,
"I rather be your lover forever
than a bride today."

Her groom murmurs,
"Yes, be my consort for life
Than an escort tonight."

Do you feel?

Is it that fleeting moment when all of your senses are engaged or focused?
Is it that overwhelming feeling when you're at the feet of your favorite god?
Is it that uncontrollable surge of tears when a beloved is no more a part of your daily living life?
Is it that place where music takes you?
Is the way the poet behaves when he sees a maiden in a forest different from when others see it?Is feeling what happens when you hear a long forgotten song and become ecstatic?
Is feeling waiting for the voice to say Hey at the other end of the telephone line?
Is feeling waiting for that letter or email, which ends with "Yours truly"?
Is feeling captured in any language? 

Is feeling just an emotion?
Is feeling something that exists between being sensitive and being emotional?

What is this thing we call feeling?
And do you feel it? For me?

Just need

No want. 
No desire.

My love, 
I need you.

!

So this is where life brings us. 

One step front and two steps back... But am glad that at least, we're taking those steps together. Sharing fears was never this easy or simple. Few of our exes and muses did figure in our talks and aren't we glad we shared all that?

Our paths definitely collided when we were least expecting it. You were all set to set sail once again. I was all set to drift once again, maybe.

But then across cities, chats, and calls, we discovered something in each other that we had definitely searched in others before. Talking about multiple ,,, and ... inside our heads, we decided to put an ! on our foreheads instead.

To those loved ones

The day has been sombre to say the least. 

With an aching back and an even more aching though relieved heart, I return here. To my blog. My sacred space. This is my offering to the gods out there. Myself. My very being.

Where I put up all my mirrors forever. 
Where I am nude and naked and myself. 
Where I have eternal truths that are instantaneous. 
Where time, as a concept, doesn't exist. 
Where forever doesn't come with terms and conditions. 
Where I put up my fears and observations and confessions and longings. 

Where the poet inside me cries,
And the lover inside me dies 
With every post
To live 
Once again with the next post.

This is that sacred space where few have entered and existed. Few besties, some roomies found a passing mention; few loves and even fewer muses have found a resting place here forever. 

It's not with some vanity or exalted sense of being that I am writing this but my blog is a sum of all my parts. The parts may be larger than the whole. Bits and pieces of life here and there. Some scattered, some blown away, some smothered, some trampled and some dusted and done away with. 

Few feathers have landed here and few stayed on. Few withered leaves fell here while most stayed on on the branch through till next autumn. Few let me go and few I have walked away from. Few doors were closed forever and few windows were shut forever. Sometimes by them, sometimes the deed was mine. 

I have lived the truth that one man's food can be another man's poison. But I know I can write and heal myself; my writing is cathartic and is an antidote for me for all worldly poisons.

So this blog post is for those... Who may not have an antidote within... To those who never made it to my blog... To those loved ones, who made a difference in my life but for some reason were never written upon. 

I humbly send a prayer out and hope that tomorrow's just another day and that like every bad phase that befell me earlier, this too shall pass. For them.