Finding my Moorings

The skies decided to pour their heart out that night. They need venting too. I sat in my balcony looking at raindrops sieving through the leaves of the giant mango tree that stood in front of my house. Some frustrated driver was honking relentlessly somewhere while someone else was in the mood for some Chopin that night. A distant memory was remolding itself in a corner of my heart. Some memories have a strange way of appearing. Before they come, their arrival is announced by a distinct stirring up of the heart strings which leaves you unsettled but also looking forward in anticipation to that which is going to arrive. I await the arrival of that which will come with a sense of foreboding as well as propitiousness. And it trickled in like the raindrops falling through the leaves of the mango tree slowly welling me with profundity of emotions that are ever so required for a parched soul. 

It was another night like this though in a different space and time dimension. Everything looks the same though nothing is the same. I know the people in it but how realities have changed since. How the essence of one's being undergoes a metamorphosis of the kind that could never have been anticipated by the wildest of minds. The Kafkaesqueness of it baffles the mind. Delving into reasons seems all too redundant now. The reality of this having happened is what remains. Although things look the same overtly but hidden from the view is a distortion that only sensitive hearts can see. A forlorn gust shakes my bearings. I look for anchor everywhere around me. What can I hold on to in order to keep myself steadfast on the ground beneath me? Nothing seems strong enough for that. Just then a small hand creeps in. I hold on to it with all my might. I have found my anchor in this tiny little hand with its tiny little fingers wrapped around me secure and tight. I get welled up again. This time with gratitude and happiness unbound.

The Last Words!

He had planned to slither down the rainbow, which is his usual ride. However, the Sun, who suddenly realized that he was more tired than ever, decided to put his quilt over his head and entered into his slumber. Lightning is not an easy mode of transportation as it ends up leaving you burnt and bruised. What option did he have now but to hang on tightly to the rain-rods and follow them down. They are not as bad as lightning as they don't leave you burnt and bruised, except that you must not wear clothes that bleed else you will end up looking like a rainbow fish. Also, you never know where the rain-rods decide to land. They might land on a beautifully mowed lawn, inside a volcanic crater, or on a hot tin roof. You have to work a bit on your geography and decide on which rain rod to board. He had worn all white today which was unlike him as he always liked to dress up in green or red. But wearing white would save him from a colourful embarrassment and also would suit the solemnness of the occasion for which this sojourn was being undertaken. 

It was a meeting called to address the concerns raised by the council after the sudden disappearance of the Cheshire Elephant. He had named himself this after the famous cat from his favourite book that he would read every night. That was also the only book he had read, hence was his favourite. It wasn't for nothing that he had given himself this name. He could actually appear and disappear at will. He would mischievously enter houses and send its selected inmates on long philosophical journeys which he himself never really understood. Despite his acts of wilful disappearance, never once was he absent from the meetings of the council. In fact, he was one of the most boisterous and animated participants. First to come and last to leave! He would entertain, annoy, exasperate the members, and also, eat most of the food (the rest of which was eaten by the obese dormouse who would gleefully snore away his lungs spreading his crazy dreams in the air while the rest tried to make sense in that cacophony). Now that he was no longer appearing in the meeting the rest of the members finally got to eat the food (which wasn't that great after all and they were happy that they hadn't missed much during all those years). The council decided that the disappearance of the Cheshire Elephant was a matter of concern and a meeting should be called to formally worry about it and minutes of the meeting be taken as a proof of their concern and be shown to the elephant on the event of his return, if at all.

So, the little leprechaun dressed in his whites landed on top of a tired bird who agreed to take him to the venue of the meeting after the leprechaun agreed to stop humming Wagner's "The Wedding March" in his shrill, out of tune voice. The bird had a discerning taste and was a connoisseur of fine music and in no way could see a leprechaun murder his favourite composer (the bird had German ancestry too and therefore was a bit partial towards the German composer). The meeting was to take place in its usual venue, inside the trunk of General Sherman. Everybody, except the elephant of course, was there. As always, the leprechaun was the last one to arrive. When he entered he saw the members engaged in an animated discussion. Everyone had their own theory about the disappearance of the elephant. Some believed that he had gone on a trip to the moon. Some believed that his vanishing vapors got sucked in by a vacuum cleaner. Nobody was listening to anybody and those entrusted with writing the minutes decided to write only about their own theories. 

As about the leprechaun; he couldn't care less! He never liked the elephant in any case. He found his boisterousness a little too obnoxious. He had come to the meeting only because non-attendance of such meetings was a serious offence for which severe punishments were awarded. Last time when the unicorn failed to attend one of the meetings on account of a tender stomach, he was turned into a living myth i.e.though he existed in reality, people assumed him to be a myth! Just as the leprechaun sat in one corner of the room looking at the motley group in front of him, he felt a tingling sensation on the thumb of his left foot. He looked and it was an ant who was causing this tickle. This ant sure looked different from other ants. The bored leprechaun looked closely in a bid to entertain himself by mocking this weird looking ant when he realized that it wasn't an ant at all! It was the Cheshire Elephant! Cheshire Elephant was now the size of an ant! The leprechaun decided to trample him with his boots but just then the elephant vanished. The sly little thing could still play his vanishing act! So, the elephant was always there just that nobody noticed him as now he was the size of an ant. The thought of letting the council members know of the truth never occurred to the leprechaun. He looked outside the window but nothing interesting seemed to be happening outside either. He leaned against the window and fell asleep. He was soon woken up by a high pitched voice in his left ear. He turned around and there was the elephant again sitting on the window sill. He was trying to say something but with his body, his voice lost its heaviness too. Now all he could manage was a squeal. He was squealing with all his might as the leprechaun with an acute vision could clearly see. The leprechaun knew there was no point trying to hit the elephant as he had quick reflexes. So he decided to lend him an ear as he was already bored and thought that the elephant might have something interesting to tell. The elephant was now sitting on his shoulder. At first, all that the leprechaun could hear was high pitched jibber jabber. But after a while it started making some sense.

The elephant told him about a "Point of Existence", a dot-sized black hole that had all the answers relating to existence inside it. He had found it on a hill that appeared from out of nowhere in the middle of the oceans when he was travelling in a boat. He tried entering the "Point of Existence" to see what was inside it. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not enter the hole. This was bizarre as there was no hole through which he could not enter. Night after night he returned to the same place and tried to enter the "Point of Existence" but failed. Then one night he sent a young woman to a voyage into the sea and his boat (which had a mind of its own) took her to the hill which harbored the "Point of Existence". It was this loud, filthy mouthed girl who made him realize why he wasn't able to enter the "Point of Existence". He should stop trying to enter it! The harder he tried, the more difficult it would be to enter inside it. "You have to wait for the"Point of Existence" to let you inside", the Elephant said. There was no space for heavy Rationality inside. One had to shed away the cloak of logic. It took him a long time to do that and he felt naked and small initially. However, when the process was complete, things around him made much more sense! The elephant spent several days together, looking at the "Point of Existence". He had started to detach from his surroundings and an automatic movement towards the "Point of Existence" had begun. Before he knew, he was sitting right in front of it. After spending a good amount of time there (he could not tell how much as time had lost its meaning), he saw the entrance was now big enough for him to enter. He knew the call had come! He entered inside and felt lighter than ever before. Never before had he been at so much ease with himself. However, he wasn't happy or ecstatic at finally achieving what he had been waiting for so long. A certain calmness devoid of any emotion or thought pervaded him. Thoughts came from a not-thinking state of mind.

The leprechaun listened to all that with a stupor that was unknown to him. The Elephant finally vanished. The leprechaun sat there for a very long after the meeting ended. A few tried to speak to him but to no avail. Why did the Elephant choose him, of all the people, to tell his story? They were never great friends. In fact, he detested the Elephant! Love for hate? A random coincidence? After an indefinable time, he got up and started walking. "Everybody has their own unique 'Point of Existence', and it is for us to look for it" were the last words of the Elephant.

Wrecking Ball Lyrics HD - Miley Cyrus

I guess she got it right this time!!

Endless Flight

From the far away wilderness I hear the blue dove cry

Passing through the filters of a busy city

Where cars honk at wayward pedestrians

And the weekend merrymaking becomes a little too raucous 

It reaches my ears while I stare at the hunter in the sky

In her melancholic voice she sings songs of bereavement

Of being lost in the endless labyrinth of gloom 

Of the river losing herself just before she could meet the sea

Of the cool breeze turning away its face 

giving way to hot suffocating winds that scalded her face

Of the air pregnant with dark wordless silent

Of the heavy sticky fluid choking the insides
Of waiting for a meeting that shall never happen

Though she sings to herself, our hearts beat in harmony

Till my heart turns into hers

I turn into the blue dove and sit on the oak branch

The mistletoe grows under my feet with berries all over

I expand my newly found wings even as I hear the cooing from branches around

I pause for a moment and only see clockwork birds around

I give in to my newly found wings and take my endless flight 

Les Miserables - Samantha Barks - On My Own (lyrics) (Full Verison)

नकली हँसी

वो सर्द अस्थिर कदमों की  आहट
आकर रुकी मेरी चौखट पर
आयें हैं फिर ये कदम मेरी चौखट पर
इन सूखी आँखों में नमी बरसाने

धूल से सने शीशों से बहार झाँका
तो धुँधली सी तस्वीर सामने आई
बंद मुट्ठी से शीशे में थोड़ी जगह बनाई
खड़ा था वही चेहरा बुझी सी मुस्कान लिए
चेहरे में कुछ मायूसी और कुछ थकान लिए

जो कभी ऊंची उड़ान भरते थे
उन पंखों में जंग लिए खड़ा वो चेहरा
पंखों ने शायद अब उड़ना छोड़ दिया है
अब तो यादों ने भी साथ छोड़ दिया
नशे में चूर उन खोई  सी आँखों का

बर्फीली रूह की साँसों से
अब सब अकड़ने सा लगा है
मेरे एहसास भी अब जम से गए हैं
आसूं भी कबके थम से गए हैं

नहीं इंतज़ार मुझे अब उस दस्तक का
नहीं इंतज़ार उन अस्थिर बोझिल क़दमों का
जो अब बस कुछ जिंदा यादों तक सिमट गए हैं
अब मेरे  चौखट में भी जगह नहीं रह गयी

देख रही हूँ जाते हुए उन डगमगाते क़दमों को
कुछ  उबल सा रहा है सीने में
कुछ गर्माहट सी महसूस हुई गालों पे
शायद आखिरी बार नम हुई हैं ये आँखें
शायद आखिरी बार आई है अहसासों  की आँधी
शायद आखिरी बार सोचा उस असोच को
शायद आखिरी बार… 

The flame!

The flame died tonight.

I heard it breathe its last flicker

The last pangs of a dying soul

Clinging on with ever loosening grip

To a ground of sinking quick sand 

While the dry cold Winds blew 

Carrying with them broken crystals

Of dead feelings and lifeless passions.

Rendered rotten by the vermin

Of old habits and senile thoughts

The flame was meant to die

And so it did..

"We are our choices"

The night was in full bloom as she stood at the glass door of her apartment looking at the first snowfall of the season. The city shone in all different neon colours as the snow silently covered the world in its pristine white blanket. Ever since a flaming arrow pierced her soul giving her a blazing pain she would stand there every night waiting for one particular snowflake which would cure her pain forever. Each day she waited for the snowfall and for that one snowflake. 

As she was watching the falling snow, she started noticing patterns. The snowflakes were telling the story of her life in letters and symbols. She went outside with outstretched arms. Many a flake fell on her open hands but didn't fit in. Soon two flakes of different shape fell into her each hand. She clinched her fist as other snowflakes tried to enter inside her fist but failed and fell flat on the ground becoming a part of the white snow blanket. 

She was now in a dilemma as to which one would be a cure for her soul. She sat in the balcony of her house looking at the two snowflakes peeping from her fists. One had the shape of a sparkling mind and the other that of a golden heart. In one familiarity had already started breeding contempt while in the other familiarity led to an ever increasing affection. Despite the obvious signs she was getting drawn towards the mind even as the heart never lost hope and swore to cure her soul forever with its loving touch. Just then the mind began melting. She instinctively clinched her fist tighter not wanting to let go of it. But then realizing that she could not stop it slipping past her fingers no matter how hard she tried she opened her fist to let it go and saw a red stone in her hand. It forgot its heart, she thought. She looked at the red stone-heart wistfully. A puddle of water was formed on the ground and had already started freezing. She kept the stone right in the middle of the puddle before it froze, giving it back to its owner. 

She looked at the other fist with a smile creeping on her lips and gently kissed it. She entered her warm apartment that bathed in soothing yellow lights to get cured of the pain as Norah Jones sang in her soulful voice of not missing someone she no longer had..

Never rise in my land again oh Moon!

Every night she would come and whisper in my ears, trying to wake me up, touching me with her cold frightened hands. She would walk anxiously in my room trying to enter my dreams while i dreamt of blue birds and pink stars, of losing only to find again, of hands clasping together, of never letting go. Fantastic dreams of the kind that trouble the nerves when awake. But the mind, determined as it was to have pleasure (however transient and ephemeral), blocked all the entrances. 

One day I wake up hearing faint sobbings at the far end of my room. And there I see her looking at me with beseeching eyes begging me to stop the dreams before they conquer the truth and condemn me to a life of illusion, of smoke and mirrors. She told me she had already heard the banshee cry. That the death of the heart was just a matter of time. The dreams were playing games, mind was under their control. The main conspirator , however, was the moon she said. She had seen the dreams in the arms of the moon the night when it was just a sliver, like a broken silver bangle hanging in the sky. The night when it is at its sly best. That ever-changing whimsical enigma who is the creator of all illusions. A part of me will inevitably die she said but asked me to retreat before the whole of me gets consumed in this eternal endless game.

I listen to her in bewilderment and uncertainty. Dreams are just a reflection (though distorted) of reality someone had once said. There ought to be some truth in what I dreamt. Never before had dreams brought such happiness to me. Happiness is all that I want. She cautioned me against this happiness which was only a mirage, a deception. That it would only make me miserable once the reality hits me hard on my face and makes me fall flat on the hard, cold floor of dead dreams and broken mirrors. Then this happiness will turn into the serpent of misery and despair that will tightly wrap itself around me for as long as I breathe.

Since then I have stopped dreaming. No more do those fingers wipe the tears rolling down my cheek, no more does that smiling face walk up to me to brighten my days, no longer do the hands tightly clasp around each other swearing never to let go. I have spent innumerable sleepless nights looking at the moon as it would change its shape at a dizzying pace. I have seen it weaving dreams, loving dreams who become his slaves. I look at it with questioning eyes while it gives me a beatific smile. The master of illusions, the evil sorcerer continues night after night casting its spell on the world giving people what they want - transient, unreal, sinister "happiness".

Requiem

Another death in the vast sea of bobbing heads. There have been deaths far more gruesome. Why all the hullabaloo over this one? It is not the death of the girl that is being mourned, nor the manner in which she died but we are all mourning the death of humanity, of sensitivity, of rule of law, of human dignity. The "fairer sex" having to pay for its "fairness", the "unfair sex" being let off each and every time "unfairly". Mothers of the world, where art thou? Your sons violate the being of the helpless while you are ready to hide them under the cloak of "motherhood". The woman inside you dying a sad death while you all become Gandharis. Fathers not faring any better than Dhritrashtra and the entire society collectively deciding to become myopic wearing coloured lens. As long as it is not my sister, wife or daughter I can easily turn my head the other way.

The women of our country are unsafe even within the precincts of their homes. How is it to perpetually live in a state of fear? How is it to be afraid of your own brothers? How is it to be judged on the basis of the clothes you wear? I met a woman recently during a train journey who told me tales of fear worsened by the utterly unresponsive system. She told me how her school going daughter is stalked by boys raised in a deeply patriarchal society for whom following girls is a source of entertainment. Now the girl is no longer free to go out on her own. From being an independent girl who could move freely on her bike, she is now reduced to being dependent on her father to ferry her around. They are reluctant to go to the police knowing that no action shall be taken against the unscrupulous.

The daily violence that women in our country have to go through makes me think that we are actually a deeply misogynistic society. All the worshiping of Goddesses seems a farce to me. Recently I visited the Kamakhya Devi Temple in Guwahati where the vulva of Goddess Sati is worshiped. In a way it celebrates womanhood and the power of creation that women alone possess. In the same country, the sanctity of women is being violated every day. The inner "shakti" of women been reduced to a flicker due to years of suppression and exploitation which has turned them into "abla" living in perpetual fear and anxiety. The above mentioned temple has a festival called "Ambuvaci Festival" where the menstruation of the Goddess is celebrated. At the same time we have customs which bar women from going to the temple or near any worship place when menstruating. Customs such as these denigrate women and her womanhood at every level. A woman is respected only if she follows the norms laid down by the society without questioning. Women have since long been treated as the sole repository of family's honour and society's values whereas "men being men" go out and have "fun".

For the soul that departed I just have to say:

"I sing songs today

now that you are no more.

The life of freedom

for which you aspired

Is finally yours forever!

No

Judging eyes

Lewd stares

Offensive comments

Cowardly touch

Shameless encroachment.

You died everyday in this world,

In heaven alone you shall live."

Your death has profoundly affected the country today. Some conscience have apparently been stirred. Hope this time it is strong enough to churn out the bad from the society. Change is a slow process but a beginning has to be made. The need is for the systemic change. Policing and laws alone cannot stop the mistreatment being meted out to women. Mothers have to teach their sons to respect women and for that they have to first respect themselves, their daughters and daughters-in-law. Fathers should educate their girls and refuse to pay dowry for their marriage. Finally, all the women should refuse to be fearful. Every incident of eve teasing has to be resisted and not to be taken silently.

This is my last post of the year. Hence, I must take a resolution which will stay with me not just for the coming year but throughout my life. In my capacity as a keeper of the law of the land I shall take cognizance of each incident of violence against women. I will do my bit to create a society where there is freedom for everyone. The following lines of Rabindranath Tagore shall serve as my guiding lamps:

"Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high

Where knowledge is free

Where the world has not been broken up into fragments

By narrow domestic walls

Where words come out from the depth of truth

Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection

Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way

Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit

Where the mind is led forward by thee

Into ever-widening thought and action

Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake."

MLTR-PAINT MY LOVE

Last Goodbye

Broken tea cups, spilled coffee beans
Mirrors that have lost their sheen
Dried corners of the clueless mouth
Gagged voice and silent shouts
The joy of living and forgetting
Those moments of laughing and sharing
A knight in armour brandishing sword
Yet nothing in the heart strikes a chord
Senseless strumming of guitar with a plectrum
Endless waiting for them who'll never come
An ill conceived joke that they all call life
Things inside torn asunder by strife
Petals of the Flower strewn around
Downward flight from sky to ground
Saying Yes when the heart revolts
Re-casting self in the approved mold
Unloving the loved and loving the unloved
In the recesses the unsaid is for ever shoved

Window

Now I know! The last breaths are heavy and loud. Now I know how it is to see someone dying infront of you. A slow, painful death. The last-ditch effort to cling on to dear precious life just like the final wild fluttering of the candle. Who wants to die, especially an untimely death? But it is coming. The Death! I can hear it's melancholic footsteps. Yes! Unlike what you think death is not happy to take anyone away. It is not a sadistic psychopath as it is falsely blamed to be. I know because I can hear the sadness in its movements. Nevertheless, the chosen one has to leave. With a last gush of wind, it will all become history, a part of memory but never a part of memoirs; reminisced but never shall a beautiful epitaph be written for it as it shall take away with it the very ability to do so. Yes! That is what death of Imagination will lead to. Already in it's deathbed, it's rendered weak and the effects are all too visible. I wish to hold on to it but it is slipping away like quicksand. The fantasy world that it had spun around me has started to wither away. The world where I would often find shelter from the cold, brutal winds of the real world. The walls are crumbling, the windows breaking, the fireplace too doesn't have any fire left. I am being exposed to the "pragmatic", "empirical" world. World where birds never sing for you but to attract their potential mates, where rainbow is a mere physical phenomenon, where feelings generate from complex mathematical calculations. I feel like a tiger from a zoo who has all of a sudden been left in the wild to fend for itself. I have already started feeling the chill in my spine from the coldness of the wind. The anguish at being marooned is the only force that will propel me forward. Anguish resulting from absurdness of being. From the compulsion to seek meaning, from the inevitability of freedom which one finds clinging on to one's feet at every step like a leech that refuses to go. When imagination is getting ready to leave me, anguish comes with the promise to become my partner for life. I have started stretching my hand towards it; the stretching of my hand keeping pace with the dying of the chosen one. One candle will be blown away and the other shall light up. Devoid of imagination in the world of hard metal truths, propelled by anguish I will move on to the land where I shall meet my Imagination again.

...................................................................................................................................................................
The words of Pablo Neruda:

"Don't go far off, not even for a day, because --
because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long
and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep."

Sublime...

Unending pursuits...

It was late in the evening when I stood at the balcony of my house looking at the world outside. Street lights sprinkled colourful ellipses on the tar roads which overlapped each other like in a Venn diagram. These areas of interaction added more colour to the dark road which was now dolled up in all hues and shades. This happens to her every night when she lives her Dream of Colours in her otherwise dark existence. The moment sun begins to fade away to brighten the existence of some other world, she waits with bated breath for the daily make-over she goes through with such elan.

Buildings reflected each others' lights with an underlying fervour that comes from a sense of mutually shared responsibility. At a distance vehicles moved with a steady noise. An undercurrent of uniformity running through all that bustle. The roads around me stood there silently trying yet again to soak in all the colours just to be disappointed the next morning. Some car would pass by once in while acting like a bump in the otherwise smooth flow of consciousness pervading the world.

The sky looked menacing with eleven dots of fire spread on it. These eleven dots of fire chased each other in their pursuit to become bigger by engulfing the others. In this otherwise anarchic world some rules persisted which made these fiery dots stay in the sky and not bring down their hot pursuit to the earth. A distant moon, living in reflected glory, stood there watching this blind pursuit dispassionately. He wished for a quieter existence but the stars were beyond his control. For what can some one living under the reflection of some other entity say to those who have fire of their own? For the world, he was the king of the sky when in reality he was just a lone sad old man who looked at the earth with a longing seen in lovers who were once together but got separated by a cruel turn of fate.

A tall Ashoka tree, painted black by the night, stood in front of me forming a bridge between the earth and the tumultuous sky like the magical beanstalk. The chaos of the skies finally had some effect on the earth and a strong directionless wind started blowing. A stray polythene bag which was silent until now started fluttering wildly. A plaything for the mischievous wind, it danced to her tunes. I saw it moving uninhibitedly around the walled campus seemingly enjoying its gifted freedom, believing that it has wings of its own. Just then it got stuck in one of the pointed iron rods planted on the campus walls. It tried hard to free itself. Its moves were so desperate that even the stars forgot their pursuit to look at it. The entire world went still to watch the struggle for freedom. I instinctively moved towards it to free it and let it take its flight of freedom but then thought better of it and came back to where I was standing. The freedom of the polythene bag was not real but induced. Once the wind goes, it would come down to where it previously was. I let it realize that it never had any freedom but was just a plaything of the wind. The realization finally dawned upon it and it gave up. The wind moved on to some other spot to pick up some other toy. The stars resumed their chase and the vehicles kept plying noisily. The tar road kept trying to absorb colour. I went inside to catch some sleep.

Rolling Into the Abyss of Happiness

The vast green fields undulating
Like the rhythmic tones of Mandarin
The joy of rolling over
Rolling into the abyss of happiness

The tiny cherubic flowers
yellow
green
red
purple
Like tiny colourful stars in the green sky

Soft velvety sun rays
Smooth as marshmellows
Massaging the mind and soul
The lightness of being
The urge to keep rolling
Rolling into the abyss of happiness

The ribbon-like stream
Of honey and milk
A hiatus in the vastness
A break from rolling over
A reality check
A need to quench thirst
Thirst from rolling over

The cool breeze from
The distant snow capped mountains
A reminder
Of the end of one era
And beginning of another
As you roll away
Into the abyss of happiness

The Body
Becoming Green from rolling over
and
The Green becoming the body
The soul pervading the Cosmos
The Cosmos becoming the soul
The Cosmic transfusion
The becoming of One from many
The undulating rhythm of life
In its highest form
The cosmic joy of Oneness
Of no boundaries, no separations
Of rolling
Rolling into the abyss of happiness

Tough Woman and Water Hyacinth

They call me a tough woman. They say I can make a come back with a broad smile no matter how bad  things are. So now they have the licence to trample me with the nailed heels of their boots and I am not supposed to shed a drop of tear because you know what? I am a tough woman! So no agony. No pain. It is all for their gain. I look at people playing with my most precious possesion stretching it beyond recognition, breaking it like a plastic toy while I am supposed to move on.

Move on..

Two words that I am supposed to swear by. Words with which I have an inseparable association. Words that give me company when all others fail me. Like water hyacinth they permeate my world, my existence, my vision. And just like water hyacinth, they do not belong to my world. They are invasive species brought about by a careless traveller who stopped by my world for a while, touched somewhere deep at some unknown place and left his traces there. In the form of Water Hyacinth. The dark green bulbous stalks have long strong roots tightly holding on to me just as I hold on to them. Like a vicious rumour it has been spreading its tentacles around and I struggle..... to move on.

I am a tough woman so the flowers of spring do not make my heart smile with joy, the wild chirping of birds fall on my deaf ears, the soft breeze fails to cool my soul. I am a stone which no acerbic words and acts can erode. I am a make of different space, time and substance. So you can kick me with all your might. I will roll down the moutain of wrathful hope, unhurt. Nobody asked me if I was strong, nobody asked me before kicking me down. An a priori truth, an axiom which everyone belives in. With no consultation I was branded as strong. With this burden I shall live until I crumble under its weight and then I shall seek the yellow fragrant flowers and the vast blue ocean which would welcome me with open arms. No assumptions of strength and I shall give in to the waves of freedom. Freedom from unthought ideas and presumptions, from the words of courage and beckoning. Freedom from the roots of the Water Hyacinth. Freedom from moving on...


.....................................................................................................................................................................

Meanwhile, here is what Milan Kundera has to say,

"...And therein lies the whole of man's plight. Human time does not turn in a circle; it runs ahead in a straight line. That is why man cannot be happy: happiness is the longing for repetition."

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