Category Archives: Urban Chronicles

#MyQuote3

Greed is the currency of life

Dreams are its estate

Happiness in the landscape of sorrow

Such is Life, a game for Fate….

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To Remember or Not…..

Life often times becomes obsessed with today and tomorrow. So much so, that it seems to be born everyday only to die day after and be born again. Then, might we say –

“All life is but a pursuit to evade the Past?”

As I walk through the pavements of my memory today, I encounter countless moments which have been resisted from remembrance – only to make me comfortable in my mind. Thus, naturally we do not recall the one time when we broke out in tears out of fear or lost someone out of one’s own selfishness or chose to ache an ailing heart because its bearer had done a mindless act offending our sensibilities.

The more I see, the more I know that in all my trysts with the Past, it is not the past itself which suffers. Rather the ghosts of people residing in it bear the violence for they have become frozen in time. As I choose to grudge against certain memories, I opt to lemmatise their agents, thereby gathering my power over the ghosts in the memory.

Yet, I forget that even today would become a memory tomorrow. And the people I meet today would be the ghosts I would want to freeze tomorrow….Just like I would become a ghost to forget tomorrow in the mind of a certain other who seems to be unimportant today…

So, do I choose to remember? Or do I opt to forget?

Knowing that my memory becomes the only gateway for someone to exist?


I must admit that I have come to this realisation after reading about the Award Winning Broadway Show “Dear Evan Hansen” (based on the book of the same name by Steven Levenson). It is indeed a very thought-provoking musical.

Has anyone watched it?!

Please, do let me know in the Comments Section…

 

Do We All Become Our Mothers?

What do we become? What becomes of “me” in the future?

It is a silent night as I am sitting with this question that has sprung out of my memory, relapsing from the thought of a movie I had seen quite back – In the end, do we all become our mothers?

My mother is a strong woman with determined thoughts. I for one am a passive person with a bundle of ideas for thoughts. Can I then ever meet up to become the person who has created me?

Generation gaps and ageing are two of the most common words teenagers and young adults use to cover up for their dissimilar ideas with their parents. It is quite agreeable that such an assertion saves the rejection of either; but it is also true that it does not accredit the unbreakable relation which the both share. Fortunately, our ancestor did not fail to recognize this ever lasting bond. So, if the Divine had created man in his image – Was I created in the image of my mother too?

As I wrote the last sentence, my mind was driven to Alice Walker’s book “In Search of Our Mother’s Garden”. This was not so because I find myself in the midst of the oceanic question – “Who has given me meaning?” –  but because a large part of me sits beside the very garden it searches and yet wanders to find purpose elsewhere.

So, can I agree that I am NOT my mother and in the end I might NOT become like her too; but in the journey which lies in between both – I am sure to become that half of her which could not come to be…….

Yet, isn’t that akin to saying – WE ALL BECOME OUR MOTHER’S MIRROR

 

Thank you for reading!

Let me know your thoughts about this question 🙂

The Case I Didn’t Know….

A myriad of thoughts wander through our brain as we pass the time of our day. From the moment we wake to the moment we lie down on our beds – we always persevere to think so that we have a world of our own where we can ease and be comfortable with ourselves. Have you ever wondered at the origins of these thoughts!?

Today as I sat reading a book, I came across a simple nine letter word which unconsciously drove me through a range of thoughts.

“Fireflies”

So, I lifted my head from my book and stared ahead – least recognizing the world that awaited outside for I was busy searching through my memory to find that very place where I had first recorded this word. From the title of a song – to a night time tale by my father – coming all the way from a poem I had composed years back, a painful encounter and a memory of a photographs…After considerable ease I was able to find the numerous traces of the single word. Yet, it wasn’t to end on that!

The traces pulled out pieces and the pieces joined together to form fragments that had been left off from some tapestry of a memorable day. The book was not closed and in a matter of minutes, the bounds of the word “fireflies” had drifted away smoothly to expose an arena of escaping recollections.

After a couple of minutes (in the real world) and a tiresome era of battle (in the field of my memories) when I opened my eyes to my book the word seemed to become absolutely alien to its text. As an intriguing case, it stood out to my eyes as a relic of my now irretrievable thought……

And there again I sat investigating – “FIREFLIES, doesn’t that word ring a bell?”

Now if you might ask – Was I able to ransack the escapes?

I shall have to say – I seldom remember….but it must have been a “glow-rious” fight

The Mysterious World of Idyllic “Eye”-dentities

Have you ever taken the time to look for a person’s eyes? SO much of the truth is reflected on a face, yet the little of the soul in the eyes is the real picture! Have you found the outline of this very real portrait ever?

Of all the days in the world which pass away almost as easily as they are begotten, today woke up with the same bland notoriety to me. And it wasn’t until I stole a moment to look at the beggar I found daily by the footpath, that I slipped into a “World of its own”. The glowing, expectant eyes of the man on the torn rag made me wonder about the vibrant emotions that they prompted in me. While I sensed a glimpse of happiness, I also found trails of questions, a silent request and a ghost of a smile awaiting to be found…

Could there be a more peculiar combination?

Never could I imagine that the damp black of an eye could reflect such a fusion of numerous other colors. As I rewrote that introspective moment in my mind again and again, I was astonished to find the darkness burst open with such a huge number of colors that evolved separately as I delved deeper, only to fuse with my horizons…..

Could there be a more intriguing case of enchantment?

As I traveled through the common performances of my day, the “World of Eyes” opened itself to me more and more. In the glistening charm of a child’s eyes, the excited iris’ of the street dog, and the blinding darkness of a strangers’ view – I curated every portrait with equal curiosity… Until I returned home to find myself in front of the mirror….

With the contracted pupil, outstretching iris and amazed eye, I looked in myself…

Only to find an incomplete puzzle with missing pieces…

Raptures of “I” and “ME”

What if I told you that no matter how much you fought for freedom, you’re always under oppression?

Often during drowsy hours and unexpected moments, we all face that one instance where “what is expected of us” and “what we expect of ourselves” stand at odds with each other. Why does that happen?

As I sat with myself today, struggling to write a piece which reflected my thoughts, I realized how almost involuntarily the expectations of others informed my opinions about my creations. So here I was sitting and thinking – “I should write as a social critic” (for I am after all a part of the society) or “I should write about an incident in my life” (which is in a way informed by others) or “Maybe talking about general terms and ideas like pride, love and hatred would be most apt” (because besides everything there is nothing better than discussing abstract ideas coming out of human interactions).

And after hours of struggle and countless sheets of paper, I found out that none of the themes that “I” had shortlisted contained the presence of its author – that is “ME”. “I” constantly worked my way to writer and reflect the contents which “I” received from the world. But, where did “my” voice go?

So, there I was stunned with the most fundamental of all questions in my life – How am “I” anything like “ME” if “I” constantly succumb to abiding by the rules laid down by others and hide “myself” for fear of disapproval?

Isn’t my socially constructed “I” oppressing the creatively formed “ME” so as to destroy the latter? Is it not that “I” oppress “myself” every time “I” make “myself” behave and perform in a particular way to suit an audience?

If such is the case, where are we free with ourselves?

I can only wonder……

Tonight I Cannot Write….

Writing – An intriguing word with a complex meaning, describing an act that involves the momentary trance of the human brain during which the mind takes over the body. Such a faithful and comfortable exercise….

Sitting by a blank page and letting the mind color its veins has always been such a natural task. Never have the pages run out of their spree, nor has the ink controlled their flow. Writing should always be so energetic…

Lest when I cannot write….

I fearfully wander the pavements of my mind to search for a lost key. Seldom was it to be found. However, in search of a new abode I lost the path of my sanctuary. So there I stood with a blank page and a mindful of translated colors that transformed into white. Unless the white could turn grey, I resorted to wander in the featureless space…

Since tonight I cannot write….

I do not feel so because my brain objects to leaving its supremacy – as a huge number of people would have me to believe – or my hands feel constricted with chains. Neither has my pen run out of ink. But, I feel so since the world around me has failed my purpose of searching for a text in itself.

So, tonight I cannot write…..

And that is why I struggle my feet to the terrace of my house and coldly stare at the stars. “How meaningless is their twinkle. How unattractive is the moon that lingers in their company and floats by the clouds since it doesn’t inspire my pen.” I think it is very depressing that the world has forgotten to love itself. Yet, I cannot let it be known.

As, tonight I cannot write….

Sighing I sit by my towers of gloom for my words have lost their signs. And this is why I detest the world for it erased the rhythm of my lines. As the night grows darker and stiller still becomes the world, I would have to read the unwritten texts…..

While tonight I cannot write…

 

What a pity I should say

For isn’t it tonight that I cannot write?