The collective Consiousness of Bharata

I watch a man ,with a child on his shoulder, singing him to sleep, crooning a Tamil bhajan. The bhajan sings about qualities of Rama and for a moment, I was lost in admiration. It goes thus:

Whomsoever treads the path of love

He and Rama are verily one

He who wipes the tears of the weeping

He and Rama are verily one

The son who gladdens the heart of his parents

He and Rama are verily one.

The one who shows others the right path

He and Rama are verily one

The leader who offers his life to protect Dharma

He and Rama are verily one

The brave one who stakes himself to protect others

He and Rama are verily one

What an ideal He is, what ideals have been placed before the people of our land as cultural symbols, handed over from time immemorial, coursing through the veins of this nation, infusing the songs of children, the conduct of men and even the rule of a nation. What power Rama has had over the collective consciousness of Bharata. Even the Mahatma, when asked to explain his ideal form of government, used the term Rama Rajya. And he went on to describe the rule of justice that should prevail in an ideal government. What power the Rama Nama has had, that the Mahatma’s conception of an ideal nation is inspired by the idea of Ram Raja.

What a place, it has in the minds of our people, His life painstakingly told and retold through generations by our Rishis, our gurus, our wandering Parivrajakas, our mothers and grandmothers, our family and village elders, embellished with a gem of a detail, a local legend here and there till it became living reality for millions in this land for thousands of years.

For a minute, when I heard him sing, I got a glimpse of what Rama meant to the millions in this land, me who had become disrooted and disconnected from my own, through the lenses and frameworks I’ve learnt. Our ideals, symbols and forms, which have been painstakingly handed over through centuries, which have influenced the course of this land in ways that we cannot even begin to fathom, are being lost to us, the rightful inheritors of these priceless treasures, in an unprecedented, rapid manner. Our sons and daughters will scarce understand what Rama meant to the people of this land. Instead, they would learn of the great novelist (not Rishi) Valmiki and his protagonist( and what strawman characterisation!) and dissect his writing as they would the writing of a novel from a postmodern lens or whatever lens is in vogue then. And they may perhaps, know more details than our forefathers knew, perhaps, though I see that to be unlikely, but what they would have truly lost, and I can’t imagine a bigger tragedy from a cultural point of view, from a dharmic point of view, is this cultural inheritance, this bhava, this emotional connect to an endless fountain of meaning and inspiration, this ideal that pushes every man to rise a little higher than where he is every day.

And so will it be for all our cultural symbols and forms. Bharatanatyam will be a mere aesthetic experience, carnatic music would be just about a filter coffee and a connoisseur’s knowledge of ragas, our samskaras like marriage would be mere anthropological curiosities and play acting (‘lets have a vedic themed wedding!’) , our tales, our ways of life and our languages would be of mere academic interest. We may know more about them than ever, but only the forms would remain. And if there is a prayer I have for my people, for my land, it is that these never perish from our collective consciousness, but live on, in ever new forms, providing strength, vigour, solace, inspiration and longing for a higher ideal for our people.

On the Relevance of Literature

The good folks at Shrishti - Amrita's Literary Club were nice enough to invite me as the chief guest for their annual induction program last Friday. I spoke on the relevance of literature in one's life. This was what I spoke. The first thing that I would like to say is - thank you. Thank you for giving me a chance to visit Amrita again. This might seem strange to some of you here, it would have certainly seemed strange had anyone told me this when I was back in college, but you realise the beauty of certain phases in your life only when you look back on it. 

 There is another reason for which I wish to thank you all - for making me reflect back on my journey with literature. At the offset, let me be honest with you - I cant act, I’m not a great speaker, I cant do most of the things that the good folks at Srishti do. What I can do, and love doing, is to read and write.

 I remember being forced to read my first book - Heidi, when I was in school. It was a book, the size of my hand, and about a seventy pages at the most. I remember struggling, muttering and complaining my way through the book. This continued for the first few years. The next thing that I remember is having my computer being taken away from me during my fifth grade, never to come back until it reappeared six months before my 12 standard board exams, along with internet and a new mobile phone. Anyway, with the computer taken away from me for most of my schooling years,I turned to books to entertain myself. Thus began a beautiful journey that continues to this day. 

 When I sat thinking about this, these were a few things that came to my mind:

 1) I had no one to tell me what 'good literature' was. I read because it was fun. I read because I could lose myself in a book for hours walking down the lands of Middle Earth and the  Battlefields of Mahabharata. I read because I could journey into the lives of people, see things through other pairs of eyes. I read because I could relate to the beauty and aesthetics of Tagore in his  Farewell My Friend,  the inner journey in Herman Hesse’s Siddartha, the magical worlds of Rushdie’s Enchantress of Florence.  Only later, did I come to know that these were stalwarts of literature. 

 2) Sometimes, the best literature is found in rather unexpected places. Consider this passage:

 " All our progress, our vanities, our reforms, our luxuries, our wealth, our knowledge, have that one end — death.Cities come and go, empires rise and fall, planets break into pieces and crumble into dust, to be blown about . This has been going on from time without beginning. Death is the end of life, of beauty, of wealth, of power, of virtue too. Saints die and sinners die, kings die and beggars die. They are all going to death, and yet this tremendous clinging on to life exists. Somehow, we do not know why, we cling to life; we cannot give it up." 

 Any guess on the author? I happened to find this in one of Vivekananda’s Speeches. As far as I am concerned, there is high literary value in his speeches. Someone else may not think so. The point Im trying to make is, there are no ‘right’ books to read. Chart your own reading journey. 

3) Reading kindles an urge to write.  I remember, much to my embarrassment now, when I tried to write my first poem. I couldnt bear to look at it after it was done - it looked like a cheap imitation of my favourite  song - and it died a quiet death. And the next attempt at writing was the same, as was the next - they all looked like cheap imitations of things I admired. Over time, my writing sounded more honest and more like me, sometimes even work that I could be proud of. Any creative endeavour starts with imitation but it doesnt stop there. Dont let inhibitions or judgement come in the way of your creations.

3) Many of us have heard the question: Why read, why write, why is the use of all this?  Technology has the answers to all of humanity's problems. Sometimes, we have these questions ourselves. To this I say, the problems of the world are not merely external and outside. Each one of us, has some fundamental questions.  What is the meaning of my life in this grand scheme of things?  Am I the only person who feels a certain way ? Am I all alone , an oddity , a specimen in this vast, cold, unforgiving world? You are not alone . Many men, over the ages have been grappling with similar questions, going through similar things in their own lives. Their works are records of their inner lives. You can learn from them. And someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. And this beautiful transmission transcends time. We read and write  to live countless lives, across time and space. We read and write to see different ways of looking at the world, the people around us and ourselves, enriching the flavour of our life. We read and write to know the stories of human race and where we fit in. Without literature, without art we would know next to nothing about the lives of our own forefathers and  the history of our civilization. Art  helps us understand and express who we are and where we come from. 

 I know some of you may be anxious about your academics, maybe the first periodical results, are they done?, might have dampened your spirits. But consider this, at no other time in your life will you be around 4000 people of roughly the same age group. 4000 thousand people, people with their own interest, their own passions and their own stories. Spend time getting to know them and spend time with them. 

 Srishti is a wonderful platform to get to know a great bunch of people with varied interests. They are into theatre, books, poetry, you name it. They hang out at the English Department, where the nice folks there treat them to tea and good books from their library. Walk into Srishti and you'll find good friends and understanding mentors. Act in their dramas, attend their poetry meets and book reviews under trees, write for their yearly magazine and you will have memories to cherish about your life here. You will look back and remember the drama that you enacted, the poetry that you read out, the article you edited instead of looking back on a blank slate of classes, time at the canteen and your assignments. Most importantly, you will form friendships and associations that will last you well beyond the four years you spend here.

I would like to end with a dialogue from this beautiful movie called The Dead Poets Society. Some of you might have seen it. “We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for...you are here - life exists.. the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. The powerful play *goes on* and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?"
 Thank you

Evanescence

The fluorescence of those tiny bulbs, accentuating the darker green of the leaves. The yellow-amber of the Chinese lamps. The cobalt blue of sky, in contrast with the azure sea. The red blush of the last rays of the sun.

The grainy, gentle resistance of sand, the rocks smoothed by eons of waves. The breeze. The rhythmic rush of the waves; caressing, awakening, enlivening.

The sour taste of beer, the strumming of the guitar, the lilting vocals, the shimmering swaying bodies- moving apart, yet getting ever closer. A brush, a touch, a smile.

A touch. An embrace. A stolen kiss. An open full blown one. The embrace of bodies, the swaying, the twisting, the madness. Exhaustion.Sitting by the side.

The slow midnight walk, under the soft arc of the moon.

Your room, her clothes, your bed, her arms, your mouth, her skin, your hands, her arched back; the rising pitch, the frenzied moments, the shared crescendo. Union. Oblivion. Exhaustion.  The shared warmth. The sun rays on the scattered sheets. You alone on your bed. Normalcy.

Was it just a dream? Isn’t it all a dream?

Choices

                                                       

I may not be conversant in the ways of the world. I may not understand the impulses and compulsions of men and how to twist them to your ends. I may probably never learn how to get things done. And I do know, this leaves me extremely vulnerable to the world and its ways. I will be exploited, my heart will be torn and my very guts wrenched out of me.

But you see, this was a choice I made a long time ago; a choice I consciously made- to choose the ideal over the real, poetry over prose, the subject over the object.  I chose elegance and subtlety, principles and convictions.  I chose life. In all its glory, in its entire splendor. In its radiant beauty and it naked fragility, I chose life. Life as it should be, over life as it is.

Maria

Its late on a dark windy night. It might just start to pour any moment now. You look at the road, anxiously waiting, hoping to catch a glimpse of those distinctive headlamps, the familiar sputtering, wheezing, rattling of an auto. Your chances are slim; vehicular traffic has become sparse over the past half an hour. You have already tried waving a few down, without much success. "Pogadhu saar". Another one whooshes past you , the flying side flap revealing intimately entwined figures. 

You see another one and you walk into the main road to make sure that he sees you. You wave him down and put on your best imitation of  Chennai tamizh. "100 ruba". You are stunned. " Maatna  police ku".  Exasperated by your puzzlement he says " The". You are bewildered, worried and you understand nothing. You get in anyway. The auto starts moving. Its pitch dark inside. One side is already covered by the flap. The driver does the same to the other side.

You are nervous. You don't know what he meant about police . Maybe he is delivering a load? At midnight? Of what? You shudder at being caught with whatever it is.

Slowly, you hear movements and become aware of a living presence. Your mobile reveals the contour of a face and the silhouette of a shapely body.  You are startled by the blonde hair resting in a fringe on her forehead. The  blue eyes look at you. An anxious look.  But behind that , in its depths, there is a calm. Ive seen everything , those eyes say. All this in less than a few seconds.

Then it hits you. Thevidiya. Prostitute. You shudder at the thought of the auto being stopped simply because both blinds were down, to find the both of you. You reconcile yourself to that possibility, thinking " enna aida pogudhu?"; you've gotten in anyway and you might as well see it through. All this in less than a few seconds.

" Where are you from " you ask, going by the blonde hair and blue eyes.
 "Pondicherry" 
" Tamizh theriyuma?" you ask, a little foolishly.
 "Theriyum".
  
"Epdi?"
"Valandha edam tamizh dhaan"
"Ippo enga pora", probably the worst question you could have asked.
"ooru trivizha. Gramathula". 

You nod, understanding perfectly. Record dances were an integral part of festivities. But a blonde? The crowd would go wild, you suppose.

"Pondicherry la?" you ask, unwilling to finish. She understands. " Amma kalyanathuku munnadi porandachu. ammaku kalyanam aachu .3 pasanga. Theriyum. "

She melts you.

"Enakku... enna solradhunu therila" you manage to stutter. She acknowledges that, taking your hand in hers.

She is a prostitute, your conditioning tells you You though, have already bonded with her. You..You admire her. She, who has seen more of life than you ever will. She who has more depth than you ever will. She could submerge you in her life, swallow you, amalgamate you in her experience.

It is at moments like these that you catch a glimpse.  Its at moments like these that you commune with reality. A soft,tender, ethereal kiss on your cheek, her eyes closed. An eternity passes. You smile. 

Depravity -2

I sit on the street mound at ten am on a warm Bangalore morning joint in hand. Three travelers carrying a couple of bags of luggage each give me puzzled glances. The stare at the hand holding the joint, pause for a second and then go their way. They wonder what I'm doing here on a Monday morning. They would be shocked by what I was holding. Or heck they might have thought I'm sitting here cigarette in hand, inhaling away to glory, relaxed, with all the time in the world to spare, to sit and stare at how everyone is rushing to work, always tense, always in a hurry.

What am I doing with my live they ask. And people have asked. You are young and you have your whole life in front of you . They talk about working hard, about achieving and about purpose in life. About how it makes life worth living. They scurry along rushing to whatever twenty story building houses their office, the stress showing on their faces. What if I'm late they think. Maybe the frown on their faces has to do with forcing yourself to work on a Monday morning. Maybe they worry about the next deadline to meet, the next person to answer to. Life gets easier as time goes by. Promotions, more power, a better salary. Worker bees of yet another colony, slaving away their lives. And they pity me.

That can't be my life.I can't live like that. I can't barter away my life and time . The trick is to minimise your wants. I've perfected the art. My needs boil down to just two things. Joints and books. Thankfully, both come cheap.

I stay at the place my parents left me. I subsist on their savings as workers. I have the company of people who care for my company, for the quality of conversations I bring to the table; People who would sponsor my dinner, buy me a pint of beer or share a joint. I have people who think what I scribble is worth something. And so I subsist on inherited pittance, the generosity of my company and what garbage I spew from my pen. I get to go to second hand book markets where I get to walk along narrow corridors with small stalls on either sides filled with brown battered dusty books with sellers ever willing to strike a bargain. My eyes roam through piles of books tracing the titles on their broken spines, my eyes glinting when I find a Tagore amidst the Barbara Bradfords. I take my time searching for gems among the dust, of reading titles on spines, sometimes picking a book to read the blurb, sometimes opening a random page and savouring the flow of words but always savouring the joy of looking at so many books and wondering what I would find.

I get to buy ten books at five hundred; fodder that will last me a couple of days. I get to wake up late grab the book next to me and read as long as I want. I get to roll a joint from my stash on a Monday morning and sit on the mound in front of my house and watch the people rush by . On really good days I get to do both.

The Women in your Life.

You may meet her at a mall, when you casually turn back to see her flipping through that one book that caught your eye in the shelf. She would seem the quiet type, lost in her own world, where only black ink on white pages exists. At first glance, nothing would strike you about her. A closer look will reveal more. A tastefully chosen earring, accentuating the soft curve of her earlobe; the colour of her lens frame; those carefully chosen sandals. The way she carries herself. Her confidence in standing in the middle of a store, not caring about the world around her,  focused on the words - the worlds within. And you would yearn to connect, to be allowed entry into her world.

You may meet her at a clothes store, dressed casually, nonchalantly even, in old shorts and a faded top. Your mouth would open slightly before you realise it. You would have not seen her face yet, but you are already drawn to her effortless elegance , her unassuming confidence.You strain to look at her face, but those tresses evade your mind. You sigh, wishing you could speak to her, the sigh conveying everything- the desire, the hope , the futility. You are afraid.  Afraid that by getting to know her, she may somehow fall short of the angelic vision in your head. You sigh and you walk on, the image never quite leaving you.

You may meet her on the warm sands, amidst the sun the waves and the euphoria- a solitary figure, sitting by herself, her legs crossed, her eyes open- seeing nothing and yet seeing everything. Her curls sway gently in the sea breeze. You are inexplicably drawn to her,. She calms you, detaches you, makes you pause for a minute and look at it all- not as you, but as a third person- looking at the world, your perception of the world through your eyes and the resultant thoughts, emotions and memories they evoke. You see it all. And it scares you. You snap out of it.You snap back in. And you see everything. You see her. Your world has changed.

You may meet her at a mall, on the waves; you may see her on the road as you pass her by. She may strike a chord in you. Touch you in a new way. A brush. A touch.  A word. A mood. An emotion. An experience. A memory.



This is  blog post number 100. A personal milestone for me. This blog has seen five years of my writing.  Thanks for the encouragement, the criticism and the motivation. Here is to a 100 more.

Turmoil

There are days, there are certain times within days when you feel so low that you cant bring yourself to get out of bed, when you don't have the will to pick up a ringing phone, when it gets so excruciatingly miserable that all you can do is to let yourself be engulfed in the swirling waters , wave after wave crashing into you, tossing, throwing you here and there. You hold your breath, you endure, you just wait. No point expending energy swimming against the tide. You surrender. And you wait. And you wait. Slowly, like someone pulled the plug in the bathtub, the waters swirl with every lessening intensity, every so slowly draining away. There you are, feet on land again, tired, battered. There you are. You. Are.

And What Remains in the End - 2

" Speaking with you on the phone, from this room, at this time of the night... brings back memories, you know?"

" Sorry to keep you up this late" you say, polite as ever.

"No, no its not that. I'm happy with you. Its just that... this reminded me of my days in college, when I used to spend every night on the phone till darkness melted into the early hours of the next day. Now it all seems so far away, you know.. The habit of speaking on the phone for hours is gone. This room; I dont live here anymore. My college life is gone. The people I spoke to, those bonds are mostly gone. That life, one of many lives I've had, has been washed away by time. The old die and from their corpses grows life. Yet some things are remarkably resilient."

" Have I ever told you it would be a shame if we never got together?"

" We've spoken about how things are, how things could be, how they should be.  We've spoken of alternative universes, universes of possibilities,  ever since ours began"

Depravity

Depravity. The steady slide  .The slow, uneven growth growth of stubble, the tangled  clumps of hair , some of it falling in patches, the greasy attire, the squalor of your space. The coarseness of voice, of speech ; the freedom and scope for brutal honesty that it offers. The mind numbing boredom of having nothing, being nothing, with nothing to look forward to, nothing to desire. The dimming of your intellect, the dull aching sense of being, the yearning for escape. The desire to seek oblivion. The scorn for the people around you, the bitterness their presence entails. Their sly whispers and their mockery, the derision and ridicule. The lack of food, the reluctant scavenging. The shedding of your last remnant bits of ego . Scavenging. Existing. Eking out a living, struggling on for you know not what. The atrophy of muscles, the  protruding ribs.The tattered clothing, the smell of piss and shit. Human, sub human, worse till the mongrel looks better in comparison. The exorcism of the zeitgeist, the rejection of contemporaries. Of country, family, kith and kin. Of name identity and the other million strands of existence  . Of life as defined by others . People . Utter rage and dejection. And rejection. A middle finger to their face and a jerk off for their values. The smug satisfaction of it all. The rejection of and the scorn for everything conventional. The negation of them. The allure of decadence.The freedom  of depravity.

And What Remains in the End

" We are meant for each other, you know that? " She asked, looking him in the eye. They were sitting in his car, under a tree nowhere, as was their wont. They never knew where to go.  Most of their time was spent inside that metallic capsule with leather seats, their cocoon against the world.

" I know", he said , holding her gaze. " We are two jigsaw pieces that fit,each complementing the other" .

" You also know this may not be right? " 

 " I know".

"Takes a lot of courage to accept that. Even more to acknowledge it"

" Thatss the truth isn't it? And its you " he shrugged. " I dont know whats in store for us Ananya. We may be or we may not, both equally likely. We may laugh at this conversation, looking back with fond remembrance , while our kids scream for our attention. We may have other lovers, wonderful men and women, changing our lives ,shattering us. We may marry others, move to other places , become different people until 

what we were becomes mere memory, another thing in our cupboard of recollections- to be taken out, dusted and put back in once a year."

" But within us , in some small crevice, underneath careful layers, there will be the person who is here today. And in that part, wherever it may be, however small or distant, what we have will still be" .

To See the Universe in a Grain of Sand

"Shyam! Shyam! Did you see that? " she asked, barely concealing her excitement. " That butterfly there. Its a pale translucent white. If you see it from one side, it looks white, if you see it from the other side, it looks green, the colour of our wall. its so pretty ". The joy was evident on her face.

" Its nine ma. Only moths fly at night, not butterflies" I thought. " Moreover the lack of patterns and bright shades indicates its most probably a moth" .  As soon as these thoughts flashed, I realised something.

My mom may not know the minutiae of flying insects but she knew something far more valuable. She could see beauty in everyday things. She could share joy.

Kindered Spirits

Where you are from, whom you are, what your interests are, what your views in life are do not matter much to me. What matters is do you think or do you not. Do you try to make sense of your life? Do you have a core set of ideas and a worldview? Do you have a morality and a sensibility that is not merely inherited but also honed and shaped by you with utmost care? Are you open to ideas ? If so, you are someone I would love to know. For we are kindred spirits, you and I.

Friendly Advice to a Lot of Young Men

Go to Tibet

Ride a camel.

Read the bible.

Dye your shoes blue.

Grow a beard.

Circle the world in a paper canoe.

Subscribe to The Saturday Evening Post.

Chew on the left side of your mouth only.

Marry a woman with one leg and shave with a straight razor.

And carve your name in her arm.

Brush your teeth with gasoline.

Sleep all day and climb trees at night.

Be a monk and drink buckshot and beer.

Hold your head under water and play the violin.

Do a belly dance before pink candles.

Kill your dog.

Run for mayor.

Live in a barrel.

Break your head with a hatchet.

Plant tulips in the rain.

But don’t write poetry

- Charles Bukowski 

Sketches - 1

Written more than six months ago:


I could never truly comprehend the different faces of her, the different phases of her, the different facets of her personality. Writers are those who  have been scarred by life. She was no exception. Life had dealt her many blows ,many many blows, some downright cruel. She found the courage to face them , to look life in the eye. She found the courage to get back on her feet every single time, to not be beaten, to not cower down, to never surrender. She found the courage to come out in the open , to express her individuality, to not hide who she was behind a veil of appearances. She wore her  scars proudly on her face. It gave her a rugged, enduring beauty much like a weather beaten rock that proudly faces the onslaught of the ocean.

Those eyes. Volcanic rock that protrudes from white sand, leaving red cracks in its wake. Those think strands of black interspersed by a few strokes of grey and white - an unfinished painting. The sharp line of her nose with a ringlet marking its end. The crimson amidst her brows the golden orbs on her ears the thin wisp of platinum on her neck. Her face. Battered yet proud. It was not a face you could easily forget. She was not a person you could easily understand.

Tiny Beautiful Things

Your assumptions about the lives of others are in direct relation to your naïve pomposity. Many people you believe to be rich are not rich. Many people you think have it easy worked hard for what they got. Many people who seem to be gliding right along have suffered and are suffering. Many people who appear to you to be old and stupidly saddled down with kids and cars and houses were once every bit as hip and pompous as you.
When you meet a man in the doorway of a Mexican restaurant who later kisses you while explaining that this kiss doesn’t ‘mean anything’ because, much as he likes you, he is not interested in having a relationship with you or anyone right now, just laugh and kiss him back. Your daughter will have his sense of humor. Your son will have his eyes.
The useless days will add up to something. The shitty waitressing jobs. The hours writing in your journal. The long meandering walks. The hours reading poetry and story collections and novels and dead people’s diaries and wondering about sex and God and whether you should shave under your arms or not. These things are your becoming.
One Christmas at the very beginning of your twenties when your mother gives you a warm coat that she saved for months to buy, don’t look at her skeptically after she tells you she thought the coat was perfect for you. Don’t hold it up and say it’s longer than you like your coats to be and too puffy and possibly even too warm. Your mother will be dead by spring. That coat will be the last gift she gave you. You will regret the small thing you didn’t say for the rest of your life.
Say thank you.

                                     - Cheryl Strayed


        Courtesy : http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2012/07/13/tiny-beautiful-things-dear-sugar/

Existence and Bliss

I wake up on a cold misty morning. Its drizzling outside. I shiver and get out of my sheets. The motion disturbs you and you instinctively put your arms around me. Don't go, they say. I'm only too happy to oblige.

I wake up to the aroma of filter coffee. As my blurry vision clears, I see that its drizzling outside. The sun is not fully awake yet. I take a mug of coffee and sit by your side on the porch. The hills. The grass. The birds . And you. Silence speaks more than words ever can.

Its a warm, lazy afternoon. One of those times when time seems to stand still and timeless works are meant to be savoured. Read to me she says. I do. The words of Tagore hold us both in rapture.

In the evening it rains again. The clouds conspire to keep us indoors. I stand watching her. She is lost in a world where only sound exists. Her hands slide effortlessly along the neck of the veena, producing sublime strains of music. Occasionally, she breaks into song. A concert for a sole, ardent admirer. I close my eyes and listen.

The rays of the sun bid one final goodbye as twilight turns to dusk. The cool rays of the moon bathe us in soft light. We walk, silhouettes in the near darkness. Whispered conversations. Laughter . We walk.


Thanks for the Inspiration :)

Under a Moonlit Sky - Conversations Between Krishna and Meera

Krishna: This painting. It  has so much to say. Who is she, Meera?

Meera: She? She is.. sensuous. She is poetic. She is lyrical. She is a dreamer. In an existential trance, she breathes romance. Paris. That is Paris pour elle. Amorous and vintage. Sitting there on satin sheets on an antique brass cot with a red rose in her hand, she feels intoxicated. But, it is neither the Cabernet red wine nor the breathtaking view of the city.  She is overwhelmed. By him. That man. The one. The one who couldn’t stand to accept the daily demonstrative love she felt in herself, and give back as good as she gave. So she sits there. Being sensuous. Being romantic. Seeking passion. Seeking some sort of counterintuitive romance in love.

Krishna: What happens when he comprehends? Some day. The depth of what he left behind. What if he longs for it? What if his hours are filled with yearnings? A yearning for what he once had only indifference and passiveness?  A yearning for homecoming.. into those very arms, in that very place, for that very hour?  What if his entire subsequent life has been a road leading down to that one end? To the beginning. What if he realises what he had always sought for was what he once had? Will his quest be futile? Will his passage be denied?

What will she say? Will she say nothing? Will she say it at all? Will she wait till the  moment passes, the light fades and the possibilities vanish?  

Meera: She would take a deep breath and tell him, “Look just a little too hard at me. Stand just a little too close to me. Let’s go back and replay all our scenes. Did we ever really share? Did we just soliloquize? Was I ever really there? If I leave this sheltered space, will anything be there? A place in time still belongs to us. So, I will wait in my cage for you. You'll see a side of love you've never known.”

Krishna: Some things never change, do they Meera?. Even with the passing of years.  Some things sadly do. He would have meant much to her once. Even after all these years he still seems to mean something to her. Did he take her world by storm? Was he the fulcrum around which her life revolved?  What did he represent to her? What did he give her?  What did he take with him when he left?

Meera: He had given her exactly what she had been meandering about looking for, that he was, at once, both the point and the purpose of her life, that he was, gloriously, it seemed to her, the answer! She wanted to believe in him, in his ability to transform her life for her, corral all those wild yearnings in her into something less wasteful, give her not just an appetite for the passion, but an exciting idea of it. She might be growing increasingly frustrated at his evasiveness about the romance she had in mind, hardening into a refusal to talk about it at all, but she still could not bring herself to walk away, to step bravely out into a life without him for the simple reason that such a life seemed too bleak and pointless even to contemplate. And now, when he finally comes along, is it sane to leave him with a half- hearted goodbye?

Krishna: I wonder.. Is it sane? Or are some doors closed forever? Do we outgrow certain people? Do we change, ever so gradually, until the love we had is just a mere sweet memory that has no place in the harsh light of reality?

Meera: *long pause* She tends to keep herself away from his goodbyes as she experiences an old familiar stirring, a growing restlessness that she dreads but recognizes only too well.

Krishna: Some things are best expressed via allegory, allusions or imagery. You speak in the language of images and words Meera. If people knew how to listen, they would understand what you have to say. That image was no random choice. It means something to you. It represents something to you. Maybe it is you. Maybe this tale is more than what it seems to be.

Meera: *deep silence*

-- By Shyam & Malvika.

    She blogs here.

For Conversations can be Poetry

Him:
      Epdi irukka ?

Her:
       I.
       Am.
       I read a lot.
       And have fewer conversations that I used to. But .. more quality.
       I am trying to embrace my aloneness.  
       Not give into any thing that will take away from who I am
       I brood.
       I ponder.
       I have changed.
       I am exceedingly detached
       And see through too many people to put on facades for their sakes

Him:
       You haven't changed that much
       The core is still the same you
       A little less fiery
       A little more balanced and at peace maybe
       But still overwhelmingly YOU
       I guess I know you well enough to say that

 Her:
       Is this a good thing or a bad thing
       Or just a means to a better end

 Him:
       Its just you being you
       And that is always good

 Him:
      I met someone. And while conversing with her, I understood a lot about myself.
      There are certain people who put you in your comfort zone
      To whom you can just be you.
      She is one of them.
      She thinks the way I do on a lot of things, maybe on a deeper level.
      While conversing I've gotten more in touch with who I am
      And all the order, all the prioritising is vanishing
      My mind has been thrown back to the questions I always used to ponder about . 
      Meaning.
      Identity.
      Purpose.
      Who am I truly ?
      What moves me ?
      What shapes me ?
      What I can I give the world ?
      Reading.
      Writing.
      Thoughts.
      Silence.
      Does it make sense?
      Does it remind you of our initial getting to know each other conversations?
Her:
      Yes.
      I think my life has been blessed to have many of those moments .
      Even if the people come and go .

Him:
      I was thinking along the same lines as well
      And people never really go
      A person whom youve touched that deeply
      You will never be a stranger to them
      You are not to me
      Even though its a year since we talked

 Her:
      That never happens
      But life happens.
      For sure
      So we wind and whirl away and occasionally meet
      Ever so often
      Or not.

This is not entirely mine. This has a co-writer who probably contributed more to this than I did.

Upheaval

Thrown out of my depth
I struggle
To stay afloat
And salvage what I can