Think not that I have not thought
That from the cradle to the pyre
A great man's life is naught
But a well performed satire
Wednesday, 21 October 2015
Thoughtless
Think not that I have not thought
That from the cradle to the pyre
A great man's life is naught
But a well performed satire
Monday, 19 October 2015
Burn
I learn, I learn, again I learn
How Man's mind works
How the world burns
How danger lurks
How fortune turns
I see, I see, again I see
History itself repeating
Carnage wrought with glee
Moral virtues depleting
Despite divine decree
I hear, I hear, again I hear
The laments of misery
The groan of fear
The beast set free
The despairing tear
Onset of lunacy
I feel, I feel, again I feel
Crumbling earth beneath my feet
Pillars falling upon themselves
Litter flooding every street
Books unread upon the shelves
Sanity in hasty retreat
I breathe, I breathe, why do I breathe
What possible use am I to you
Am I to only rage and seethe
Until I have suffered my due
And then to decay beneath
And add to this wretched residue?
If my purpose is not for me to discern,
What care I who lives and who burns?
A Benediction
May the droplets of dew that aesthetically adorn
The orange hued sun rays that shine through the morn
Refract through the glistening moistness of dew
And shower rainbow upon rainbow on you
May the breeze that condenses the vaporous air
Add a glow to your fairness and a sheen to your hair
May the silence punctuated only by the cuckoo's call
Bring you the wisdom of Angels and virtue of Parsifal
May the clouds that your countenance discover
Protect thine fairness as they hesitant hover
From the harshness of heat and the power of fire
From the sufferings of grief and unfulfilled desires
May the leaves on the trees that eternally surround us
Rustle sweet melodies that eternally confound us
May the grass 'neath your feet caress your delicate heel
That it never lose its softness nor its visual appeal
May all of Nature, whose fury no being can tame
Bow down in subjection to the sound of your name
May all the universe combine to right all your wrongs
That your lips are never found to be bereft of songs
All this and more I do wish thee every day
Who ever exudes compassion and over goodness holds sway
Friday, 16 October 2015
Theseus' Paradox
Every day, I lose a bit,
Every day I grow anew;
Every cartilage still fits,
Every symmetrical sinew.
Where are all the parts I lost?
Are they still a part of me?
What is my production cost?
Who composed my symphony?
Is my entity complete
Without the parts that went away?
Does my unity deplete
Further with every passing day?
And what of the replenishing stock
Of cells that now make up my frame,
That mark the progress of the clock
That ticks eternal 'gainst my name?
Do they possess an equal claim
As those who left me in the lurch
To share in my immortal fame,
To pour libations in my church?
Why am I not viewed as one,
But a manifest multitude?
Why haven't I dominion
Over my self created brood?
Do I grow or just break apart?
From whom is this judgement due?
And when I cease my beating heart,
Who, mortals, will be judging you?
Wednesday, 14 October 2015
Just a Few Days Now
He sat in his lazy boy for hours at end, settling deeper and
deeper into his imprint which had become all but permanent on the soft,
yielding leather. He stared around at his living room. Chaos reigned.
The plastic bottles from the aerated drinks that he used to mix with his rum when he began the drinking binge. The crumpled mountains of plastic glasses that he had run through in the past few days, strewn in ever growing concentric circles around his lazy boy. The vast majority of them were right behind him, because what he could not see did not bother him immediately. Especially since it had been days since he could remember being sober. Also, mingling with the plastic bottles and cups were visible three days worth of cardboard pizza boxes.
His ashtray had filled up a long time ago and he had continued smoking and disposing of the ash and butts directly into his large dustbin. He hadn’t changed his clothes for the whole duration and the stench would have bothered him if it weren’t for the overpowering perfume emanating from the glass bottles that surrounded him in their preferential seats of reverence. The bottles were cube shaped, with the edges rounded off, and the top thinning out into a bottleneck. The picture of an old monk smiled up at him from each of their labels. He could not quite muster the will to smile back. Not just yet. A few more drinks, perhaps...
He glanced down at his feet, blackened by a layer of soot. He passed an uncritical eye over his shorts with cigarette holes in them, his unwashed shirt with pepperoni stains and ran his hands through his beard which was beginning to resemble the Amazon forest not just in its density, but its potential suitability to support an ecosystem within its undisturbed wildlands.
“When had it come to this?” he asked himself. He knew the answer to that. It had been this bad for only a few days now.
Just a few days ago, she had left him.
He remembered hanging out around the house as recently as a month ago. He had never been one to socialize or host parties or live the wild life. A book, a conversation, a piece of music and a bite to eat constituted his perfect day. Only that... and her.
When she left him, he flailed. Uncontrollably, unabashedly, he panicked. His mind reacted like a despairing man in the face of death would, irrationally, self destructively... dangerously. He had tried to stop the spiral by anaesthetizing it with alcohol. Nothing else occurred to him to arrest the perilous momentum his brain had gathered on its path to destruction. The alcohol had been lying around the house, but he had never needed it before. Now he drowned himself in it with the sole aim of flooding his brain with this heavenly poison and trapping it in a deluge of intoxication so that it would have no time to ponder its own emptiness.
From the moment she had left him, he had not left his room, unless it was a trip to the bathroom to relieve himself by urinating or vomiting. On many occasions, his state of inebriation had not allowed him to complete the trip all the way to the bathroom, which resulted in intermittent puddles of undigested pizza also finding their place amongst the plastic wilderness. For the rest of his conscious hours, he was drinking.
Even in the depths of drunkenness, he could see her flawlessness before him. Her beauty, her ethereal form ran through his head as if it were a melody. The gentleness of the winter sun’s heat upon chilly skin, the ecstasy of a cold brook’s ripples running over one’s feet, the beautiful descent into blissful repose that only accompanied sleep or death; all these delightful sensations could be encompassed in her person. If this were a mythology, she would be the Goddess embodying bliss.
And then, just like that, before his mind’s eye, just as in reality, she faded into nothingness. Her luminescence extinguished unceremoniously, her radiance quenched disrespectfully. Now, he could see nothing but darkness enveloping him. It suited him, this darkness. It prevented clear sight into the carnage that her departure had left in its wake.
He remembered the days when they had been constant companions. She had been a perpetual reassurance to his sense of self. She was his source of ambition and his anchor of humility. She was what he aspired to even as he held her within his grasp. With her, the world lay at his mercy.
And now, nothing. His room bore witness to his worth without her. A dishonourable wreck, loveless, faithless, purposeless. And what seared blindingly into his mind, whiting out every other possible thought in his head, was that she never looked back. She never hesitated. She never returned. She just up and left, and that was that.
He wondered how long he could continue like this. How long would his body hold out, how long would his funds last, how long would his sanity last? He considered a slow crawl back to reality. Maybe this should be his last bottle. He could take a couple of days to recover and then attempt to normalize his life once more.
But the mere notion of living brought back all too vividly the memory as well as the sensation of pain that had been crippling him for the last few days. It was this pain that had kept him from sobriety. It had been three days, but even now he trembled at the prospect of facing up to the excruciation without the aid of alcoholic numbness.
He raged at reality, at optimism, at life. There wasn’t a single peaceful patch in his life that he could recall that hadn’t been punctured by the most spirit sapping mishaps and mischances. She had been life’s one answer to his pessimism. And now, devoid of her presence, he felt akin to the lonely boatsman stranded at sea who sees nothing but a vast expanse of blue stretched out in all directions with no indication whatsoever to guide him as to which course he should pursue.
Like the boatsman, he now resolved to give up, to let his body consume itself, to let it give in. He longed for painlessness and he could see only one path to it. He sighed, resigning himself to wait for peace. A different peace from the one he felt just a few days ago.
A few days ago, before Poetry had left him.
The plastic bottles from the aerated drinks that he used to mix with his rum when he began the drinking binge. The crumpled mountains of plastic glasses that he had run through in the past few days, strewn in ever growing concentric circles around his lazy boy. The vast majority of them were right behind him, because what he could not see did not bother him immediately. Especially since it had been days since he could remember being sober. Also, mingling with the plastic bottles and cups were visible three days worth of cardboard pizza boxes.
His ashtray had filled up a long time ago and he had continued smoking and disposing of the ash and butts directly into his large dustbin. He hadn’t changed his clothes for the whole duration and the stench would have bothered him if it weren’t for the overpowering perfume emanating from the glass bottles that surrounded him in their preferential seats of reverence. The bottles were cube shaped, with the edges rounded off, and the top thinning out into a bottleneck. The picture of an old monk smiled up at him from each of their labels. He could not quite muster the will to smile back. Not just yet. A few more drinks, perhaps...
He glanced down at his feet, blackened by a layer of soot. He passed an uncritical eye over his shorts with cigarette holes in them, his unwashed shirt with pepperoni stains and ran his hands through his beard which was beginning to resemble the Amazon forest not just in its density, but its potential suitability to support an ecosystem within its undisturbed wildlands.
“When had it come to this?” he asked himself. He knew the answer to that. It had been this bad for only a few days now.
Just a few days ago, she had left him.
He remembered hanging out around the house as recently as a month ago. He had never been one to socialize or host parties or live the wild life. A book, a conversation, a piece of music and a bite to eat constituted his perfect day. Only that... and her.
When she left him, he flailed. Uncontrollably, unabashedly, he panicked. His mind reacted like a despairing man in the face of death would, irrationally, self destructively... dangerously. He had tried to stop the spiral by anaesthetizing it with alcohol. Nothing else occurred to him to arrest the perilous momentum his brain had gathered on its path to destruction. The alcohol had been lying around the house, but he had never needed it before. Now he drowned himself in it with the sole aim of flooding his brain with this heavenly poison and trapping it in a deluge of intoxication so that it would have no time to ponder its own emptiness.
From the moment she had left him, he had not left his room, unless it was a trip to the bathroom to relieve himself by urinating or vomiting. On many occasions, his state of inebriation had not allowed him to complete the trip all the way to the bathroom, which resulted in intermittent puddles of undigested pizza also finding their place amongst the plastic wilderness. For the rest of his conscious hours, he was drinking.
Even in the depths of drunkenness, he could see her flawlessness before him. Her beauty, her ethereal form ran through his head as if it were a melody. The gentleness of the winter sun’s heat upon chilly skin, the ecstasy of a cold brook’s ripples running over one’s feet, the beautiful descent into blissful repose that only accompanied sleep or death; all these delightful sensations could be encompassed in her person. If this were a mythology, she would be the Goddess embodying bliss.
And then, just like that, before his mind’s eye, just as in reality, she faded into nothingness. Her luminescence extinguished unceremoniously, her radiance quenched disrespectfully. Now, he could see nothing but darkness enveloping him. It suited him, this darkness. It prevented clear sight into the carnage that her departure had left in its wake.
He remembered the days when they had been constant companions. She had been a perpetual reassurance to his sense of self. She was his source of ambition and his anchor of humility. She was what he aspired to even as he held her within his grasp. With her, the world lay at his mercy.
And now, nothing. His room bore witness to his worth without her. A dishonourable wreck, loveless, faithless, purposeless. And what seared blindingly into his mind, whiting out every other possible thought in his head, was that she never looked back. She never hesitated. She never returned. She just up and left, and that was that.
He wondered how long he could continue like this. How long would his body hold out, how long would his funds last, how long would his sanity last? He considered a slow crawl back to reality. Maybe this should be his last bottle. He could take a couple of days to recover and then attempt to normalize his life once more.
But the mere notion of living brought back all too vividly the memory as well as the sensation of pain that had been crippling him for the last few days. It was this pain that had kept him from sobriety. It had been three days, but even now he trembled at the prospect of facing up to the excruciation without the aid of alcoholic numbness.
He raged at reality, at optimism, at life. There wasn’t a single peaceful patch in his life that he could recall that hadn’t been punctured by the most spirit sapping mishaps and mischances. She had been life’s one answer to his pessimism. And now, devoid of her presence, he felt akin to the lonely boatsman stranded at sea who sees nothing but a vast expanse of blue stretched out in all directions with no indication whatsoever to guide him as to which course he should pursue.
Like the boatsman, he now resolved to give up, to let his body consume itself, to let it give in. He longed for painlessness and he could see only one path to it. He sighed, resigning himself to wait for peace. A different peace from the one he felt just a few days ago.
A few days ago, before Poetry had left him.
Saturday, 10 October 2015
Unravelled
Two strands of Fate, once entwined,
Set out their destinies to unravel;
To find what freedom they could find,
To travel where they longed to travel;
Into nothingness traversing blind,
To submit to Escape’s mighty gavel.
They weren’t the first to choose that path,
But those before had left no signs,
No guidebook to escape Reality’s wrath,
No landmark that their route defines,
To soak their selves in the bloodbath
Where matter and anti-matter combines.
They happened across a kindly sage
And stopped to hear what he would say;
And hoped the wisdom that comes with age
Would help prevent them going astray;
And hope his discerning eye would gauge
Their plight and help show them the way.
“Pardon me, sir, we need some direction,
We search for death or obscurity,
Where no parent frowns on imperfection
And no priest insists on purity,
Where there is no chance of resurrection,
And oblivion is a surety.”
The sage replied, “Death is not hard
To find at all, I hardly think you two,
Whose minds I hold in high regard,
Have ever harbored any intention to
Take measures to ignominiously discard
That shell that your soul suffers through.”
The two sat in silent, stricken wonder,
At the sage’s omniscient sight,
And answered, voices dark as thunder,
“’Tis true, death gives us no delight,
We seek body and soul thus to surrender,
That our body lives but soul takes flight.”
“Ah”, said the sage, “The truth at last.
So that’s where you two wish to go,
Insanity, the refuge of the harassed,
The shelter from intellectual vertigo,
The world that offers grim repast
To thirsting hearts drunk with woe.”
“Of life, of reason, of expectation,
Where is oblivion, where the end?
I will show you the way to your destination,
But pray you don’t reap the dividend
Of this flirtation with abnegation;
Insanity, you’ll find, is just round the bend.“
Set out their destinies to unravel;
To find what freedom they could find,
To travel where they longed to travel;
Into nothingness traversing blind,
To submit to Escape’s mighty gavel.
They weren’t the first to choose that path,
But those before had left no signs,
No guidebook to escape Reality’s wrath,
No landmark that their route defines,
To soak their selves in the bloodbath
Where matter and anti-matter combines.
They happened across a kindly sage
And stopped to hear what he would say;
And hoped the wisdom that comes with age
Would help prevent them going astray;
And hope his discerning eye would gauge
Their plight and help show them the way.
“Pardon me, sir, we need some direction,
We search for death or obscurity,
Where no parent frowns on imperfection
And no priest insists on purity,
Where there is no chance of resurrection,
And oblivion is a surety.”
The sage replied, “Death is not hard
To find at all, I hardly think you two,
Whose minds I hold in high regard,
Have ever harbored any intention to
Take measures to ignominiously discard
That shell that your soul suffers through.”
The two sat in silent, stricken wonder,
At the sage’s omniscient sight,
And answered, voices dark as thunder,
“’Tis true, death gives us no delight,
We seek body and soul thus to surrender,
That our body lives but soul takes flight.”
“Ah”, said the sage, “The truth at last.
So that’s where you two wish to go,
Insanity, the refuge of the harassed,
The shelter from intellectual vertigo,
The world that offers grim repast
To thirsting hearts drunk with woe.”
“Of life, of reason, of expectation,
Where is oblivion, where the end?
I will show you the way to your destination,
But pray you don’t reap the dividend
Of this flirtation with abnegation;
Insanity, you’ll find, is just round the bend.“
Monday, 5 October 2015
Dil hi toh hai na sang-o-khisht - A Translation of Ghalib's Ghazal
(A big thank you to Deepanshi for her help with the translation)
The original:
Dil hi to hai na sang-o-khist, dard se bhar na aye kyu,
Royenge hum hazar baar, koi humein sataye kyu?
Dair nahi haram nahi dar nahi aastan nahi,
Baithe hain reh guzar pe hum gair humein uthaye kyu?
Quaid-e-hayat o band-e-gham asl main dono ek hain,
Maut se pehle admi gham se najaat paye kyu?
Haan wo nahi khuda parast jao wo bewafa sahi,
Jisko ho deen-o-dil aziz uski gali main jaye kyu?
Ghalib-e-khast ke bagair kaunse kaam band hain,
Roeeye zaar zaar kya keejiye haye haye kyu?
Translation:
‘Tis a heart's, neither brick's nor stone's domain,
Why wouldn’t it overflow with pain?
I will cry a thousand tears of woe,
Must they disturb my sorrowful strain?
I pollute not houses of worship, not gates or doorsteps;
I sit on common passageways, must they ask me to move again?
The prison of life is no different from the fetters of woe;
Why, then, ere he dies, should man be freed from sorrow's chains?
Granted, he has lost his faith, certainly, he is disloyal;
Those who hold religion or love dear, must they then loiter in his lanes?
Has the absence of Ghalib hindered the world in any way?
If not, then why weep so bitter, why this loud refrain?
The original:
Dil hi to hai na sang-o-khist, dard se bhar na aye kyu,
Royenge hum hazar baar, koi humein sataye kyu?
Dair nahi haram nahi dar nahi aastan nahi,
Baithe hain reh guzar pe hum gair humein uthaye kyu?
Quaid-e-hayat o band-e-gham asl main dono ek hain,
Maut se pehle admi gham se najaat paye kyu?
Haan wo nahi khuda parast jao wo bewafa sahi,
Jisko ho deen-o-dil aziz uski gali main jaye kyu?
Ghalib-e-khast ke bagair kaunse kaam band hain,
Roeeye zaar zaar kya keejiye haye haye kyu?
Translation:
‘Tis a heart's, neither brick's nor stone's domain,
Why wouldn’t it overflow with pain?
I will cry a thousand tears of woe,
Must they disturb my sorrowful strain?
I pollute not houses of worship, not gates or doorsteps;
I sit on common passageways, must they ask me to move again?
The prison of life is no different from the fetters of woe;
Why, then, ere he dies, should man be freed from sorrow's chains?
Granted, he has lost his faith, certainly, he is disloyal;
Those who hold religion or love dear, must they then loiter in his lanes?
Has the absence of Ghalib hindered the world in any way?
If not, then why weep so bitter, why this loud refrain?
Saturday, 3 October 2015
Winged Whispers
A menace of red droplets hover,
The horizon darkens red;
Amongst the bloodshot cloud cover
Some whispered words embed
Themselves, for those minds to discover
That are from life unwed.
The shells of life unfurl before
The onlooking eyes, aghast;
The morbid sight that men deplore,
They're forced to watch, steadfast;
The eyes that wary watch the shore
For the dreaded beetroot mast.
A hero grim amongst them stood
Of stature hard and strong;
A creature that to a noble brood
And to noble stock belonged;
A creature bound to causes good,
Sworn saviour of the wronged.
He strode forward before the rest,
His wings he cast out wide,
To put to their sternest test
The strength of ship and tide,
To cause with his mighty chest
The raging waves to subside.
His wings he cast also up high
To battle with the clouds;
The droplets that ever drew nigh
To rain death upon the crowds,
Those droplet-laden clouds ran dry
By the force of his winged shroud.
Cloud and shell struck his frame
And naught was allowed to pass;
The almighty gale was rendered tame
By his all consuming mass;
But the evil storm that has no name
Took its customary toll, alas!
The hero took along with him all
That possessed the strength to harm
The frailty, that we wonderingly call
Life, and thereby preserved its charm;
The hero perished, but ere his fall,
Evil fell by his winged arms.
The masses, awe struck, beheld
Their hero's fearless nobility;
They stood still as he was felled
And watched his death set them free;
And now, the danger being expelled,
They cast him solemnly out to sea.
But the droplets will loom large again,
Again the ships will form their fleet;
The harbingers of grief and pain
Will soon resume their dreadful beat;
The heroes endeavour in vain
To stall the Fate we all must meet.
The horizon darkens red;
Amongst the bloodshot cloud cover
Some whispered words embed
Themselves, for those minds to discover
That are from life unwed.
The shells of life unfurl before
The onlooking eyes, aghast;
The morbid sight that men deplore,
They're forced to watch, steadfast;
The eyes that wary watch the shore
For the dreaded beetroot mast.
A hero grim amongst them stood
Of stature hard and strong;
A creature that to a noble brood
And to noble stock belonged;
A creature bound to causes good,
Sworn saviour of the wronged.
He strode forward before the rest,
His wings he cast out wide,
To put to their sternest test
The strength of ship and tide,
To cause with his mighty chest
The raging waves to subside.
His wings he cast also up high
To battle with the clouds;
The droplets that ever drew nigh
To rain death upon the crowds,
Those droplet-laden clouds ran dry
By the force of his winged shroud.
Cloud and shell struck his frame
And naught was allowed to pass;
The almighty gale was rendered tame
By his all consuming mass;
But the evil storm that has no name
Took its customary toll, alas!
The hero took along with him all
That possessed the strength to harm
The frailty, that we wonderingly call
Life, and thereby preserved its charm;
The hero perished, but ere his fall,
Evil fell by his winged arms.
The masses, awe struck, beheld
Their hero's fearless nobility;
They stood still as he was felled
And watched his death set them free;
And now, the danger being expelled,
They cast him solemnly out to sea.
But the droplets will loom large again,
Again the ships will form their fleet;
The harbingers of grief and pain
Will soon resume their dreadful beat;
The heroes endeavour in vain
To stall the Fate we all must meet.
Thursday, 24 September 2015
My Pilonidal Abscess
Agonizing anal abscesses
Throb between the cheeks
From the innermost recesses
Putrescent pus leaks
Foul fumes and slimy skin
Marked with bluish lines
Pervert what was to be akin
To the image of the divine
Insidious, it gradually gnaws away
At my flesh perpetually
Spreading mini-death and mass decay
It wreaks more misery
When removed it leaves behind
An abyss of emptiness
A pit of blood and pain combined
My Pilonidal Abscess
Throb between the cheeks
From the innermost recesses
Putrescent pus leaks
Foul fumes and slimy skin
Marked with bluish lines
Pervert what was to be akin
To the image of the divine
Insidious, it gradually gnaws away
At my flesh perpetually
Spreading mini-death and mass decay
It wreaks more misery
When removed it leaves behind
An abyss of emptiness
A pit of blood and pain combined
My Pilonidal Abscess
Tuesday, 25 August 2015
Dissolution
There is immense quiet now. My eyes are closed, but my mind is filled with images, memories, vivid scenes from my short, meteoric life. I try to come back to reality, but I do not find anything to come back to. My memories seem to be my entirety. There is nothing outside of it.
I understand that I am dead. The fact that I am still thinking must mean that I currently exist in the form of a soul. Very well, that is one of my beliefs disproven already. It doesn’t matter anymore, really. I feel like I have just walked out of the examination hall. The only overpowering emotion I feel is relief.
I get back to concentrating on the memories playing out before me. I start analyzing them. There seem to be many of them playing at the same time. As is the human tendency, I immediately begin to search for a pattern to discern the manner in which they are categorized. It is then that I make my startling discovery.
I find that I exist within an enclosed space. And I am surrounded by memories on all sides. As far as I can tell, there is no escaping this enclosure, and it seems to exist solely to allow me to choose which set of memories I wish to view. But what strikes me as unnatural is the shape of the space. I assume I am somewhere near the center and I see two long corridors stretch out to my left and right, and I can see the faint glimmer of memories playing out where the corridor ends. Two similar corridors open out behind me, again to the left and the right, though broader in width and closer together. In between these two corridors there is a small enclosure, almost like a store room which contains its own set of memories. And right in front of me is a circular room that seems to have the most vivid and comprehensive collection of memories.
It is dark inside; the only source of light is the glow from the memories flashing before me in every direction. I try to glance down at myself, but find nothing tangible, no body enclosing my consciousness. I realize I cannot blink, I cannot breathe. I possess all my sensory faculties without possessing any sensory organs. Then it hits me. My body has been right before my eyes all this while. I am inside it. I seem to have withdrawn within myself post mortem. Ironically, self exploration is to be my final act, having devoted most of my life directing my critical eye to the world around me.
I try to decide which set of memories to access first. The corridors I had listed out earlier I now understand to be my two arms, two legs, libido and brain respectively. I was sorely tempted to view the crystalline memories the brain possessed, but some vague premonitory feeling told me to leave that for last. I decided then to watch the memories stored in my left leg.
I step into the glow of the memories, unsure of how to go about it, but at once I find myself surrounded by light, blindingly white at first, until it slowly darkened into complete nothingness.
I waited in the darkness for a while for something to materialize, but nothing was forthcoming. And this darkness was neither disconcerting nor disturbing. On the contrary it seemed familiar, welcome. It was something I remembered from my life with fondness. It reminded me of the comfort of a cherished hideout when one wished to flee from the strains of living.
It was sleep.
I then realized I was back in the realms of reality, virtual reality at least. My memories would not play before me as on a cinema screen, I would relive them. I realize I was in the throes of darkness because my eyes are closed. I open them and immediately look down to inspect myself. I see my own body, but a younger version. I must have been ten or eleven at the time of this memory. It feels weird being back in a body. I feel trapped, restricted, human. My recent experience with out of body consciousness had given me a rare taste of freedom of movement which I had never experienced in life and which I would never have enough of. I yearned for these bodily fetters to be cast off once again. But presently the memory began to unfold before my eyes and disturbed my train of thought.
I saw before me an airport waiting room. My family and I were moving back to our native land, from the luxury of a metropolis to the suffocation of a small town. As a ten year old, I took the transition harder than most. Hiding my tears from my family, I hung about the waiting room, my mind swimming in the uncertain pools of conjecture, wondering how my life was going to change.
The memory dissolved into another one, this one took place later in my life, and my body grew accordingly. I saw myself saying goodbye to a dear friend nonchalantly, not knowing it was the last time I would ever speak to her. She was stolen away from me prematurely by the thankless hands of fate.
Similar scenes of departure and transitional phases from my life played out in an uncomfortable, unceasing flow. The sheer number of obstacles set in my path by life astounded me and compelled me to marvel at the fact that I had lived at all. Each of the experiences, I recognized, had had an irreversible effect on my personality and world view.
At length, after many tears and much self pity, the train of memories exhausted itself and I found myself back in the darkness of the corridor, formless and free once again. The corridor was no longer lit by the luminescence of the memories. I understood now the purpose behind my existence in this purgatory. I was overwhelmed by curiosity, as all men are in life, of what was to come after. It was to be hoped that, like Dante, I had been through the Inferno in life, was now in Purgatory and would subsequently come to Paradise. But if life had taught me anything, it was never to harbor hopes.
Nevertheless, I willed myself on to the next corridor, that which constituted my right leg. Once again I was enveloped by the blinding light followed by the comforting darkness. Once again I opened my eyes to find myself in a virtual reality bound by the physical limitations of a bodily existence.
I found myself in my bedroom as a child, my sister carrying me in her lap, reading to me fantastic tales from children’s books, setting alight within me the first flames of desire for books and the wondrous world of literature.
I saw myself in bed while my father faithfully narrated tales of danger and adventure from his own life while I lay captivated and awestruck at these seemingly impossible episodes which were to sow the preliminary conceptions of bravery and nobility which I was to follow for the rest of my life.
I felt the clasp of my mother’s fingers around my adolescent hands. Her face was stony, she was holding back tears. She seemed to be guiding me away from some troublesome affair or the other. Her hand was the one that pulled me out of a current that threatened to pull me under. It was there that I learnt the meaning of loyalty.
I relived with relish the moments when I first encountered my best friends who were to remain unwavering in their support of my endeavors throughout my life and provided me with both the grounding and the confidence to strive for what I wished to achieve.
I was transported to the moments when I discovered the authors who would shatter the foundations of my existence, jar me out of my naïve reverie and initiate me into the harsh climes of reality.
In this way every single moment in my life that had spurred me on to become who I had become, molded my identity, sculpted my personality, highlighted my qualities and carved out my peculiarities played out before my eyes.
At long last these, too, were exhausted. As the final glimmer faded into nothingness and I heaved a great sigh. All my contemplation previously had been for naught, for I realized that these exalted moments more than made up for all the trials and tribulations that I had endured. It did not matter how difficult one’s journey was as long as the destination rewarded one amply. And I was not so ungrateful as to deny my destination its worth.
I travelled back in a reflective mood. I now had a decision on my hands. The left side obviously contained memories of the negative nature of what the limb represented and the right one contained the positive. Which was I to view first?
Adhering to my life’s philosophy of hearing the bad news first and getting it over with, I made my way down my left arm and engulfed myself in its memories though I was consumed by no little amount of trepidation as to what I would encounter there.
I saw first the friends and loved ones I had wronged. I saw all my betrayals and hypocrisies displayed in uncensored, unforgiving clarity until I found myself bent over in disgust at myself and my behavior in life. It was astounding how many of these memories I had relegated to the furthest recesses of my mind when I was alive. To the end of my days I had viewed my own character with a certain amount of pride and complacence in comparison to others’. But this rerun of encounters from almost every phase of my life brought my perception of myself into stark contrast with what I really was. And what made it worse was that there was no one I could justify myself to. No one else was privy to this information. I was the only witness to my own pathetic state, and I was precisely the only person I could not lie to.
The vehicle of unpleasant remembrances now changed tracks. It displayed to me all the times I had been wronged by others or by fate. I saw true love being perverted by a malignant lie. I saw those who were expected to stick by me in times of duress instead turn out to be the ones who offered me up as a sacrificial lamb, I saw my only chance at happiness with a soulmate stolen from me by Fate, whose workings the mightiest of men cannot overcome.
I understood this set of memories to represent all the bonds of communication I had formed in life that had gone wrong whether the fault lay with me, someone else or with no one at all. The severed ties and painful separations that peppered my life were revisited in chronological order and the recollection of so many painful moments whether guilt-inducing or pity-inducing were too much for me to bear, and the end of the memories found me in a confounded daze.
If time still had any meaning, I suppose I must have floated around in that daze for many hours, if not days. But eventually, rousing myself to action, I willed myself to the right arm and comforted myself with the knowledge that this set would comprise of all the positive bonds I had formed in my lifetime.
Sure enough, I was inundated with memories of the most pleasurable moments of my life which invariably took place when I was surrounded by the handful of people I held dearer to me than life itself.
I saw the comfortable, disjointed kitchen in which my two friends cooked for me while I lounged nearby, reading a book, while the pangs of hunger gnawed at my insides.
I heard the voice of another friend through my telephone, with whom I shared many hours of misanthropic philosophizing though many miles and years separated us.
I was reminded of the people of genius that periodically graced my life through the glint of an inscribed golden ring that was gifted to me.
The pleasing nature of these memories had me in raptures of delight, but as is usually the case, they ended all too soon. As the memories extinguished, I felt as if all the pleasures of life had been stolen from me all over again. I raged at nothing or no one in particular, but with exceptional vigor.
With time, this wave of emotion too receded, and I found myself facing my libidinal memories, something I did not look forward to. The unapologetic frankness with which my memories had bared the most shameful sections of my life left me somewhat disconcerted as to what I would be reminded of in this section of reminiscences. But it was solely the curiosity of what my brain held, those most vivid memories that I had earlier espied, that spurred me on to remove these last of nagging chores from my path.
Trying to ignore the surreal nature of the fact that I was now entering my own libido, I submitted myself to the penultimate memory cluster.
Immediately, I found myself in a whirlwind of memories dating back to my infancy when I did not even possess the ability to form coherent sentences. These memories were unlike others in that they were characterized by little or no thought, merely pure, animalistic urges and instincts. Even when witnessing the moments in retrospect, I found myself completely at the mercy of those urges and whims and the section of my brain that was ruled by reason was conspicuous by its absence. Even actions that on the surface had no connection to my baser side were shown to me, forcing me to accept how many times I was unwittingly puppeteered by my libido to behave in uncharacteristic ways that defied any logic or thought process.
The peculiarities of these memories were doubly enhanced by the fact that even now I was unable to pass judgments upon them. I did not feel disgust at the inappropriate nature of those thoughts, I did not feel indignation at their intensity, I merely felt desire. Every memory that flashed before me aroused in me the same latent craving that it had in its original form. The entire phenomena served no other purpose than to remind me of the beast that resided within me throughout my life no matter what sophisticated notion I held of myself. The beast may have been shackled, but it would never be tamed.
Disturbed and disoriented, I found myself reflecting upon how this most natural and deeply rooted of our instincts was portrayed to us as ugly and base, and to what extent we had deluded ourselves as to how much we controlled it as opposed to how much it controlled us. The very thing I spent all my life combating had just been found to insidiously influence every facet of my life.
To this inflamed state of mind came relief in the form of the memories awaiting me in the brain. Having exhausted all other memories, and having learnt the ugly lessons that introspection sought to teach me, I now relished the prospect of enmeshing myself in the intricacies of the very organ that had held me enthralled all my life.
The brilliant glare lured me, moth-like, and I trembled with anticipation, dissolving myself into this final frontier of memory-realms.
I was aware already of a key difference: I did not reside within a body as I did in each of my previous skirmishes. This, then, was not to be a straightforward recounting of mental endeavors.
I found myself travelling at an immense speed, hurtling through the air, formlessly whizzing past barren deserts and insignificant swamplands. I crossed stormy oceans and calm seas, frothing rivers and furious waterfalls, serene lakes and murky pools. I crossed lush grasslands and dense forests, sprawling plains and blooming gardens. I crossed bustling cities and ravaged villages. Each time a new feature presented itself on the horizon, my anticipation peaked, expecting it to be my destination, but on each occasion I merely flitted by it, not even bothering to slow down.
Finally, I saw a mountain range, vast beyond belief, with each hulk of landmass towering over me until I felt like a lowly rodent even as I flew effortlessly through the skies. As I neared them, I recognized in each peak a moment from my life when I had experienced a moment of elevated being.
I saw moments when a piece of music had transported me beyond ordinary pleasure into a nirvana-like state of mind.
I saw represented conversations in which I had happened upon an eternal truth, whether by blind luck, by conscientious research or whether with the help and guidance of those around me.
I saw the highest peak reflect those moments from my life when I brought the entirety of my life’s purpose into tangible existence by embodying it in art.
From these exalted heights I was immediately dragged down to the depths of the valleys where I was shown every flaw in my thinking with astonishing simplicity and clarity so that there was no urge to argue or even doubt their validity.
Every folly, forgivable or just plain embarrassing, was highlighted for me, and the mistaken leaps in logic that I had made were pointed out to me, not it a condescending or reproving manner, but in the unassuming manner in which Truth always conducts itself, never deigning to defend itself, comfortable in the knowledge that it is unchangeable and eternal and simply stating its case.
My whole life in thought, complete with its commendable qualities and its reprehensible flaws was decoded before my eyes. What struck me most of all was the inescapable duplicity in everything. How the same character was prone to both extremes of behavior under circumstances that he hardly ever had a say in. How I could hate hypocrisy all my life and yet be just as prone to it as the next person. How I could train one side of my mind to appreciate none but the most elevated forms of culture, and yet carry within me all those primal urges that dictate my actions solely based on instinct and completely contrary to reason. Conflict and harmony, love and hate, loyalty and betrayal, fear and courage, happiness and grief; all these opposites seemed to thrive off of each other, with the existence of one depending on the existence of the other and vice versa.
With this realization, I saw before me the lowest valleys and the highest peaks level each other out until I beheld nothing but an immense expanse of earth extending infinitely in every direction. I could sense I was almost done now, but one final question that had troubled me since the beginning finally made itself felt in earnest now that every other doubt and query had been answered satisfactorily.
I took flight, rising to the highest limits of existence and, on finding nothing to satisfy my doubts, plunged to the lowest depths as well. Still I remained answerless, and still I scoured the realms for signs, tangible or not, of the existence of the only thing which would render all the peaks of my life meaningless. When each boundary of my consciousness had been tested to my satisfaction without giving me any reason to change my opinions, I found myself flooded with a feeling of unrivalled tranquility. The universe around me shimmered and shivered into non existence and I found myself back in my body in complete darkness.
No longer unsure, I made my way back towards the center, from whence this cathartic experience had commenced. I found myself entering the heart. It held no memories, but lay instead congealed with cold blood and slime. Into this crimson grave I lowered myself at last and was consumed till I was no more.
Thursday, 6 August 2015
Elevation
Alone, perched upon the precipice,
The Thinker, swathed in Olympian bliss,
Thought thoughts of Truth and Power.
The din to his ears did not rise,
He did not witness Mankind’s demise
From his lofty ivory tower.
He fashioned fantastical fancies,
Complete, bereft of discrepancies
And no loopholes in its plot.
He wondrous wizardries wove,
Not of jealousy or of love,
But of far profounder thought.
Below, a clamour for his words,
The indignant, ignorant herds
Demanded of him exoneration.
He was to descend from his cave,
Provide the enlightenment they crave,
And forge the path to exculpation.
But He, proceeding warily,
Found instead, quite contrarily,
Grave danger in this plan.
The worthiest of ideas were prone,
As oft our history makes known,
To perversion by the hands of man.
In comparing the worth of each,
(The idea, and those he meant to teach)
He found a gaping chasm.
Mankind, he found with flaws replete
(Weakness, and ironic conceit,
And virtue a mere phantasm).
Those waiting below shrivelled slowly,
Bewailing fate, forsaken thoroughly,
They knew now he would never return.
The Thinker would not descend,
Mankind would never comprehend,
Prometheus’ flame would never burn.
Alone, in his contemplative recluse,
The Thinker, with Narcissus as his muse,
Celebrated with elevated gaiety.
He had entered as a lowly being,
From predestined obscurity fleeing,
And had now become a deity.
Friday, 3 July 2015
Be Not That Breeze
Be Not That Breeze.
Are you the gentle breeze that,
Wafting timidly o’er the arid lands,
Bring with it the bounteous seeds
Of life, scattering them far and wide
Over barren plains and greying crags,
Altering the countenance of what we
Perceived originally to be a reminder
Of the infertility of Man’s endeavours?
Are you the breeze that brings with it
The clouds of dreaminess that darken
At the sight of the lifeless landscape
And then, in zestful fury, rain down
Upon it the droplets of metamorphosis
Painting in vivid, bright colours the
Banners of exuberance and plenty?
Are you the breeze that can bear not
The sight of an expanse that, Dreadful
To the eye, disturbs the peaceful mien
Of the Universe, that otherwise seems
To exist for eternity, preserved, as if
It were an artist’s masterpiece hidden
Away from the ravages of time, that its
Beauty may never dilute, that aesthetics
Mayn’t suffer the consequences of life?
Are you the breeze that would cover the
Dust of the soil with the balm of grass,
Resurrect the diseased, deceased Cypress
And fill its underworked, empty boughs
With the fragrant tinctures of nectar and
Fruit, forcing its hard, proud posture to
Adopt a more humble stance, bowing in
Servitude to the pleasures of reproduction,
Trapping it in the sphere of temporality?
Saith the Wise: Be not that breeze.
The dusty soil that you would see covered
In the cloak of refreshing greenery, that
Dust is made of particles of Truth that,
Accumulated over eons of experiencing
Reality with Nature as its supreme Goddess,
Know intimately the innermost machinations
of the Cosmos. The terror one feels when
Exposed to the emptiness of its physiognomy
Is akin to the shudder that travels down his
Spine when Man stares out into light years
Of space and realizes the vast extent of utter
Nothingness that surrounds him. It is the yelp
Of a terrified beast that realizes it has nothing
To fall back upon, that no help is forthcoming.
You wish to cover the soil of Truthfulness
With the grass of Faith, seeking to calm
Your frayed nerves with the pleasurable
Visage of botanical constructs, dismissing
From the eye-line the uncomfortable tale
That undulates before one’s eyes if only
One wishes to see it. Faith prevents sight.
The Cypress that you would see covered
In fruits and flowers is the Tree of Wisdom,
Made hard and proud by ages of difficult
Lessons, learnt as it inevitably is by all who
Live long enough and refrain from shutting
Their eyes to the world at the first sign of
Danger. It was barren because it wished to
Impart to whosoever would behold it, wisdom
Unencumbered, unburdened, unweighted
By unnecessary embellishments, justifications,
Interpretations and unwarranted dilutions.
It stood erect, proud, in the face of Time,
Because it knew with equitable certainty
That all it possessed within itself contained
No single particle of falsification, untruth,
Or even a minor misrepresentation. That
Tree of Wisdom thou wouldst now see
Laden with the flora of Love. Love, that
Bane of the thirst for greatness, for pride,
For transcendence, the enemy that turns
Virtue into vice, vice into virtue. The boughs
That withstood centuries of strenuous and
Relentless examinations without once letting
Its structure being compromised, today bows
Lowly as a common slave towards the ground
Weighed down by the burdens that the existence
Of Love necessitates. Love, too prevents sight.
Saith the Wise: Be not that breeze.
Be instead the Tempest that, howling with the
Ferocity of a soul in eternal torment, roars
Through the landscape, dispersing before itself
The reverie inducing clouds, allowing them only
In their haste to send down a smattering of
Thunderbolts that wield woe and destruction
On any frail being trying to stake its claim on a
Fragment of existence. Be the Tempest that
Rips the grass from its very roots and sends it
Scurrying into the horizon with such fervour
That it will never return again to these lands.
Be the Tempest that tears from the branches
Of the Cypress every last petal of naïveté that
Stained the expression of weather beaten wisdom.
Lay bare the crags, untether the dust, unfetter
The boughs, unveil the skies. Unleash, O most
Terrible of creations, all the terror that resides
Within you, and let it wreak havoc on whatever
It encounters. No frail deceptions or beautiful
Lies are built on foundations strong enough
To survive its wrath. Truth and Wisdom need
No protecting, and let all else fall away.
A single, fleeting glimpse of the true Nature
Of the Universe contains more beauty in that
Moment of nakedness than a lifetime of Love
Or Faith could place at your disposal. Fear not
Truth, rather be awestruck by its magnificence,
For Truth alone brings sight.
And so saith the Wise:
Be not that Breeze, But be the Tempest.
Are you the gentle breeze that,
Wafting timidly o’er the arid lands,
Bring with it the bounteous seeds
Of life, scattering them far and wide
Over barren plains and greying crags,
Altering the countenance of what we
Perceived originally to be a reminder
Of the infertility of Man’s endeavours?
Are you the breeze that brings with it
The clouds of dreaminess that darken
At the sight of the lifeless landscape
And then, in zestful fury, rain down
Upon it the droplets of metamorphosis
Painting in vivid, bright colours the
Banners of exuberance and plenty?
Are you the breeze that can bear not
The sight of an expanse that, Dreadful
To the eye, disturbs the peaceful mien
Of the Universe, that otherwise seems
To exist for eternity, preserved, as if
It were an artist’s masterpiece hidden
Away from the ravages of time, that its
Beauty may never dilute, that aesthetics
Mayn’t suffer the consequences of life?
Are you the breeze that would cover the
Dust of the soil with the balm of grass,
Resurrect the diseased, deceased Cypress
And fill its underworked, empty boughs
With the fragrant tinctures of nectar and
Fruit, forcing its hard, proud posture to
Adopt a more humble stance, bowing in
Servitude to the pleasures of reproduction,
Trapping it in the sphere of temporality?
Saith the Wise: Be not that breeze.
The dusty soil that you would see covered
In the cloak of refreshing greenery, that
Dust is made of particles of Truth that,
Accumulated over eons of experiencing
Reality with Nature as its supreme Goddess,
Know intimately the innermost machinations
of the Cosmos. The terror one feels when
Exposed to the emptiness of its physiognomy
Is akin to the shudder that travels down his
Spine when Man stares out into light years
Of space and realizes the vast extent of utter
Nothingness that surrounds him. It is the yelp
Of a terrified beast that realizes it has nothing
To fall back upon, that no help is forthcoming.
You wish to cover the soil of Truthfulness
With the grass of Faith, seeking to calm
Your frayed nerves with the pleasurable
Visage of botanical constructs, dismissing
From the eye-line the uncomfortable tale
That undulates before one’s eyes if only
One wishes to see it. Faith prevents sight.
The Cypress that you would see covered
In fruits and flowers is the Tree of Wisdom,
Made hard and proud by ages of difficult
Lessons, learnt as it inevitably is by all who
Live long enough and refrain from shutting
Their eyes to the world at the first sign of
Danger. It was barren because it wished to
Impart to whosoever would behold it, wisdom
Unencumbered, unburdened, unweighted
By unnecessary embellishments, justifications,
Interpretations and unwarranted dilutions.
It stood erect, proud, in the face of Time,
Because it knew with equitable certainty
That all it possessed within itself contained
No single particle of falsification, untruth,
Or even a minor misrepresentation. That
Tree of Wisdom thou wouldst now see
Laden with the flora of Love. Love, that
Bane of the thirst for greatness, for pride,
For transcendence, the enemy that turns
Virtue into vice, vice into virtue. The boughs
That withstood centuries of strenuous and
Relentless examinations without once letting
Its structure being compromised, today bows
Lowly as a common slave towards the ground
Weighed down by the burdens that the existence
Of Love necessitates. Love, too prevents sight.
Saith the Wise: Be not that breeze.
Be instead the Tempest that, howling with the
Ferocity of a soul in eternal torment, roars
Through the landscape, dispersing before itself
The reverie inducing clouds, allowing them only
In their haste to send down a smattering of
Thunderbolts that wield woe and destruction
On any frail being trying to stake its claim on a
Fragment of existence. Be the Tempest that
Rips the grass from its very roots and sends it
Scurrying into the horizon with such fervour
That it will never return again to these lands.
Be the Tempest that tears from the branches
Of the Cypress every last petal of naïveté that
Stained the expression of weather beaten wisdom.
Lay bare the crags, untether the dust, unfetter
The boughs, unveil the skies. Unleash, O most
Terrible of creations, all the terror that resides
Within you, and let it wreak havoc on whatever
It encounters. No frail deceptions or beautiful
Lies are built on foundations strong enough
To survive its wrath. Truth and Wisdom need
No protecting, and let all else fall away.
A single, fleeting glimpse of the true Nature
Of the Universe contains more beauty in that
Moment of nakedness than a lifetime of Love
Or Faith could place at your disposal. Fear not
Truth, rather be awestruck by its magnificence,
For Truth alone brings sight.
And so saith the Wise:
Be not that Breeze, But be the Tempest.
Thursday, 2 July 2015
For Those Who Would Brave Tempests
“Who thinks tempests dance too quickly?”
Asked the Master, moustache thickly
Brimming, bristling with indignation,
“Consign the lepers to damnation!
None may tarry here who can’t
Wield a terror so puissant
That all the diseased vermin flee
In the dread face of its potency."
To them:
"Strong winds, blizzards, thunder, hail,
Are no friends to those who flail
Helpless in the face of woe,
We conquer both friend and foe.
Judge us, lowlies, if it please thee
If judgement thus doth appease thee
Where we stand you cannot reach
Stagnate below and empty preach!"
To us:
"Revel, rejoice, let the wine flow
Face undaunted the Inferno,
What fear could Hell bring to us?
We are the children of Dionysus!
Dance like a newly birthed star
Be not neighbours, rather fly afar;
Dig deep within yourselves, then tell
The frail ones of the depth of your well."
To Mankind:
"This land our Paradise is, embodiment of majesty
We will not stoop to vulgar bliss, death is not a travesty
We fear not teetering upon this peril-fraught precipice
On the edge is our Eden, and beyond is the abyss!
We are the madmen who claim our time is not yet come
Let the naïve seek their fame, we will allow them martyrdom
Flourish, men of fortitude, we need neither aid nor succour
We are Nature’s objective, the weak are a mere detour."
Asked the Master, moustache thickly
Brimming, bristling with indignation,
“Consign the lepers to damnation!
None may tarry here who can’t
Wield a terror so puissant
That all the diseased vermin flee
In the dread face of its potency."
To them:
"Strong winds, blizzards, thunder, hail,
Are no friends to those who flail
Helpless in the face of woe,
We conquer both friend and foe.
Judge us, lowlies, if it please thee
If judgement thus doth appease thee
Where we stand you cannot reach
Stagnate below and empty preach!"
To us:
"Revel, rejoice, let the wine flow
Face undaunted the Inferno,
What fear could Hell bring to us?
We are the children of Dionysus!
Dance like a newly birthed star
Be not neighbours, rather fly afar;
Dig deep within yourselves, then tell
The frail ones of the depth of your well."
To Mankind:
"This land our Paradise is, embodiment of majesty
We will not stoop to vulgar bliss, death is not a travesty
We fear not teetering upon this peril-fraught precipice
On the edge is our Eden, and beyond is the abyss!
We are the madmen who claim our time is not yet come
Let the naïve seek their fame, we will allow them martyrdom
Flourish, men of fortitude, we need neither aid nor succour
We are Nature’s objective, the weak are a mere detour."
Saturday, 20 June 2015
The Consequences of Compassion
Algol sniffed the air, the scent of blood tensed her muscles up in anticipatory glee. This was no ordinary scent, this was deer meat. Her favourite.
Her instincts kicked into overdrive, crouching low, her muscular body hugged the ground as she landed her hind-paws in exactly the same spot that her fore-paws had just vacated, making no sound at all as she glided effortlessly around her victim, moving downwind so as to not alert the keen senses of the deer about her presence. When Algol slipped into predator mode, she existed in some sort of automated zone where every movement came to her without thought or reflection. In that moment she forgot her worries of finding a suitably strong mate so that she may further the cause of the species. She forgot the constant shifting of the territorial boundaries that she had to be wary of for her own well being. When she had prey within reach, the hunt consumed her mind completely.
Algol had been a solitary hunter since her mother had abandoned her at the age of two. She had been fully grown, but naive and reckless. She made many mistakes borne out of inexperience, and Nature hardly ever forgives errors from her subjects, but she had made it through the crucial orientation period and was now a feared predator in her hunting zone. Her healthy, bulky mass of muscle bore witness to her success rate which was amongst the best in her species. She was now in her prime and had enough experience to pick her targets to further aid her chances of bagging a juicy meal for herself.
Finding a perfectly placed patch of tall grass to camouflage her attack, Algol crept forward, head lowered, searching through the blades of grass for the creature to whom she was to bring the message of the Angel of Death. A minute of reconnaissance, and it was decided. A tender fawn stood ten metres away from its mother, staring into the distance while chewing on a blade of grass with such an air of nonchalance that it could only be excused on account of its inexperience.
Algol purred softly, congratulating herself on her good fortune. This would do very nicely indeed. A quick hunt, a juicy meal, a good night’s rest. Just as she liked it.
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Lyrae, reflected on her son’s behaviour with her heart weighed down with worry. She was a seasoned deer, and had reared many fawns successfully and had also seen many meet an early, untimely demise. She could tell, with the wisdom of Time, which ones were suitable for survival and which seemed doomed from the beginning. Spica seemed destined for the latter. He had a careless arrogance that was the bane of any prey species, and by an unfortunate coincidence, in the two weeks since his birth there had been no attacks on the herd, further dulling his sense of alertness to danger. She had done her part diligently, keeping as close to him as possible, trying to prevent him from straying too far from the herd, trying by example to instill in him the same instincts for survival that had allowed so many of her offspring to flourish. But Spica seemed blind to the constant threat to his kind and indeed showed an inclination to be a daredevil. It was a trait that went hand in hand with an early death. Lately, Lyrae had begun to wonder whether he was worth the effort at all. She had no wish to expend valuable energy in trying to save a lost cause.
Even as her frosty thoughts took this morbid turn, she heard the unmistakable rustle that could only signify the beginning of a hunt, quickly followed by the warning call of the deer who was on watch. Dread overcame her as she bolted, looking frantically around for Spica. She spotted him staring right at her with a look of petrification and she saw also a lioness flying through the air towards him. The maternal instinct within her raged, urging her to turn back and try to save her son’s life, but the voice of experience had taught her better, and she flew away with the rest of the herd, her mind blank from the pain that only a mother can feel at the loss of her child.
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Spica’s legs trembled as he trod on the hardened mud. He had barely learnt how to run a couple of days ago and still did not feel comfortable on his legs. The jumpiness of the deer around him used to make him jittery, but in two weeks he had not seen any reason for concern and was beginning to believe that his elders were prone to melodrama and exaggeration. His mother followed him around endlessly and he never seemed to get a single moment to himself and this bothered him no end. He did not understand why all the deer needed to travel, graze and rest together. He was perfectly capable of finding grass and grazing on his own and he most certainly could find a comfortable bed for himself with no trouble at all. It was irksome to him that he needed to share his patch of grass with another ten fawns, each of them stumbling and bumbling into each other, nudging each others’ mouths out of the way to get at a patch of grass.
He had noticed, however, that his mother had gradually begun to lose her zest for stalking him and for the past few days had allowed him sufficient room to alleviate his feelings of suffocation. He particularly enjoyed walking some distance from the herd and tending to his thoughts in relative solitude as he was doing right now.
As he reflected happily on his new-found freedom, he suddenly heard an ominous bleat from the watch deer, the very bleat he had been taught to dread. As if in unison, the entire mass of deer tore away from their carefully chosen positions, fleeing pell mell as if the very hounds of hell were after them. He saw his mother look back at him, he glimpsed the conflict within her mind, the flame of maternal love battling with the storm of reason and prudence. He saw the flame extinguished and in that moment, even as his mother turned away from him, he knew his end was near.
Suddenly he was sent flying by an almighty blow. Landing several metres away, thoroughly winded, with tiny spots of light appearing before his eyes, Spica stood still, staring straight ahead at the vision of approaching death in its most terrifying form. The lioness’ mouth opened, emitting a terrifying snarl as its hind legs coiled to propel it for the final blow.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Algol salivated profusely, overjoyed at the ease in which she had been able to secure her prey. The fawn had just stood there, not even attempting escape and now stood staring at her, paralysed by fear, imitating in a beautiful moment of foreshadowing the locomotion skills of the corpse he was about to become.
And then, at the last moment, just before her teeth were about to sink into the fawn’s neck, Algol’s eyes met Spica’s and she stopped dead in her tracks.
What she saw there was not the wish to flee. What she saw was not the docile fear that she had seen in the eyes of the countless deer she had hunted before this. What she saw instead was a streak of wildness, a flame, a zeal, an enthusiasm that was heretofore non-existent in that species. There was fear in those eyes, certainly, but it was the fear that his adventure should come to an end before it had even begun, before the experiences that this strange world had to offer had the chance to hit his senses, before, in short, he had had the chance to live.
Algol, maintaining a composed exterior, was experiencing a chaotic deluge of feelings internally. Her instincts had abandoned her for once and she was treading on new and very dangerous grounds and was consequently unsure of herself for the first time in many months. She reflected on how the fawn had stood separate from the herd, aloof, solitary. In his solitude, Algol saw a microcosm of her own life, a reflection of her battle that she had waged with life and survival. For the first time in her life, she felt a kinship, a feeling of fraternity. Here was one who viewed the world as she did.
The fact that the creature was her favoured prey was not lost on her, indeed, that was the root of the conflict that waged within her. Her years in solitude had sharpened her pangs of longing for companionship, but she was not naive enough to think this liaison would be without repercussions. She could not tread anywhere near the territory of other lions or else the fawn would be devoured without a second glance. This also meant she could kiss goodbye any dreams she had of finding a mate to propagate her species. This was a battle between a fresh, ardent, new-found desire and one of the deepest seated instincts that Algol had ever harboured within her. She contemplated long, but the freshness of the spring of desire also brought with it the mystique of the unknown, which proved to be the decisive lure.
Algol’s decision was made, she advanced cautiously, so as to not spook the fawn, and lay down beside it, purring soothingly. The fawn had not moved an inch in all this while and, bewildered by the sequence of events which had gone contrary to everything he had ever been taught, he continued to stand motionless, fearing a movement might reawaken the predator within the lioness that had for some reason been put to sleep.
Hours that felt longer than years passed by, and soon a red dusk settled over the landscape. The trembling in Spica's legs got worse. He had not rested them in hours and they were unprepared for such continuous strain. Despite him exerting his last vestiges of energy to keep himself upright, his legs buckled beneath him and he tumbled to the ground right before the lioness.
It warranted no more than a grunt from Algol, who didn’t even flinch. Spica’s fatigue eventually overcame his fear and he fell asleep, resigning himself to whatever fate had in store for him.
With dawn, his eyes opened to the sight of Algol staring at him. There was none of the menace that had permeated through every inch of her body yesterday. Her gaze was mild, comforting, even friendly. Her countenance bore all the hallmarks of camaraderie, though every iota of common sense told Spica otherwise. But here, his inexperience in the ways of the world helped. A seasoned deer would have taken every opportunity to flee. It would have taken full advantage of the lioness’ hesitation, never pausing to consider why she did not complete the hunt. But Spica was new to this Earth, he did not have any established opinions of his own yet. And the events of the previous day had shattered his belief in the wisdom imparted to him by his elders. They obviously did not know what they were talking about. With courage fortified by ignorance, Spica approached Algol and there began the strangest friendship that ever existed on Earth.
Algol revelled in observing her new friend, admiring the swiftness with which Spica’s legs gained strength and the grace with which he could now run. She watched with fascination as Spica gorged himself on the abundant grass, wondering how any creature could relish tasteless leaves as their daily nourishment. She learnt the different moods of the fawn, learning to read its body language and the way of life of the deer. Never before had she taken the trouble to get to know her prey. She could, at a glance, identify the weakest link in any herd and approximate how close she needed to get to kill it, but she could never before tell what a hungry deer looked and behaved like as opposed to a well fed, well rested deer. After years of the same adrenaline fuelled hunts followed by lazy naps, she found this break in her routine splendidly refreshing.
She soon began to foster an almost maternal protectiveness towards Spica. Jealously guarding her territory, she did not allow any predator to come close enough to catch Spica’s scent. She also felt increasingly reluctant to go hunting on her own for fear of leaving Spica unprotected. Spica’s extended stay with Algol had numbed his survival instincts to a great extent. He no longer feared predators and frolicked about with gay abandon. Algol realized that she was responsible for this and it only served to reinforce her determination never to leave Spica unsupervised.
Every time an opportunity to hunt presented itself to her, she thought hard about the options she had. And each time she chose Spica’s well being over her own need.
As was to be expected, this state of affairs could not last very long. Algol’s strong frame began to lose its mass, her muscles progressively shrinking to insignificance. Her ribcage was soon visible through the mangy skin that was losing its texture with alarming rapidity. Despite all these signs, Algol remained fiercely and loyally protective towards Spica, never once wavering in her resolution.
These signs did not go unnoticed by Spica, but he felt himself powerless to do anything to change the status quo. He had always been the subordinate in this relationship, allowing the stronger will of Algol to dictate the course their lives took. He did not possess the mental acumen, nor the physical strength to heave Algol off the path that she seemed to have chosen so wilfully.
Finally, the day arrived when Algol laid down to her midday nap, and never got up again. Spica pranced around Algol’s shrunken frame as noisily as he could, hoping to at least elicit an irritable grunt from those stationary lips. However, it was not to be, and the ever growing stream of ants that flowed in and out of Algol’s mouth unmolested provided sufficient proof to Spica that all was not well.
Not knowing what else to do, Spica spent another night with Algol, sleeping beside her, wondering at the stench of decomposition that emanated from her body. But come dawn, the arrival of vultures signalled the onset of the scavengers, and even Spica’s untrained mind recognized that his tenure with Algol was at end.
Distraught and wracked by fear for the first time in weeks, he left his guardian, never more lost or afraid for his life than he was now. His life had been turned upside down by Algol’s arrival, and now her departure brought on upheaval of an even more unwelcome nature. He craved for some form of company, for he had only known the feeling of safety when in the presence of a guardian. His mind turned back to his mother. He resolved at once to return to the herd and reunite with his biological guardian.
With the freshness of youth powering his limbs, it did not take him long to follow the tracks of the herd and catch up with them. He found them easily enough, but found that rejoining them was much tougher than he had anticipated.
His long stay with the lioness had tainted his scent. He did not smell completely like a deer, but contained traces of the lioness’ scent as well. The result was that every time he approached the herd, they mistook his scent for that of a predator and bolted.
Eventually Spica learnt the same tricks that Algol had picked up over the years. He began to circumnavigate the herd, moving downwind so his scent would not alert them. He began to get closer and closer, until finally the day arrived when he surprised them by arriving in their midst. The watch deer had obviously not spotted any predator, and yet the scent was unmistakable. The herd bolted immediately as usual. But Spica had expected this. His motive lay elsewhere.
As the herd whizzed past him in speedy blurs, his eyes scanned the masses for those familiar eyes. He found many faces that were familiar, as well as some new ones, until finally his eyes fell upon Lyrae’s. She stood some thirty metres away from him, staring straight at him, the expression of recognition unmistakable on her face. The herd quickly overtook her and fled, leaving only Lyrae and Spica facing each other.
Spica was uncertain of how to proceed, pawing the ground nervously, looking at his mother for some hint of how it was going to be. The remainder of his life hinged on her reaction, on the next few moments. Tentatively, he took a step towards her and stopped again. He searched her eyes for the rekindling of that flame that had been extinguished all those weeks ago.
Lyrae’s eyes stared black at him, blank, emotionless. She glanced away towards the herd, fast disappearing in the horizon, and then looked back at him. Then, suddenly stiffening up with resolve, she turned away from Spica and sped away after the herd.
Spica stood staring after her. He never attempted to track the herd down again. A week later he was killed by a pack of hyenas that ambushed him while he grazed alone.
Her instincts kicked into overdrive, crouching low, her muscular body hugged the ground as she landed her hind-paws in exactly the same spot that her fore-paws had just vacated, making no sound at all as she glided effortlessly around her victim, moving downwind so as to not alert the keen senses of the deer about her presence. When Algol slipped into predator mode, she existed in some sort of automated zone where every movement came to her without thought or reflection. In that moment she forgot her worries of finding a suitably strong mate so that she may further the cause of the species. She forgot the constant shifting of the territorial boundaries that she had to be wary of for her own well being. When she had prey within reach, the hunt consumed her mind completely.
Algol had been a solitary hunter since her mother had abandoned her at the age of two. She had been fully grown, but naive and reckless. She made many mistakes borne out of inexperience, and Nature hardly ever forgives errors from her subjects, but she had made it through the crucial orientation period and was now a feared predator in her hunting zone. Her healthy, bulky mass of muscle bore witness to her success rate which was amongst the best in her species. She was now in her prime and had enough experience to pick her targets to further aid her chances of bagging a juicy meal for herself.
Finding a perfectly placed patch of tall grass to camouflage her attack, Algol crept forward, head lowered, searching through the blades of grass for the creature to whom she was to bring the message of the Angel of Death. A minute of reconnaissance, and it was decided. A tender fawn stood ten metres away from its mother, staring into the distance while chewing on a blade of grass with such an air of nonchalance that it could only be excused on account of its inexperience.
Algol purred softly, congratulating herself on her good fortune. This would do very nicely indeed. A quick hunt, a juicy meal, a good night’s rest. Just as she liked it.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Lyrae, reflected on her son’s behaviour with her heart weighed down with worry. She was a seasoned deer, and had reared many fawns successfully and had also seen many meet an early, untimely demise. She could tell, with the wisdom of Time, which ones were suitable for survival and which seemed doomed from the beginning. Spica seemed destined for the latter. He had a careless arrogance that was the bane of any prey species, and by an unfortunate coincidence, in the two weeks since his birth there had been no attacks on the herd, further dulling his sense of alertness to danger. She had done her part diligently, keeping as close to him as possible, trying to prevent him from straying too far from the herd, trying by example to instill in him the same instincts for survival that had allowed so many of her offspring to flourish. But Spica seemed blind to the constant threat to his kind and indeed showed an inclination to be a daredevil. It was a trait that went hand in hand with an early death. Lately, Lyrae had begun to wonder whether he was worth the effort at all. She had no wish to expend valuable energy in trying to save a lost cause.
Even as her frosty thoughts took this morbid turn, she heard the unmistakable rustle that could only signify the beginning of a hunt, quickly followed by the warning call of the deer who was on watch. Dread overcame her as she bolted, looking frantically around for Spica. She spotted him staring right at her with a look of petrification and she saw also a lioness flying through the air towards him. The maternal instinct within her raged, urging her to turn back and try to save her son’s life, but the voice of experience had taught her better, and she flew away with the rest of the herd, her mind blank from the pain that only a mother can feel at the loss of her child.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Spica’s legs trembled as he trod on the hardened mud. He had barely learnt how to run a couple of days ago and still did not feel comfortable on his legs. The jumpiness of the deer around him used to make him jittery, but in two weeks he had not seen any reason for concern and was beginning to believe that his elders were prone to melodrama and exaggeration. His mother followed him around endlessly and he never seemed to get a single moment to himself and this bothered him no end. He did not understand why all the deer needed to travel, graze and rest together. He was perfectly capable of finding grass and grazing on his own and he most certainly could find a comfortable bed for himself with no trouble at all. It was irksome to him that he needed to share his patch of grass with another ten fawns, each of them stumbling and bumbling into each other, nudging each others’ mouths out of the way to get at a patch of grass.
He had noticed, however, that his mother had gradually begun to lose her zest for stalking him and for the past few days had allowed him sufficient room to alleviate his feelings of suffocation. He particularly enjoyed walking some distance from the herd and tending to his thoughts in relative solitude as he was doing right now.
As he reflected happily on his new-found freedom, he suddenly heard an ominous bleat from the watch deer, the very bleat he had been taught to dread. As if in unison, the entire mass of deer tore away from their carefully chosen positions, fleeing pell mell as if the very hounds of hell were after them. He saw his mother look back at him, he glimpsed the conflict within her mind, the flame of maternal love battling with the storm of reason and prudence. He saw the flame extinguished and in that moment, even as his mother turned away from him, he knew his end was near.
Suddenly he was sent flying by an almighty blow. Landing several metres away, thoroughly winded, with tiny spots of light appearing before his eyes, Spica stood still, staring straight ahead at the vision of approaching death in its most terrifying form. The lioness’ mouth opened, emitting a terrifying snarl as its hind legs coiled to propel it for the final blow.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Algol salivated profusely, overjoyed at the ease in which she had been able to secure her prey. The fawn had just stood there, not even attempting escape and now stood staring at her, paralysed by fear, imitating in a beautiful moment of foreshadowing the locomotion skills of the corpse he was about to become.
And then, at the last moment, just before her teeth were about to sink into the fawn’s neck, Algol’s eyes met Spica’s and she stopped dead in her tracks.
What she saw there was not the wish to flee. What she saw was not the docile fear that she had seen in the eyes of the countless deer she had hunted before this. What she saw instead was a streak of wildness, a flame, a zeal, an enthusiasm that was heretofore non-existent in that species. There was fear in those eyes, certainly, but it was the fear that his adventure should come to an end before it had even begun, before the experiences that this strange world had to offer had the chance to hit his senses, before, in short, he had had the chance to live.
Algol, maintaining a composed exterior, was experiencing a chaotic deluge of feelings internally. Her instincts had abandoned her for once and she was treading on new and very dangerous grounds and was consequently unsure of herself for the first time in many months. She reflected on how the fawn had stood separate from the herd, aloof, solitary. In his solitude, Algol saw a microcosm of her own life, a reflection of her battle that she had waged with life and survival. For the first time in her life, she felt a kinship, a feeling of fraternity. Here was one who viewed the world as she did.
The fact that the creature was her favoured prey was not lost on her, indeed, that was the root of the conflict that waged within her. Her years in solitude had sharpened her pangs of longing for companionship, but she was not naive enough to think this liaison would be without repercussions. She could not tread anywhere near the territory of other lions or else the fawn would be devoured without a second glance. This also meant she could kiss goodbye any dreams she had of finding a mate to propagate her species. This was a battle between a fresh, ardent, new-found desire and one of the deepest seated instincts that Algol had ever harboured within her. She contemplated long, but the freshness of the spring of desire also brought with it the mystique of the unknown, which proved to be the decisive lure.
Algol’s decision was made, she advanced cautiously, so as to not spook the fawn, and lay down beside it, purring soothingly. The fawn had not moved an inch in all this while and, bewildered by the sequence of events which had gone contrary to everything he had ever been taught, he continued to stand motionless, fearing a movement might reawaken the predator within the lioness that had for some reason been put to sleep.
Hours that felt longer than years passed by, and soon a red dusk settled over the landscape. The trembling in Spica's legs got worse. He had not rested them in hours and they were unprepared for such continuous strain. Despite him exerting his last vestiges of energy to keep himself upright, his legs buckled beneath him and he tumbled to the ground right before the lioness.
It warranted no more than a grunt from Algol, who didn’t even flinch. Spica’s fatigue eventually overcame his fear and he fell asleep, resigning himself to whatever fate had in store for him.
With dawn, his eyes opened to the sight of Algol staring at him. There was none of the menace that had permeated through every inch of her body yesterday. Her gaze was mild, comforting, even friendly. Her countenance bore all the hallmarks of camaraderie, though every iota of common sense told Spica otherwise. But here, his inexperience in the ways of the world helped. A seasoned deer would have taken every opportunity to flee. It would have taken full advantage of the lioness’ hesitation, never pausing to consider why she did not complete the hunt. But Spica was new to this Earth, he did not have any established opinions of his own yet. And the events of the previous day had shattered his belief in the wisdom imparted to him by his elders. They obviously did not know what they were talking about. With courage fortified by ignorance, Spica approached Algol and there began the strangest friendship that ever existed on Earth.
Algol revelled in observing her new friend, admiring the swiftness with which Spica’s legs gained strength and the grace with which he could now run. She watched with fascination as Spica gorged himself on the abundant grass, wondering how any creature could relish tasteless leaves as their daily nourishment. She learnt the different moods of the fawn, learning to read its body language and the way of life of the deer. Never before had she taken the trouble to get to know her prey. She could, at a glance, identify the weakest link in any herd and approximate how close she needed to get to kill it, but she could never before tell what a hungry deer looked and behaved like as opposed to a well fed, well rested deer. After years of the same adrenaline fuelled hunts followed by lazy naps, she found this break in her routine splendidly refreshing.
She soon began to foster an almost maternal protectiveness towards Spica. Jealously guarding her territory, she did not allow any predator to come close enough to catch Spica’s scent. She also felt increasingly reluctant to go hunting on her own for fear of leaving Spica unprotected. Spica’s extended stay with Algol had numbed his survival instincts to a great extent. He no longer feared predators and frolicked about with gay abandon. Algol realized that she was responsible for this and it only served to reinforce her determination never to leave Spica unsupervised.
Every time an opportunity to hunt presented itself to her, she thought hard about the options she had. And each time she chose Spica’s well being over her own need.
As was to be expected, this state of affairs could not last very long. Algol’s strong frame began to lose its mass, her muscles progressively shrinking to insignificance. Her ribcage was soon visible through the mangy skin that was losing its texture with alarming rapidity. Despite all these signs, Algol remained fiercely and loyally protective towards Spica, never once wavering in her resolution.
These signs did not go unnoticed by Spica, but he felt himself powerless to do anything to change the status quo. He had always been the subordinate in this relationship, allowing the stronger will of Algol to dictate the course their lives took. He did not possess the mental acumen, nor the physical strength to heave Algol off the path that she seemed to have chosen so wilfully.
Finally, the day arrived when Algol laid down to her midday nap, and never got up again. Spica pranced around Algol’s shrunken frame as noisily as he could, hoping to at least elicit an irritable grunt from those stationary lips. However, it was not to be, and the ever growing stream of ants that flowed in and out of Algol’s mouth unmolested provided sufficient proof to Spica that all was not well.
Not knowing what else to do, Spica spent another night with Algol, sleeping beside her, wondering at the stench of decomposition that emanated from her body. But come dawn, the arrival of vultures signalled the onset of the scavengers, and even Spica’s untrained mind recognized that his tenure with Algol was at end.
Distraught and wracked by fear for the first time in weeks, he left his guardian, never more lost or afraid for his life than he was now. His life had been turned upside down by Algol’s arrival, and now her departure brought on upheaval of an even more unwelcome nature. He craved for some form of company, for he had only known the feeling of safety when in the presence of a guardian. His mind turned back to his mother. He resolved at once to return to the herd and reunite with his biological guardian.
With the freshness of youth powering his limbs, it did not take him long to follow the tracks of the herd and catch up with them. He found them easily enough, but found that rejoining them was much tougher than he had anticipated.
His long stay with the lioness had tainted his scent. He did not smell completely like a deer, but contained traces of the lioness’ scent as well. The result was that every time he approached the herd, they mistook his scent for that of a predator and bolted.
Eventually Spica learnt the same tricks that Algol had picked up over the years. He began to circumnavigate the herd, moving downwind so his scent would not alert them. He began to get closer and closer, until finally the day arrived when he surprised them by arriving in their midst. The watch deer had obviously not spotted any predator, and yet the scent was unmistakable. The herd bolted immediately as usual. But Spica had expected this. His motive lay elsewhere.
As the herd whizzed past him in speedy blurs, his eyes scanned the masses for those familiar eyes. He found many faces that were familiar, as well as some new ones, until finally his eyes fell upon Lyrae’s. She stood some thirty metres away from him, staring straight at him, the expression of recognition unmistakable on her face. The herd quickly overtook her and fled, leaving only Lyrae and Spica facing each other.
Spica was uncertain of how to proceed, pawing the ground nervously, looking at his mother for some hint of how it was going to be. The remainder of his life hinged on her reaction, on the next few moments. Tentatively, he took a step towards her and stopped again. He searched her eyes for the rekindling of that flame that had been extinguished all those weeks ago.
Lyrae’s eyes stared black at him, blank, emotionless. She glanced away towards the herd, fast disappearing in the horizon, and then looked back at him. Then, suddenly stiffening up with resolve, she turned away from Spica and sped away after the herd.
Spica stood staring after her. He never attempted to track the herd down again. A week later he was killed by a pack of hyenas that ambushed him while he grazed alone.
Tuesday, 9 June 2015
The Nomad
Into the next adventure leapt
The fool, as Time onwards crept
Not knowing what harvests of glee
The tender arms of his lover kept
That lover now he left behind
To find what solace he could find
To replace the comfort of his heart
With the comfort of his mind
To follow mind or to follow heart?
His path was destined from the start
To forever seek solitary altitudes
And ever from loved ones to part
The fool, as Time onwards crept
Not knowing what harvests of glee
The tender arms of his lover kept
That lover now he left behind
To find what solace he could find
To replace the comfort of his heart
With the comfort of his mind
To follow mind or to follow heart?
His path was destined from the start
To forever seek solitary altitudes
And ever from loved ones to part
Sunday, 31 May 2015
Nothing
I, the most perfect syllable in the world.
It encapsulates me and all that is mine
And all that I perceive or have perceived,
All that I encountered or experienced, the
Totality of my existence and its meaning
To me and the ripples of its influence, little
Or large, on the world around it, completely
Ensconced within this one tiny utterance
That takes a fragment of a moment to
Attain its meaning in its full complexity
That mocks at any naive attempt on the
Part of the "Categorizers" to encumber it
With a fixed definition or to decipher its
Ever variable, ever evolving, ever fluid
Semantics. Definition may bring solace
To the rationalists, but it brings not Truth.
This variety, this microcosm of nature
Itself, this mini world, mini existence,
This miniature model of the universe
That, expanding and evolving with time,
Eventually and inevitably heads with grim
Determination and conviction towards its
Own demise, subconsciously apes those
Selfsame laws of existence that Man has
Consciously sought to fathom from the
Very beginning of time. Thus I, just I and
Nothing else, am sufficient in myself to
Present to you the secrets of life and the
Laws of the universe. I hold within me the
Treasure Troves of knowledge that men
Of learning have searched for eternally.
If you wish to understand all of Life, it
Will suffice thee to fully understand me.
I, in my profundity, am then surrounded,
Acted upon, influenced, taught, revered,
Reacted to, resisted, followed, uplifted,
Oppressed, understood, misunderstood
By a deluge of other I's. Each one of them
As stunning in the sheer variety and range
Of their thoughts, emotions, resolutions,
Ambitions and most importantly, of their
Shortcomings as the next.. Each individual
Produces a lasting and unalterable effect
That goes down in history, whether recorded
By us or not, through their effect on the world
And the reciprocal effect of the world on them.
To this concatenation of perplexity is added
The phenomena of Creation. I’s that are in
Themselves complete, then create in their
Own image, smaller imperfect versions of
Themselves. Imperfect and incomplete, yet
Perfectly malleable and fertile, so that with
Willing and skillful labour, they may develop
Into respectable representatives of the I’s.
Thus the I is now capable of gifting itself
A form of immortality, ensuring the existence
Of the concept, freeing it from the bounds of
Degradation and imbibing the regenerative
Tendencies that annihilate the limitations
That physical existence places upon it.
Creation, unsatisfied with the arduous
Nature of the task of achieving perfection,
Then resorts to another leap forward by
Creating, in complete and complex fullness,
The conception of a “Perfect I”. This being
Does not require a physical representation,
A body, an entity, to give it shape or form.
This I exists solely in the Platonic “Ideal”,
The imagination of each individual I gives it
Its own colorations, its own magnificence
And its own hidden follies. This I is truly
Indestructible because it does not possess
Tangibility. It is Ethereal, it is ephemeral.
It is, appropriately, referred to as Divine.
And yet, step away from it for a moment.
Step further away, still further, till the
Entire expanse that is I in all its various
Apparitions seems to be a mere speck on
The horizon of space. What does it look
Like to you then? What significance does
The variety, the complexity, the summulae
Of the entire occurrence, existence and
Evolution of being have in the context of
The Universe? Every deed that resulted
In an achievement or in failure, in progress
Or in atavism, in the attainment of wisdom
Or in the folly of destruction, in creating
Order or enhancing chaos, in raising Life
Towards salvation or in its descent into the
Abyss, every one of these deeds can be
Confined to the minuscule boundaries of a
Sphere that the Wise Man once called,
in inimitable simplicity, “The Pale Blue Dot.”
Outside this sphere, the Universe still
Expands, oblivious to the existence and
Vain struggle for significance that takes
Place eternally in one of its most remote
And obscure recesses. Outside this sphere,
Worlds come into existence and annihilate
With unassuming regularity and nonchalance,
Not assigning any higher meaning to their
Fates, simply carrying out the events that
Must occur that the Universe may still exist.
What, then, is this “I”? Of what account is
It, with its claims to immortality and its bold
Creation of Perfection? If it strives with all
Its might, with all the unified intensity of a
Multitude of single mind, with all the power
That accompanies its virtues and all the terror
That accompanies its flaws, will it be able to
Create even a tiny blot on the fabric of being?
Can it, for all its progress and profundity,
Create a disturbance, even imperceptible,
But enough to create a few ripples on the
Seemingly impervious structure of the Universe?
The answer is a resounding “No”. The I, with its
Miniatures and its Gods, with its tales and fables
And its structures and monuments and its ideas
And ideologies and its greatness and its pettiness,
Cannot muster up enough of an impact to serve
Notice to the Universe that it exists and that it
Deserves recognition. It is a parasite so toothless
That its host is not in the least affected by its
Parasitism, while it is completely at the mercy of
Any passing whim or fancy of the host. Its self
proclaimed delusions of grandeur are a mockery,
The same mockery that ignorants aim at those
They cannot understand, the mockery that is
Borne not out of superiority, but out of fear.
Thus, seen on a universal scale, the I, the
Embodiment of Perfection, the pinnacle
Of evolution, the epitome of progress,
The focal point of achievement, is reduced
To insignificance, to a negligent, deplorable,
Pitiable level of... What?
Nothing.
Thursday, 28 May 2015
To My First Friend in College
On the first day, creeping on the stairs
We met, I asked her which class she was
In, she told me we were to be classmates.
We sat, unsure of what to do, unsure of
What to say, taking comfort in each other's
Insecurity, making small talk, cracking bad
Jokes, laughing forcedly, averting our eyes,
Waiting for Time, the eternal middleman,
To urge the sands to flow quicker, so that
The designated phase of awkwardness
May pass sooner, so that we no longer
Have to attempt our flailing, flimsy tries
At so called normal social interaction.
I can see you are uncomfortable, I am too.
We get interrupted, beckoned, interrogated,
Walking into the classroom we separate,
You sit on the girl's side, I sit with the boys.
Class commences, empty words thrown
Nonchalantly by hollow teachers bereft
Of wisdom or passion distract me, their
Disillusionment spell works like a charm,
I leave that day, disgusted. Forgetting in
My cycle of hatred that I may have made
A friend. I go home, I break my leg, I don't
Come back to college for one more month,
And when I do, the sea of faces that greet
Me is one of strangers. I scour the class
For the one face I remember. But you
Are not present. Probably enjoying a nice
Cup of tea and an episode of anime. I sit,
Sighing, resigning myself to making new
Friends. It takes me months, many months
To find them, but in between I catch an
Occasional glimpse of you scurrying off
The moment the bell rings, entering class
Twenty minutes late, never uttering a word,
Phantom like. I glimpse you and always
Remember, for some reason, that you were
The first person I spoke to in this college.
A year passes. Our conversation on the
First day remains the highlight. Since
Then it has been polite hello's, cordial
Waves, and intermittent meaningless
Small talk. Nothing to write home about.
Another semester gone. Five months on
And we will be Masters. Suddenly Life
Looms before me, large, intimidating,
Merciless. The crowds turn against me,
I fight back hard. They pummel me,
I fight harder, looking desperately around
For friends and support. I find them, they
Never fail me. But amongst the sea of
Angry faces facing me, I see one that
Holds no wrath, no ill will, that seems
To view me, contrary to public opinion,
As almost human. It is you, my first
Friend. I gravitate naturally, in gratitude
And in solitude, and show my thanks by
Cracking a few bad jokes, pulling your
Leg. Testing the waters, so to speak.
The waters are fine. We begin to speak,
For the first time all over again, it seems.
I discover your quirky sense of humour,
It surprises me. I find out you like snakes,
You read manga, you watch anime, you
Read books. Wave after wave of respect
Washes on the shores of my mind that
The negligent Sands of Time hadn't
Bothered to bring to my notice. And
Always, your chirpy smile lingers, simple
And gracious words comfort me, solace
Comes easy in your wishes of blessed
Sundays and timely reminders that I
Should resume my reading. In the movie
Hall I see the childish delight when the
Superheroes save the world and I enjoy
The movie all the more, not because of
The movie itself, but because it gives
You such obvious glee, it becomes
Contagious. The basis of our new found
Friendship is explored thoroughly: food.
Cheese, meat and Mc Donalds. That
Simple equation to happiness is
Played out again and again, rising
To a crescendo of bliss in a magical
Meal with goat cheese and caramelised
Onions on a rectangular plate of chicken
Topped pizza. Followed up by a wild
Experimentation with mocktails and a
Case of mistaken gender at the mall,
A night of frolic and play comes to an
End all too soon with the realization
That I will never meet this first of all
Friends again. A hug goodbye and a
Parting joke. A corner turned, sight line
Lost. A bond severed for eternity.
I walk home alone, thanking any
Possibly existing deities for allowing
Me the pleasure of your company,
With some regrets that there wasn't
More of it, but more importantly, with
Only good memories in tow. And as
Your plane flies away today, I, atheist
Though I am, wish you a blessed life
And the simplicity of happiness.
Forever.
We met, I asked her which class she was
In, she told me we were to be classmates.
We sat, unsure of what to do, unsure of
What to say, taking comfort in each other's
Insecurity, making small talk, cracking bad
Jokes, laughing forcedly, averting our eyes,
Waiting for Time, the eternal middleman,
To urge the sands to flow quicker, so that
The designated phase of awkwardness
May pass sooner, so that we no longer
Have to attempt our flailing, flimsy tries
At so called normal social interaction.
I can see you are uncomfortable, I am too.
We get interrupted, beckoned, interrogated,
Walking into the classroom we separate,
You sit on the girl's side, I sit with the boys.
Class commences, empty words thrown
Nonchalantly by hollow teachers bereft
Of wisdom or passion distract me, their
Disillusionment spell works like a charm,
I leave that day, disgusted. Forgetting in
My cycle of hatred that I may have made
A friend. I go home, I break my leg, I don't
Come back to college for one more month,
And when I do, the sea of faces that greet
Me is one of strangers. I scour the class
For the one face I remember. But you
Are not present. Probably enjoying a nice
Cup of tea and an episode of anime. I sit,
Sighing, resigning myself to making new
Friends. It takes me months, many months
To find them, but in between I catch an
Occasional glimpse of you scurrying off
The moment the bell rings, entering class
Twenty minutes late, never uttering a word,
Phantom like. I glimpse you and always
Remember, for some reason, that you were
The first person I spoke to in this college.
A year passes. Our conversation on the
First day remains the highlight. Since
Then it has been polite hello's, cordial
Waves, and intermittent meaningless
Small talk. Nothing to write home about.
Another semester gone. Five months on
And we will be Masters. Suddenly Life
Looms before me, large, intimidating,
Merciless. The crowds turn against me,
I fight back hard. They pummel me,
I fight harder, looking desperately around
For friends and support. I find them, they
Never fail me. But amongst the sea of
Angry faces facing me, I see one that
Holds no wrath, no ill will, that seems
To view me, contrary to public opinion,
As almost human. It is you, my first
Friend. I gravitate naturally, in gratitude
And in solitude, and show my thanks by
Cracking a few bad jokes, pulling your
Leg. Testing the waters, so to speak.
The waters are fine. We begin to speak,
For the first time all over again, it seems.
I discover your quirky sense of humour,
It surprises me. I find out you like snakes,
You read manga, you watch anime, you
Read books. Wave after wave of respect
Washes on the shores of my mind that
The negligent Sands of Time hadn't
Bothered to bring to my notice. And
Always, your chirpy smile lingers, simple
And gracious words comfort me, solace
Comes easy in your wishes of blessed
Sundays and timely reminders that I
Should resume my reading. In the movie
Hall I see the childish delight when the
Superheroes save the world and I enjoy
The movie all the more, not because of
The movie itself, but because it gives
You such obvious glee, it becomes
Contagious. The basis of our new found
Friendship is explored thoroughly: food.
Cheese, meat and Mc Donalds. That
Simple equation to happiness is
Played out again and again, rising
To a crescendo of bliss in a magical
Meal with goat cheese and caramelised
Onions on a rectangular plate of chicken
Topped pizza. Followed up by a wild
Experimentation with mocktails and a
Case of mistaken gender at the mall,
A night of frolic and play comes to an
End all too soon with the realization
That I will never meet this first of all
Friends again. A hug goodbye and a
Parting joke. A corner turned, sight line
Lost. A bond severed for eternity.
I walk home alone, thanking any
Possibly existing deities for allowing
Me the pleasure of your company,
With some regrets that there wasn't
More of it, but more importantly, with
Only good memories in tow. And as
Your plane flies away today, I, atheist
Though I am, wish you a blessed life
And the simplicity of happiness.
Forever.
Wednesday, 20 May 2015
Sisyphus Eternal
Positivity, happiness, love, these
Words you threw at me, expecting
Me to grab on to them and connect.
Expecting my instincts to take over,
Expecting my soul to grasp onto them
Instantly knowing, feeling, understanding
Their nature, knowing how to mould them,
How to use them, how to enjoy them,
How to extract the essence of each
And absorb it into my very being.
But how was my Soul to recognize them
When the only time they ever came into
Contact was the first time I met you?
These concepts are alien to me,
My metabolism rejects them. I have
Been moulded from a different clay.
Faith is mocked at, love is looked upon
With sympathetic, condescending eyes
As one would look upon a child who
Does not know better, who cannot be
Expected to know better. Happiness
Is an illusory dream fashioned by
Sadistic temptresses who wish to
Draw us lonely souls out into the
Desolation of the desert, lured by
Mirages of companionship, until
Stumbling, collapsing upon the harsh,
Overheated sands of reality, our throat,
Parched beyond recognition, finally
Finds Love... In the kiss of Death.
Upon these arid soils you wish me
To plant the seeds of happiness?
Will these sands not drain the seeds
Of their moistness even as they touch
The ground? Will all the lifeblood not
Be instantaneously drained, turning to
Vapour before it had a chance to affect
The infertility beneath it? Is destruction
Not always easier than construction?
Is this body capable of housing so pure
An entity as love? And is it worthy?
You made wings of feathers and wax
And you flew away to Paradise. You
Also, in naïve benevolence left me
Wax and feathers that I may also
Accompany you to Paradise. It was
A noble plan, one that only a heart
As pure as yours could fashion.
But your plan is colored by the gay
Perspectives of your own sphere
Of existence. There is a fatal flaw.
Those feathers and wax do make
Wings, and they do carry you, you of
Light Mind and Lighter Heart, quite
Effortlessly to Eden where the rivers
Of milk and honey await the chance
To adorn your perfect skin. But those
Selfsame feathers and that selfsame
Wax, have they the ability to carry the
Weight of a heart encumbered by woes
Uncountable, grievances unresolvable,
Insults not abreacted to, insecurities
Not smoothed over, paranoias not
Pacified, and anger that has been
Allowed to simmer for generations?
I doubt any wax yet fashioned by Man
Or angel possesses that strength.
And yet, Angel, on your command,
I don the wings and I set off on my
Sisyphean task, ever rising, only to
Fall again. Fighting Gravity, fighting
Reality, fighting the tidal waves of truth,
Fighting against my brains repeated
Admonitions for the crime of allowing
That unwelcome guest, Hope, into my
Soul. For in giving me those wings and
Giving me that wax, that is all you have
Given me. Hope. Not paradise. Just hope.
With every beat of the wing that takes
Me closer to the skies, the rush of
Wind seems to fan the flames of hope
Just that bit more, kindling to life just
That much more of my heart that had
Long since learnt to be dead, flooding
Veins that had long since grown into
Disuse with the vibrant, longing bursts
Of bloodflow again. Life was once again
Within me, within this corpse that had
Long since been dismissed as a relic,
As refuse, as waste left over from the
Turmoil of human existence. Life was
Returned to this corpse at long last.
But it was not a match. The wings
Felt heavier, the sun got warmer, the
Wax dripped quicker, each drop an
Image, capturing the entire spectrum
Of light within the confines of this drop
Sized cosmos. Each reflection of light
Seeming to mirror the fiery depths of
My soul which aided the melting of the
Wax even as the sun attacked it from
The outside. It stood no chance, it was
Outflanked. You cannot outmaneuver
Hatred with love. In a battlefield where
Only one participant is willing to shed
Blood, there can be only one victor.
It melted, I fell, my lesson was learnt,
In the harshest way possible. Now,
Sanity surely must prevail. Surely
I would not undertake the same task
Again? Did I not prove to myself its
Futility? Is not every indication to the
Contrary? Is this not pure rationality?
But there along with the melted wax
And the threadbare feathers, lies the
Image of you smiling, telling me you
Will wait for me, waiting always with
A smile. It is that smile that makes me
What I am. That smile that transcends
Reasoning. It is that very smile that makes me...
Sisyphus
Monday, 11 May 2015
The Thief
I used to have an organ beating
In my chest, rhythmic repeating
The self same tunes for eternity
It resides now no longer with me
"Thief, where have you taken it?
Even love hath forsaken it.
Though the blood within it runs red
"The heart you stole, in truth, is dead"
The thief turned and tittered a laugh
And said, "Ere you write its epitaph,
Fool, study your own heart before
You abandon life forevermore."
And then, bewilderingly, she returned
The heart both Love and I had spurned
I looked, and found to my chagrin
A tiny flame concealed within
"Whence came this flame, thief, reply!
Justify yourself, or provide an alibi
What purpose serves this infernal light
Why disturb the calmness of my night?"
"Your night was calm and still the air
But your heart traversed it solitaire
I heard its lament and came to answer"
Thus Spake my Dionysian Dancer
"Leave," said I. "I will," said she
And left me to my complacency
"But ere you go, may I know thy name?"
"Fool," said she, "I am that flame."
In my chest, rhythmic repeating
The self same tunes for eternity
It resides now no longer with me
"Thief, where have you taken it?
Even love hath forsaken it.
Though the blood within it runs red
"The heart you stole, in truth, is dead"
The thief turned and tittered a laugh
And said, "Ere you write its epitaph,
Fool, study your own heart before
You abandon life forevermore."
And then, bewilderingly, she returned
The heart both Love and I had spurned
I looked, and found to my chagrin
A tiny flame concealed within
"Whence came this flame, thief, reply!
Justify yourself, or provide an alibi
What purpose serves this infernal light
Why disturb the calmness of my night?"
"Your night was calm and still the air
But your heart traversed it solitaire
I heard its lament and came to answer"
Thus Spake my Dionysian Dancer
"Leave," said I. "I will," said she
And left me to my complacency
"But ere you go, may I know thy name?"
"Fool," said she, "I am that flame."
Saturday, 2 May 2015
The Laughing Angel and I
Lilting, laughing angel, it is so easy for you to smile
Rest your wings a moment, walk in my shoes for a while
Tell me then that the world is still a friendly place
Tell me then that man is still the embodiment of grace
Lilting, laughing angel, proponent of glee
Flutter back to heaven, your place is not with me
Fear may not be as scary to you from your lofty seat
Nor woe inescapable, nor inevitable defeat
Lilting, laughing angel, do you laugh at my concerns?
Do the fires of chaos in Heaven less fiercely burn?
Descend for once to my world and live it as I do
And tell me all that worries me does not worry you
Lilting, laughing angel, sweet melody for a voice
Show me another way, provide me with a choice
Show me I am irrational, let me the sunlight see
Show me just this, angel, and I’ll gladly follow thee
Rest your wings a moment, walk in my shoes for a while
Tell me then that the world is still a friendly place
Tell me then that man is still the embodiment of grace
Lilting, laughing angel, proponent of glee
Flutter back to heaven, your place is not with me
Fear may not be as scary to you from your lofty seat
Nor woe inescapable, nor inevitable defeat
Lilting, laughing angel, do you laugh at my concerns?
Do the fires of chaos in Heaven less fiercely burn?
Descend for once to my world and live it as I do
And tell me all that worries me does not worry you
Lilting, laughing angel, sweet melody for a voice
Show me another way, provide me with a choice
Show me I am irrational, let me the sunlight see
Show me just this, angel, and I’ll gladly follow thee
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