You’ll find me (Part II)

I’m trying to find a soul,

Wandering and lost.

I’m looking.

For the meaning and purpose of every insect on this land. The curiosity is almost never ending.

This search, this desire.

Are we really meant to live in four walls?

Did we free ourselves from the womb to be choked in our own breath?

Must all of this be so cliché?

Do both a village wife and the president of the United States really go to heaven?

Do they both really possess a soul?

Or are they both individually possessed?

Both by dominations, one a man and other with a country full of men

Both weighed down by duties of their own kinds.

One on a bullock cart and the other in a limo.

Do you actually remember your wedding day as a celebration or was it a union of two sacrifices? Another hassle.

Are you the river or the ocean?

What if you learn that you are indeed the bank where the two meet?

Is there a word to define passion?

Must you always disgrace my love for anything and everything?

Must we always have to cry for what is not ours and stand tall for what we do?

Does it not become awfully heavy? This burden of a false world?

Must this piece of writing have a name for you to be allured to?

Why can I not take pleasure in the way this pen presses its hard self against the soft paper?

Can we not be like animals? If we do have the instincts?

Are we not them?

Are they not us?

Cruelty is dangerous, animal-ism isn’t.

Why can I not be happy with what I have and be drunk with these words?

Do you not see how utterly beautiful they are and how fondly and madly in love they are?

Must we have a licence for everything?

Why can I not find my home?

How do I better enjoy the insanity of myself?

You the wondrous soul,

In me you have found your home,

Your lust has taken its toll.

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Getting to the core- Neurotic Writers Diary- Page 5

images (2)They’ll wait for you patiently,

People however patient. It’s these small things, they hurt you.

You don’t have to be physically hurt  someone to make them feel detached, low and lost.

Love is a bridge, the one you have to build and trust it’s material. It’s authenticity.

The stronger, the finer and purer, more the love. But, does it end there? We wish it did.

Every one of us despite our ethics, our backgrounds, our religions and our principles are born to love.

We’re hungry for it. You in your very core know that.

We can hide it and never show it, but you can’t escape the fact.

To physically survive man needs food and shelter.

To emotionally survive, love is the only cure.

 

 Notes-  Getting to the core is another series of my writings, where the questions and answers of introspection are typed down. According to me, they are the most important part of being anything; introvert or an extrovert. To ask yourself questions, to ask yourself where you belong, your identity, you sanity. You don’t need to wait for the day when you’ve lost all that you had and you have to visit a psychiatrist  Because he/she does not have the answers; you do.  I hope these little notes of questions, and my neurotic diary continues to be read if not by you then by me. To remind myself, of me. 

A Contrasting Malaise

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The smoke fills the air in the house, the ‘havan’ has just finished. It’s supposed to be a religious ceremony where all the negative energies in the house are collected, the god’s and goddesses are prayed to. They say that, during this ceremony there is even a time when they descend down for the ceremony’s completion and sent back. Where are they?

I want to see them. I want to see the negative energies in the house and in myself and I want to see them go. I want to see god take away all these negative energies. I want him to see that everybody is a mess.

Despite the circumstances, the beautiful colours, clothes, faces, exchanges of gifts and money; what really lies?

I want him to see.

I’ll hum a tune, and you’ll never know what song it is.

I’ll wait, wait till you’re done. So you’ll come back and smile.

But you won’t.

For that I have to let you go.

I’ll walk here, and you’ll walk there. I’ll smile.

They’ll tell me, it’s a beautiful smile. Is it now?

The one that can’t reach my eyes. The pain is strong, intoxicating almost. When it’s a part of you, it hurts. But slowly, like the stream of water seeping into something, It gets into every cell of my bloodstream.

Sometimes, rushes too!

Like poison in a mortals body, as though it’s counting seconds and longing to finally turn into a vampire because otherwise, it’s just painful. Then the remorse hits you. You howl, plead and scream. Hope. Hope that this seeping pain will either go away or fill itself completely. And slowly, it fills you. It fills you like a glass being filled by a jug. It has too much to give and you, too little to take. There are shivers at first, and then comes numbness. The wonderful gift, better than alcohol or anything else. The numbness loves you, and you love it.

Pain, hurts you. Numbness, calms you.

Somehow nothing that anyone says matters and you want to smile because you’re a mess but so is the world. You realized that sooner, much sooner that your friends have or they will.

I wish I could say, but hey who’ll listen? They all say they will.

They don’t.

If you’re reading this then you already know what pain is. It’s a happy high or a constant stab in the stomach. I want to look at my foot and touch it, feel it because I know it hurts.

I know that the car that ran over it, was heavy, I know that the tier as it rolled over my gentle skin of my foot hurt me.

But I won’t look at it, because it’ll make me realize; the stabbing pain.

 

The suffering that our body goes through. These unhealed wounds, incomplete desires of beauty, cuts, aches, and fractures are they anything compared to how really hurt we are or we have been?

Do you want me to tell you? I will, I promise to write them in flowery words or just plain reality. Will you cry and sympathise or leave it to say- “How unhappy.”

I Am. I’m unhappy. Discontented. Unsatisfied.

I wanted to be, now I’m crippled. Not permanently, temporarily. I don’t like how my sickness restricts me. The fact that I’m scared of going out or that everywhere I go, I look at every man and wonder if he’d manipulate, lie and rape.

 

So as these smokes, slowly creep into the molecules of the air

The ‘havan’

I’ll ask god to take away my pain too; this suffering and maybe he’ll listen.

With it maybe, he’ll also steal away the cause of this all.

 

Amen. 

 

The Peace I Choose.

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If you were to hear,

If you were to listen,

Only if you’d excuse yourself and give an ear;

To the birds chirping you’d hear them cry,

 about the sky,

They’ll tell you how they choke as they fly

how you ruined their home making yours.

How the clear blue sky is dusty black,

How the wars have ruined everybody.

 

We’ll build houses and villas,

We’ll go countries and cities,

To find an escape.

 

Escape from the monotony of life and the purposelessness of it all.

Will you bury the money with you when you’re gone?

Will your platinum card or vip treatment open the gates of heaven for you?

 

Let’s dream about a day,

A clear morning, the sun shines bright,

You wake up and pick up the morning newspaper.

You read about the beautiful girls that have been welcomed on earth,

and the ministers going to people and talking.

No guns, no fighting, no votes, no elections, no marketing.

Just talking.

Sweet words of love and a breeze of flowers swish past you,

 as you sit in the open yard of your house.

House, the one you can call home.

 

Your daughter walks to school, fearless.

They teach her to nurture and make life, a fruitful one.

Men in the society are just men, not monsters of molestation.

The grass is actually green, and not artificially planted.

 

 

In such a world,

Mother earth, rejoices and blesses.

There are no floods, no tsunamis.

Rain, not acidic.

Just rain, pure and fresh straight from heaven,

And It doesn’t drop down on streets,

But on the ground, on earth. ‘Bhoomi’

Where it belongs, where it nurtures and brings new life.

 

The day the cycle of life, comes back

The day we all are one.

The day there is no money, no currency, no exchanges

That day will be “peace”,

Quiet. Tranquillity. Stillness.

 

 

That very day mankind will learn humanity.

 

 

 

 

The talks of your beastly pain.

Drag, walk, jog, and sprint.

If the sun is hot, even if the dirt is a lot.

Even if the boils in your feet hurt too much, walk.

 

Feel the pain, the pain talks.

 

Go back in time, not too long ago.

You too were all alone!

There was the pillow then, there is the pillow now. 

Absorbing your tears and healing your broken heart,

Then and now.

Is she? There?

Will you promise?

Will you love me?

Those moments are forgotten,

camouflaged into time.

Now take me, to some place real.

 

Sugar coated sword of love,

 A package of sweetness.

Promises abound and dreams infinite;

Ah, the crazy dreams.

The hand won’t hold you anymore,

No shoulder will comfort your miseries.

It’s you, just you! You, your music, your work and yes, YOUR REALITY.

How it seems all so easy and how every song seems perfect.

In the end, it’s you, just you!

What will you remember?

Will you remember me?

Will you remember the things I said you?

Will you remember that I loved you?

Not now, then.

The sugar will be long gone,

Your pain won’t let you go

It will tell you! Shout at you!

“I’m right, she’s wrong!”

The dreams would then seem too immature,

The gifts given a complete waste.

All the kisses, only just another taste.

 

Where’s your love now?

Where are you now?

“This wasn’t us”

“You’ve changed”

“Things have changed”

The conversations will happen,

And they’ll continue.

Months and months.

Till you learn to give up,

On the same love you thought was “Forever”.

Where is your ‘forever’ now?

 

And then, you’ll think of all the things you left,

Incomplete and unaccomplished

 

The times you fought, the harsh words,

the inconsideration and her ego.

 How could you go so low?

Cry, cry for her now.

“Look for another person,

Someone better,

Someone real”

The friends would exclaim.

They must have been right.

I must have been wrong about her.

“Love is blind” they had told me.

‘She was never worth my time ‘

Images of her, form in your mind,

What happened to calling her beautiful?

What happened to the time you said you’ll stand by?

What about the promises and the castles in the air?

The pain will tell you that the once most beautiful face was just a mask.

That she was unreal and all this time she was ‘faking’

And suddenly, all the truths will be filled with doubt into and become lies.

Your pain will tell you what an ugly mess you got into and that all this time the only person who was your true friend was your cigarette

 

“You’re a man!” “Be a man!”

Wipe away the tears; they are for her to shed.

Pick up a cigarette, don’t be so low,

Girls like her will come and go.

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A Parallel World Of Rape- Part 1

imagesIndia is growing, from a developing country to something.

The ministers and politicians say it’s towards a developed country, like the States perhaps? What has the States got that we don’t?

 Is showing the country’s progress on sheet of paper our only aim?

Is the rise in GDP all we can ever think about?

 

‘Every drop in the ocean counts.’ Today I shall prove how. It all starts from a single entity, from one drop. One Indian.

That’s all it takes to mess up an entire nation. Yes, I am criticising. From the time an Indian is born in today’s date all he/she ever looks around to find is struggle . Struggle my friend, Is great. It makes you a better person, teaches you to stand on your own feet. But wait, what are we learning from the struggle?

We’re learning how to cheat, we’re learning that numbers and figures on a piece of paper is more important than our values, dignity and purpose. From childhood, all a child sees is wrecked houses, unorganized system, bad roads. The only feeling he grows up with is hunger instead of love.

Then he is put into a school. A school that runs on donations and the MP of the state. He shall be given free education , so to say. Hey! The country has to improve its literacy rate doesn’t it? So there he goes into school where the teachers are dominated by the principal , the principal by the chairman, the chairman by the management and the management? If you can guess, A Politician.

That’s how, one little child who’s mind is bubbling with creativity and imagination,  The hands that are capable of creating wonders and reaching the sky beyond the rules made by the selfish mortals called ‘Adults’ are suppressed. His hands are tied and his mouth incapable of expressing opinion. Oh, did I mention we have the ‘Right to Speech?’

So this little child learns his math ( Whatever is prescribed by the board and whatever the teachers are asked to complete within a given time period).

He also has to learn political science, geography and history of the country, he ‘learns’ , he tries.  His fertile imagination allows him to think of what the badly printed text has to read…”Non violence, lush green fields, democracy…”

He’s lost.

Why? Because every time he looks out of books he sees murders, guns , trash everywhere and corruption.

So this little child looks back into his books imagines the India he reads about.

That is his version of a fairy tale. A good dream, one he’s never had.

Then of course comes, ‘Language’. His mother tongue, great poets, writers print their stories. He reads but doesn’t understand. The teacher shouts at him, the exams are approaching! He’s scared, and so he leaves the text book as a whole turns to a guide and the ‘questions at the back’ .

“Learn the marked ones, she said they are important!” He learns them, goes to the examination hall.  Realizing his friend was right, jots down all that he had learnt and there,  a perfect score!

His mother is happy, his father gifts him a pen his grandfather had once owned, in the ‘British days’. The society calls him ‘Intelligent’, he’s achieved what he had to.

Twelfth pass, ninety percent. Bravo!

The little boy who now sits deep somewhere in his soul is still eager, he wonders, imagines, thinks, analyses and wants.

The ‘intelligent boy’ took over the ‘little boy’.

He learnt his ‘political science’ so now he sits in air conditioned office taking bribes.

He learnt his language well and so he is  now the speaker in the parliament and abuses anyone who raises a voice against him.

He’s great, he’s successful!

But is that him?

Because the little boy still sits, wondering, hoping, scared because his powers had been subdued and abused.

That, is rape.

P.s – This is just one kind.

Leave behind.

solitary autumn leaf wall inkbluesky (2)

Creeping fears of the world left aside,

No, not yet behind.

Lost, loveless souls kept aside,

Temporarily,

Unknown fidelity,

But no, not left behind.

Sparkles of the eye, beautiful smiles

Kept aside,

In corners of my heart, a little place to hide.

Companionship.

A word worth a million dollars,

Replaced with shirts and collars.

Temporarily,

Hopefully, maybe.

Kept aside,

But no, not left behind.

Imperfection now replaced with perfection,

Wasn’t that what we wanted?

Lost, for perfection doesn’t have affection.

Keep imperfection aside,

Live this, embrace it.

But imperfection is beautiful.

So no, not left behind.

A hand to hold, a shoulder to lean

Beauty to admire, and people to forgive

Places to go, success to achieve,

Life to live, love to give.

Age to grow,

A family to make,

Smiles to spread.

Veneration to keep,

Traditions to maintain.

How can I put it all aside?

But I must.

Aside,

But no, not now , never behind.

 

I Found Paradise In the Crippled Utopian World- I found god.

Image The vastness of the blue bodies, randomly painted with colours of green and white here are there.  My planet seems perfect.  A Utopian world of god, paradise.

Now anger rules the innocent heart, she hates herself for who she’s become. For who she’s turned into. Anger blames people around her but is that really the cause…?

 

Where every word is care, every hand held is faith, every feeling is love! The place where the trees don’t bow in weakness, birds don’t lie on the ground dead, the clouds are not black and water’s not purple.

(Colours are good, if they belong in the right place.)

 

Lot’s of doctor’s appointments, tests and medications. They say, symptoms of this and that.  She’s deaf to the words now.  Lot’s of research on what could be, but even the internet doesn’t answer anything for free. Lost.  Scared. Shattered. Where  should she really be?

 

In that world there are no curses, no devils, no hell.   For tell me who defines good and bad, who really chooses right and wrong?  It’s all relativity.

Where love resides,  all is good. Where faith stands, all is well.  Where I live, is heaven.  That  utopian world, is my home.

 

She often wants to run from her in capabilities ,  for the lost  strength, for the fear gained. Her outer shell is too egoistic, too self centered , too small, and too naïve. She curses herself day and night.

Now, outgrown for her mother’s lap

Distant from her father’s embrace

Stuck.  In the middle of nothing but a gamble of discouraging thoughts.

 

Man can now fly in the air like a bird, swim under the ocean like a fish, he can burrow into the ground like a mole. Now if only he could walk the earth like a man, this would be paradise.”

She weeps, with everything she see’s. Hatred, remorse , guilt, for no one but herself. There are help lines for all kinds of abuse but self abuse is probably the worst form. One part of her curses herself  for all the failures and the other consoles her. HA!  Nature’s ways…she thinks.

That world would be great, that world would fulfill dreams, everyone would live, laugh , play.. At the end of the day it would be nature’s way and say. Cascades of waterfalls, , winds, trees, grace, love, friendship, beauty, grass, birds, clouds, sun, thoughts, everything just everything perfect! And most of all smiles, lot’s and lot’s of smiles.

On the verge of the end, she decided she just couldn’t and wouldn’t stand in front of the world and it’s people because she wasn’t beautiful, because she was unworthy and selfish.

Because jealousy had taken it’s toll. Convinced with the fact that her fairy tale was just an ugly mess, she took a bottle of morphine…

 

Rays of light streamed into the corner where she sat.

Someone held her, tears rolled down her cheeks. She looked up and she knew some part of her longed for him.

(Bible :Isaiah 43:1  “Fear not: for I have redeemed you, I have called you by your name; you are mine”.)

Staring into his divine eyes, she knew she had found herself.

Giving her the comfort of a father

The lap of her mother

The hand of a friend

The love of a lover

Jesus stood, holding his child.

He whispered, this is your fairy tale, this is paradise, this is it.

From that day on she knew, that she had found her paradise in this crippled Utopian World, She had found God.

( Bible :John 3:16 “For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him  should not perish but have eternal life”)