For months now, I have been working for myself. Most of my friends have remarked with a “oh, that is so great” and “Oh! That must be fun.” I agree, I hate the clockwork organised ways of a job and I do absolutely love what all I do and the fact that I am my own boss and liability as well is a great deal. Yet, sometimes, I find myself compelled to feel that my run is up a more arduous hill. I am pretty sure each one of us has felt that at times. The need to share with people, to scream at them perhaps, that maybe they need to open their eyes and not cry over petty things, that there were bigger problems that people go through as you speak.
Ever wondered why we feel this way? I think the need arises from a systemic training to feel that if you’re “doing more stuff”, you’re somewhere up there in life. This also comes from the fact that time and again, through systems like grading, ranking, competitions, appraisals, we are conditioned to bother with how the others are doing. It might not necessarily be envy, a mere curiosity, you say. This need to always be the number one, at least in one’s own head, aided by the deceptions of social media, make one feel constant need to keep running. That you’re busy, becomes a symbol of your life being so multi-faceted that you don’t have time at all for a call or a random movie marathon.
Move away from it and I am sure you’ll find more time for work and everything else that you plan to do after you’re 40.
A little poem to go with this then.
Chop chop chop
Claw claw claw
Splash, bam, spurrrr!
Motion, sound, noise.
Each atom in movement.
Comfort in chaos.
Run run run
Can’t stop, won’t stop
Life flying in the drill.
Was there ever a time to be still?
The sea my seductress
The sea my lover
The sea is my mother
with a womb deeper than the universe.
I’ve been standing on the edge,
as she waves her tresses.
back and forth, forth and back,
tempting me, teasing me,
calling me in
binding me in her charm.
she laps up at my feet,
chipping away on my ground, bit by bit.
Shining, glowing, smiling in the moonlight,
almost taking me home,
only, to go back alone.
Long and winding
The road goes on ahead.
Surrounded by trees
that hide the deep waters behind them
and even deeper secrets within.
For miles there is not a soul in sight but me
I am not alone for,
I have the stars with me.
The stars, that shine brightly
as I swim through this darkness.
Have you been home lately?
That place… do you remember?
where winter afternoons were spent
basking in the golden glow of the sun
as trees danced a shadowy dance.
Where summers were spent in the
cool recesses of the shade that home provided.
Where every time the skies poured, it felt like
the clouds too, were party to this bubble of happiness.
You have been, you say?
Isn’t it truly home? Wont you go back soon?
Wouldn’t it be lovely…
and right, to be home at last?
What? You say you’re home?
I am confused now.
Dont they say, ‘home is where the heart is’?
Isn’t your heart in the past?
Isn’t nostalgia home?
Two days ago in 2010, Mosaic was born on a whim to put down the waves and streams and trickles of thoughts that invaded my mind; sometimes against my ability to function ‘appropriately’ in the social. I will not say that it brought me immediate relief or that, like I have heard some say that, it can help vent out. Nope, it never did that as I dealt with the trauma of my father’s death. In fact, all it did was leave me burning with desire. Desire, to reach out to him, to reconnect to him through my words. I realise that I have taken to writing through my father. I was never nurtured or conditioned into reading and writing like #parentinggoals suggest. I was just made to be and observe and find my pleasures and joys and my own goals. School rotted some of it though he was always there to ensure that it did not corrupt my heart. I am happy he did not let it do so.
I never realised that I learnt a lot from him – that was his way of parenting, leading by examples. I will not say that he was not flawed – no one is without flaws but, like he had said to me once when I was working towards an exam and was very focused on acing it stating that number 2 was not an option, he simply told my 14 years old self that no matter what I am (number one or someone who is a failure), he will always love me the same. I believe that I picked up writing from him and I am just thankful that I did. When I started Mosaic 6 years ago and whenever I would write something from the place of a daughter missing her father, grieving over his loss, I hated what I came up with because they spoke of unrestrained and unedited passion. As I grew as a writer and explored more ideas and passions through my words, somewhere at the back of mind, I decided that for me to write something as my father’s daughter would be childish or maybe a piece which is cringe worthy. I realise I am my biggest critic there which again, I was warned against by my old man.
November 30th is his birth date and he would have turned 63 years old today. :)
Had it not been for tonight’s playlist that has Cohen’s last album, I would have cringed at myself again for writing about my father but, a conversation with a friend worried and scared and hopeless about what goes on in our world today where humanity is literally threatened in the scariest ways possible with humans against humans, I am happy to write things I have learnt from my wise, wise old man.
This world is a scary place
People have taken up arms against each other
Children cry as their mothers lie raped
And men lie in a corner drunken in their sorrows and defeats.
But, you who see this.
You, who feel the pain, why have you stopped?
Why do you believe in these
scenes of torture that you witness?
Don’t believe these to be your reality.
You are human,
you were born with courage.
Use it now and create a new reality.
You think it might not work?
Is that your fear?
But, isn’t that your job, to try that is?
Try and be your best.
Try and give it your all.
Get up now, now is the time to rise.
You might not see anything change in a second
But then, mountains weren’t moved in a night, were they?
You know the kind of world you want.
Believe in it and build it.
All you have to do is try.
I realise that as a writer I enjoy poetry the most. It’s simple, variable in the readers’ interpretation and spontaneous. So today’s poem is a Hindi / Urdu one which came to me one morning when I just could not sleep. There were just too many thoughts whirring in my brain and I had to write.
I usually do not like explaining the thought behind a poem because I feel it takes away the possibility of differing opinions and perceptions but, this ones different. This one, is about unrequited love or infatuation. Inspired by a sticky situation that a friend has been in off late and from many stories of unrequited love / feelings (maybe, including mine!), I can safely say that love is indeed a beautiful feeling / emotion, especially romantic love. However, love isn’t forced or that, it does not chain one’s heart. From what I understand now that those Bollywood flicks or old school poems were trying to convey, love is a free emotion and can be felt by anyone for anyone or thing, something that makes you become better – though love for things is greater these days! Won’t kill the read now and will stop here. Read on!
Sketch in black Indian ink on ruled paper
Hindi / Urdu
Kaun tha tu?
Kahan hai tu?
Kaun thi woh, jo padhi tere pyaar mein?
Itni besudh hui tere ishq mein
Ki bhool gayi thi apna wajood main.
Jise ishq samjha tha
Woh to nadaani samjhi tune.
Ik pal mein mera jahan ban gaya tha tu
Arey haan! Thi to bilkul nadaan hi main.
Par tu to samajhdaar tha?
Tujhe nahi dikh raha tha?
Kyun behlaya tune mujhe fir?
Kyun nahi apna asli chehra dikhlaya?
Khair, aaj mujhe tujhse nahi hai kuch gila
Na ki thi tab bhi maine koi shiqayat.
Jis pal tune mere jazbaat ko nakara tha
Jis pal tune apne banaye sach ko jhutlaya tha
Us pal hi maine apna wajood wapis paaya tha
Shayad us samay tabhi mere muh se sivay hasi ke kuch nahi nikla tha.
Mere mann me chhayi ik ajeeb si shanti thi
Jaise bahut ghane toofan ke beech ek chuppi
Dabe paon meethe meethe sannate mein mujhe gholi ja rahi ho
Jaise ki wo sab aur kuch nahi has ek sapna tha
Aur ab main jag gayi hun.
Who were you?
Where are you?
Who was she, the one who fell for you?
Was so lost in your love
That I had lost my self.
What I thought was love
You took it to be silly infatuation.
In a moment, you had become my world.
Oh yes, I was indeed silly.
But, weren’t you wiser?
Could you not see?
Why did you lead me on then?
Why couldn’t you say the truth?
I have nothing against you anyway, now.
Nor did I complain then.
The moment you denied my feelings
The moment you broke the truth that you had built
That moment itself, I found my self again.
Maybe that’s why in that moment, all I could respond with was a smile.
There was a strange sort of peace in my heart
As if in the midst of a terrible storm, a silence had
Creeped up and stirred up sweet silence in my heart, in my being.
As if all of it was a dream
And I am awake now.
Inktober 2016 day 22’s prompt was little. Like always, an image is formed in the mind and this time it was the pinky finger, the little finger. Why I did not draw that is because not only the time spent on it would be too short but, more importantly, the intention with Inktober is to push the wheels of my brain a little to resonate within the mind, what each prompt would mean.
I started off with the traces of a discussion I had had with a friend of mine. We spoke of how the grandness of nature, Athirapally in particular here, makes one feel so insignificant, so little that all one feels is the power of nature and surrenders to it. The last time I had felt like that was when spending time in the Himalayan mountains. The image that flashed in the head was that of the grandness of the snow clad peaks where everything else seemed too small, too little to think about.
But, it has been some time that I have gone back to those places of wonder and sitting afar in this part of the country all that comes to mind when thinking about it is the LOC, the attacks, terrorism, fear, crisis and war. I had, as a kid, honestly assumed that post the second world war, there would be no war at all. I know that was naive and we can safely say that peace and harmony are far away for a LOT of our “brothers and sisters”. I remember in the innocence of childhood when we would sing the national anthem and read about Bankim Chandra Chatterjee and Tagore and Bose, I would be in awe of these figures who contributed to the nationalist movement back in time. But, the reason that I was in awe of them all was not for defending a certain bordered geography against another country. No, that was never it. I respected, honoured and treasured what I read about them, these heroes and heroines, because of their courage to stand up against inhuman treatments meted out to people of this land who were being tortured and made to feel less human owing to their colour and race. These people stood up for their people who were suffering due to racism. If you look at it objectively, like now back then too, the reason for those acts of cruelty were economic and political power and the subsequent tussle.
But, I wonder today, what is this power that still does not seem to let peace prevail in this land. I am an Indian and I see it just as a part of my identity. When I see fellow Indians walking on the streets, I do not think of them as Bengalis or South Indians or Punjabis – honestly, I am pathetic at guessing people’s “native” and also their age – but, I see them just as Indians. So, what is nationalism today? Why is it being looked at as a necessary “Hindu pride” and why is it also being looked at as “something I don’t wish to associate with” on the other hand? Isn’t Indian pride about not being divided based on principles and beliefs and just accepting the differences? When songs of Indian past and pride on it are sung, why do we forget that all nationalist movement happened to defend humanity and not anyone’s ego or greed?
I think I will leave this unfinished at this point and share the poem that I wrote for this doodle:
Little by little
I see it change, this land
that I call my home.
Little by little,
the snow melts, not into
waters gleaming but, pools of red.
Little by little,
the cracks in doors
shut in my face as I peer in to say hello.
Little by little,
the cracks in my heart
widen as smiles grow taut.