My Deep Blue Sea

Has it ever happened to you that you got so tired of yourself?

That all you wanted to do was not hide, but DIE.

Die for your ‘self’ as you got worn out by the constant cacophony,

That the mind carried within itself.

Moments when all you wanted to do was hide in that deep dark sea,

Where there are no shades of blue or green, just non colourable darkness,

And then just when you were about to enter the cocoon,

The commotion outside forced you to adopt and adapt to the social demands.

And in these moments, you feel like dying in that sorrow,

Fading like a mist, not to be seen,

Like you existed only for few seconds,

And then the absence followed your ‘lived’ presence.

Yes I felt like dying that way….

Few moments back,

But the sea got turbulent,

And it kicked me up to the shore,

And here again…..I’m back to feeing the commotion… quiet yet noisy …everlasting.

The Hungry Beast

The Hungry Beast

With charming gestures,

A façade of their own,

He’ll talk you through,

With a dream of his own,

The smoke, the whiff,

The narrow bylanes of his,

Where bosoms are paid,

For being juicy and crisp,

Where the bottles are smashed,

For their passion alone,

The night that awakens,

In dream and in real,

Flashy, blunt outfits,

Coitus so surreal,

Where the hunger of one,

Kills the life of the Other,

The greed that lurks,

In the satyriatic weird,

Audacity, his clothes,

Desperation, he wears,

A sight of a lady, on bed he cheers.

For a beastlike him,

 Satiation no goal,

No air, no water,

It’s the drug he adores.

Every second of the day,

 It’s the bait he awaits,

To trap, to cook, to eat as she matures,

Others in the pond,

Get mad at his sound,

For the love he promised,

Is lacerated into torn clothes..

In a street so wet, gawdy and dark,

A wet dog walks, with,

A sense of ‘being lost’,

No one his own,

No one to own,

On the doors of his heaven,

His life slowly departs.

The Candles of Bliss

The Candles of Bliss

 When I see floating candles in an Urli or a pond with petals of roses, a glamorous, yet peaceful magnificence surrounds me.

The charm, the simplicity, and the illuminating light says and speaks for itself as it overpowers and at the same time becomes ‘one’ with the darkness that resides in the dark black night, of the sky or in your life.

Isn't it surprising that over the years we have come to appreciate the output more than what made it?

The same goes for Candles as well. The paraffin wax, or the Gel wax look plain enough, and in fact it takes an effort to stay besides the flame with all that smoke around you, only to ‘gift a shape’ to the banal looking wax. And that’s when a dash of colour and a mould do their magic, with some tricks that make one of the most beautiful things in the world~ Candles.

I know how to make candles and I learnt it. When I was in school, a friend of mine gifted me a gel wax candle on my birthday. It was red colored in a glass with sparkle on it.

And well, when I learnt the art, I gifted to my friends as well on their birthdays.   

these are the candles I made during my classes

A bouquet of flowers I made from wax. Requires a lot of effort!:P

The splendidness of candles is ethereal. Right from the time it takes the shape, to when they are decorated and gifted and when they are lighted, all they spread is that ‘light of bliss and beauty’ all around. 

I love looking at candles. But when I see them in all their splendour, I just don’t feel like lighting them, for I feel as if the ‘life’ in the candle will die. Thus, there have been times when I felt like buying them, but ended up just ‘taking in’ their charm for the fear that lighting them would only end up making me feel sad.

Isn’t it ironical that the very wax that gives us a breather of life and vitality ends up losing itself in the process? It’s an expression of selflessness to me. How one ignites and burns oneself so much, only to let the ‘light of love and peace’ spread afar to enlighten those who are in the dark!

My handmade floating candle with Marigold Flowers:)

                             

And I’ll end with these lines:

“Spread your charm and splendour in being your true self, that’s perhaps the best ‘gift’ you give as well as receive.”~ Aakriti

I know my God!

                            I know my God!

the picture has been taken from here

In my growing years, every night before sleeping my dad used to tell me to pray and sleep. We would together say ‘Om Namah Shivaya’. As toddlers we would pray before eating our lunches, thanking God for giving us food to eat.

I remember going to the temple with my dadima and kneeling before every deity like a devout seeker. At that time perhaps performing the acts of kneeling, pulling the kurta of my dad or tugging him to raise me high up to ring the bell was more of having fun than knowing the essence of what it all meant.

And today, when I go to a temple or a Gurudwara, a different sense of God and what he means to me embraces me in its invisible cloak. I kinda feel sad that the temple near my place doesn’t invite me as does the one near my nani’s place. It’s because, apparently, the pundits here are more of cheaters, than ones who would enjoy worshipping God.

I don’t really believe that reading religious scriptures or singing bhajans or for that matter going to temple everyday can bring one closer to God.

I just finished reading an article in The Speaking Tree’ which said that every individual has their own way of reaching God, thus there is no one right path, so to speak of.

But at the same time I do not deny the power which bhajans, religious scriptures have, coz there have been times when they have given me the kind of refuge and peace I was looking for, and perhaps that is what is ‘magical’.

Yes, I have come to know God, in my very ‘own’ ways and knowing that it is a construction that we humans have created for our own selves so as to protect ourselves from the constant fears that preoccupy us amongst other reasons, I would still say that I believe in Him.

I’m also glad that he has been there every time. And my bond with him is mightier than these words….

I call him in my teary eyed days,

I thank him in my subtle ways,

I ask him to bless my friends and those who were,

And I share with him, in my language sans words.

I get no answers, nor any hugs,

But a sleep that follows, is magical enough,

For it eases my pain, and drains my fears,

For the next morning, with bright sun and clouds so clear.

Criticize Me!

Every time my brother says something to me about my writing, it pinches me. Yes. Real hard. Sure, you guys are very kind who always keep appreciating me, and he is the only one after a friend of mine whom I no longer have, who would criticise my style of writing ‘on my face’.

And then it would irk me, for I would always tell him time and again that ‘All you do is simply dislike my stuff’.  

He says he has tried reading my work, but never really liked it, and never ‘really appreciated’ as well. On a positive note, his critique is an appreciation for me. My dad tells me that only a best friend will point you your mistakes, not because they love to, but because they want you to grow.

My brother Aman, writes like a writer. He is far ahead from me when it comes to reading and writing. And though it’s been years since I have been writing, still his writing would any day beat mine.

Is writing about competing? No

Am I jealous of him? No, because I love reading what he writes.

Every time he says “I have written something, would you like to read?” And I excitingly read it thinking at least he is sharing something with me, even if it’s his sci- fi thoughts;)

I have shared with all of you earlier as well, how glad I feel everytime he talks to me, but just that he doesn't talks much.:/

My best friend and her brother are close, and she tells me that he shares quite a lot of stuff with her, and so does her first cousin brother. Maybe growing up with boys, makes you feel like a boy ‘yourself’ coz over the years, either you are treated like one, or you ‘become’ like one, in some or the other ways.

But well, in my case, it’s just a pair of brother and sister.

I still do not know about my style of writing. And unlike him, I do not share my stuff with him, unless he happens to know ‘like always’ what I’m writing about or posting on my blog, even though when he is not following me. I do not share, because he finds my writing too emotional.

And the way he pin points, makes me only very furious which makes me annoyed.

I would want you all to visit his blog. And get a taste of his writing. I’m waiting for the day when he writes a book. Few days back, he shared with an awe inspiring idea of a story he wishes to write. And that has great potential to get published, precisely because I have never come across something like that.

Kudos to my brother! Yes I’m proud of him… But I wonder if I’m proud of myself…today?:/