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.

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."

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.

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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.

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

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.

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.

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