Things standstill and we continue to move

Paulo Coelho’s “Adultery” lies opened near the pillow.  Besides that lie two other books. One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest and Kahlil Gibran’s collection. The floor is clean and the kitchen table a little scattered. The study table has books piled up. The Psychology of Learning, Other People’s Love Letters, along with calendar at the left, lens solution besides it, a mug with spoon from last night’s milk, still left to be washed, a nail remover waiting to be used, a highlighter waiting to ink itself on a textbook of physiological psychology and a watch which ticks every seconds, only to be looked at after a few hours.

The room today feels different. With the hustle bustle of the week, it loses its identity. The owner swept away with the laziness that a Sunday beckons re-structures and re-defines the room’s existence at least in his own eyes ( for doing it actually requires intense effort). The drawings on the wall and the inspirational messages become non- existent after a while, for they become more of an object of admiration than words with meanings. But what happens to the purpose for which they were written primarily? Time fades everything, purposes too. The lady, inside those pages, is asked a question “Are you happy?” Married to a rich man with two children, this question perplexes her. It throws upon her the deadness and monotony of living a routine life for all these years and those yet to come. The author writes “Sin is followed by a fear of being caught”. The owner asks himself “Am I happy? Is sin an essential element to strive for happiness?” The fact that why fiction still continues to excite people is that even as it is a fiction, the elements of reality play hide and seek amidst the plot just as sun does with clouds on many a days. On days like these, it feels that the mighty Sun too knows how to have fun. On other days we curse it for the heat that melts our bodies. Those who believe in the planets and how it governs their future are of the view that there are phases. Phases, where sun, moon or rahu exercises a force which determines their current phases of life. The owner asks “How do the planets act as a force? It’s I who decides whether I wish to finish my deadline or not?

In the way his life runs these days with multiple roles of the professional course, a lazy and relaxed Sunday is nothing less than a luxury. Some sun-days are strenuous for it means living with that time before another week starts, and some bring all the existential questions of life in the fore front. The latter feel much better, mostly when a book leads him to think,eventually to write.

The room is cold and so is the wet nose. The fan is off, with the dirt of the days stuck to the blades like black soot waiting to be inspected. Outside the door the sun shines bright, waiting to bestow it’s warmth into the room. The owner wishes to rest, but work as always call. This time, after God knows ages, he procrastinates in a softer and subtle way, knowing it shall be done. The peace of an author’s words can do many wonders. With this the owner signs off.

May be as we grow, we start keeping things in-side

There’s so much you carry I ask; thoughts, wishes, desires, worries and despair. Despair, of the past gone by and cloaked in that, worry about the future that is yet to come. I ask, isn’t it possible to be mindful? “Ha! Really? Mindfull?” I hear. Things are never too complex as we make them to be. Then there are times, when she wishes to empty her mind, if only pensieve was an option. Sigh… in this era that may not be a possibility. Beautiful things are often hard to get, like that is meditation.  I asked her if she ever had a moment where her thoughts disturbed her to lengths that formed strings of droplets, only to fall through her cheek? She remained silent. I got my answer.

I read somewhere that true love enables people to overcome any fear. But, what happens when thoughts reign and kill the peace. Yes, thoughts. They are the sole reason for how the human species magnifies and falls at the same time. They are the tornado and the volcanoes, which when erupts, leaves their presence, at times for the world to see. On other occasions all that is left is a rainstorm in one’s eyes.

In- side is a vast space to live in. She recently shifted her residence to that place. There are not many neighbors out there in the locality. Those present, are busy making art in their caves. Her cave has many openings. One door leads to another and before she knows it, she is entrapped in a maze of her own. Some true people know her whereabouts. Only some. In-side she is finding many unchartered territories. There are some islands and oceans, names of which don’t exist. Names are not too much of an importance as much as the experience of being in that place is. There is this one spot where a newcomer friend drops by to say a “hello” and bring a smile at her face, even if it’s for seconds to pass. Then, there is a spot which she is struggling to put her feet into. It’s an archipelago. There is Confusion, doubt and indecisiveness circled amidst hotwinds of criticism, disappointment and fear. Her feet are yet a few inches away from the sand there. However, the boat of hope and belief continues to be her guiding light. There have been times, when the underwater beckons her grief. Those days, like a sleep walker she rides the deep pit, not distinguishing whether out-side is better than the in-side. Some places take time to explore. I know her as a traveller. I know she is blessed.

Stay

“I’m going to do what I want to do. I’m going to be who I really am. And I’m going to figure out what that is”*

In the background the instrumental paino plays with titanic’s theme, and how can it not bring tears, for there’s so much love in those notes. A picture of us hangs to my left in that handmade paper frame. The future stands still but we move in infinite space**. A space where a plenty of lessons have been learnt.; from haggling about money to breathing our own breaths with the rhythms of the nature, the walks, discussions about the extra-ordinary in the so called ‘ordinary’ life, and times where everything was said with not a single word exchanged.  

Your words were read by me again. They were fresh as a morning’s dew, giving birth to new feelings and thoughts about the magic of poetry and the charm of melodies. It is with words as with sunbeams. The more they are condensed, the deeper they burn.*** Isn’t it? You always talk of how the ambiguity in your writings allows for everything to be said in a mysterious way. Mystery lures. Reminds me of how the life began, with the forbidden apple being eaten, for it was ‘for-bidden’. I ask, does the banality  of simple texts and proses defies itself? Aren’t they words too? Vocabulary, as much as it has intrigued me, has confused me as well. Vocabulary is like the different stages of life that a language possesses. When spoken, it feels like language feels alive! I heard him say “You write your first draft with your heart, you re write with your head. The key to writing is to write not to think”.**** As I reminisce these words, I smile, for poetic proses demand thinking, yet, not always! 

Those were the days when poems were written one after another, like epiphany.

The presents which are gifted to us everyday turn into past the next day. Some remain untouched, unopened, others are opened half-way, only to be rejected for it was not something we were expecting. By the time, we realise, a week of presents goes by, however the gratitude in our heart enables the smallest ones to be seen and opened. I often tell people “ looks are deceptive”, turns our so are ‘presents’. It’s better than not getting one, right?

Thank you for being a part of my present everyday!

'Presents' are sweet, even if bitter,
for they shall be remembered as memories one fine day!:)

*From Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky

** From Letters to a young poet by Rilke

***Words By Robert Southey

**** From the movie “Finding Forester”