Tag Archives: thoughtful

Eclectic Evening

There is an acquainting emptiness on the ground

Absolute filling in the sky

As I sit as if in a

And time elapses by….

For once the world and I are apart

The walk of age has arrested

Silence clenches the throbs of a heart

The moment for a breath has rested

Up and up this feeling goes

As down and down goes height

I would be silent, with silent toes

Stay elated all night…

Dimming eyes and airs deep

I wait to live my eternal sleep…

The Trevelyan and his Tin Heart

Once upon a time, a good many years ago, a traveller set upon a journey and this magical journey was to seem very long when it began, and very short when he got half way through it.

He travelled along a rather dark path for some little time, without meaning anything, until at last he came to a beautiful child. SO, he said to the child, “What do you do here” And the child said, “I am always at play. Come Play with me!”……  #CreativePrompt


Tired from his lonely journey, the traveller decided to enjoy the little event of company which his dark path provided, perhaps to keep him motivated. But the attire of the child was rather peculiar. It was the first time in his days on the road that the traveller saw a garb made of sack and ropes. But it wasn’t just the clothes that made the little boy different.

“What do you think, mister? Would I eat and sleep tonight or would tonight be the day for playing ‘Pretend’?”, asked the soft voice in the sack. Awoken from the perturbed and judging thoughts the traveller sat down and replied, “I fail to see how the two are related. dear friend.”

“Oh! You are lost! That’s why you are here, aren’t you? said the boy with a contempt which was unexpected of his little self. He then started arranging his little “dimes” and “nickels” in rows, as if he was indifferent to the emotional turmoil he had prompted in the traveller’s mind.

In the farther corner of the road, he erected a little wooden box upon which he placed a tin can. After being satisfied with his arrangements he said, “Let’s compete. The one who knocks the tin can from this distance becomes the winner and the loser gets to say goodbye first.”

“I can never say goodbye” though the traveller and for a moment he recalled the night he left home to travel. For in that despicable night, he had let go of himself and all that life had given to him for the fear of being an invalid burden on the ones he loved. “So, I would win” decided the hassled traveller. And the two players started to aim at the tin can dime after nickel, but only to fail.

“Won’t your parents mind you talking to a stranger, dear friend?” asked the traveller as he tried a shot.

With a placid smile on his face the failing competitor replied, “I was born to the world not to my parents. And thus, with the world I live. Yet, I keep for myself a warm and cosy house”.

“I wish I had a house too. A place to call home. But I am nowhere – life has abandoned me” said the aching spirit of the traveller as he failed to deliver his next shot.

“Funny you should say that, because in front of your open eyes the picture stands so clear. Don’t you realise life isn’t an incident but an event that occurs for you? And the aim of that good life is that tin can, whose fall is the only indication of what was earlier possessed.”

Hearing this, the traveller dawned to the uselessness of his journey. In his final chance, with shaking hands, he shot the nickel to a victory which was proclaimed by the clatter of the tin can. “Oh! I won. I won, little friend” he said with a melting voice.

“Indeed, you won” replied the little audience with a smile that spoke more than words. “And yet, I wouldn’t have to say goodbye either. For you stay in my house…”

“I don’t understand!” said the puzzled traveller.

“For you share a memory with me, you now live with me in my house. So, no matter whether you are here with me or not, we shall always share the same roof – that of the house of my heart.”

And in that moment, the traveller only saw the light at the end of his dark path and wondered as to how his tiresome journey ended in a moment of reprise.

“I shall always play with you my dear friend. That I promise!”

Saying these words, the Trevelyan picked up his tin can and glanced at the little figure waving at him. What followed was a parting that was embellished with the feeling of pain and yet secured the warmth between the embracing hearts. With his head to the front and his heart trailing behind the traveller passed silently into a memory of the worldly child’s dream.

 

Thanks for reading! Do let me know how you like my reworked extension of the creative prompt. 🙂

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?

Pyre of the Broken Winds

What a rarity is it to find nature living and taking its life’s breath right in the middle of the concrete jungle! And it comes as no surprise that whenever the senses strike the powerful natural breath they stand amazed to its astounding capabilities. Today as a dust storm shook the poor as well as the richer sections of Delhi I had the opportunity of looking on to the battle that the giant human constructions held against the winds. How illustriously did the two clash with their bodily armor!

The God-made frame of mankind stood at odds with the sand laden sword of the winds that engulfed anything which held human essence. With the swaying trees and blinding skies Nature held the best of its weapons to plaster the human spirit which interferes in its play – yet, the triumph was never to its due….

The aching eyes of humanity soon recovered from the shelter of its armory and walked through the raining arrows of water. As I stood by the window of my room I watched the resistance of nature slowly fade away from the disregarding defense of the other. And it wasn’t too late before the battle was conquered.

As my fellows rejoiced at the effortless victory of their form, I receded from their center to the corner where I looked up to find the sky burning in the soft coal it had produced as its own weapon.

How unfortunate could the circumstance be?

To be killed by one’s own weaponry….

I pitied the fading sky who destructed itself as his other half rose to new heights of self esteem. It puzzled me to think:

“What a splendid funeral has Nature performed,

Death lies with those who are utterly wronged.”

 

This is my dramatic interpretation of the dust storm that hit Delhi today. Let me how do you like it 😉

Walking to the Rhythm

The music of a crowd’s footsteps are too subtle to miss whilst one is standing in the midst of its flow. So much so that if you close your eyes you might even feel yourself standing at the shore of a rippling river in your mental world.

Such is the monotony that is life in a city!

How peculiar to find every foot matching the rhythm of the other – almost involuntarily but then on participating consciously – to hold the beat. How hard it becomes then to accustom oneself to the same sound when one is born of another melody. Yet, everyday the performance of life carries on with different people walking on its ramp – tap! tap!.

As I pushed through another wave of a crowd today I believe an excitement awaited me. I ventured through the glam and fashion of the faceless crowd to find a tiny pair of feet discording to the sound around itself. With the small and feeble tap! of his feet the little conductor walked to his own chime stopping only to catch hold of his older self. As much hard as it became for the by walker to allow the creative feet a space of freedom, it became equally harsh for the creator to save his uniqueness in the oppressive shadow of the former. And there I stood watching them struggle to keep up to the over arching tune.

Neither did those tiny feet give in to the world,

Nor did the older ones give up on their precision,

I stood there as a silent audience,

Neither observing their striking chimes, nor watching their failed refrains

But silently enjoying the balance of their harmony!