Serendipity

When you fall in love, it is a temporary madness. It erupts like volcanoes and then subsides. And when it subsides, you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part.

Because this is what love is.

Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not promulgation of promises of eternal passion. That is just being “in love,” which any fool can do.

Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident. Love is roots that grow towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossoms have fallen from the branches, it is finding that you are one tree and not two.

We all talk about it, think about it, or feel it for someone. I’ve heard a million quotes about love; most of them are vapid and they leave me rolling my eyes. But this one from Captain Corelli’s Mandolin? My all-time favorite quote about love. (Don’t even think about renting the movie. Read the book.)

When most of us think about romantic love, we think in terms of being “in love.” If we’re lucky—or unlucky, depending on our perspective—we will feel a sweeping love for someone. It can be a raging fire that consumes, that takes over everything we do and think, that leaves us feeling intoxicated. It’s a pretty good feeling when we’re in the middle of it. But the thing about fires is that sooner or later, they all burn out. When the fire goes out, then what?

If the fire of love has depleted everything we have, then there is no seed of growth. What follows is the death of the relationship. But if we are truly fortunate, then that fire left a seed behind that will grow into something mighty.

Though I should speak only for myself, I’ll go ahead and speak for the loveliest thing that happened to me lately. This isn’t to say we don’t feel passionately about each other. I’ve not know her for long. 

I feel deeply connected to her in a way that can only come about after either years of togetherness or so in post - intermittent moments of bliss of being together. The pretty blossoms of our early interactions are just awesome and timeless! I can still remember everything about you... almost approximately 6 years back, when you sang amidst a crowd which wasn't even meant for your magical voice. Man, I was hooked!  I didn't want it to be unnecessarily chaotic hence nothing from my end. However, who knew we would again cross our paths when you are a grown up lady and I am even more mature. I think not many relationships are like this. I prefer to look at love as constantly evolving. It helps, of course, if your mate views love in the same way.

One thing is certain: I’m enjoying sinking my roots in ever deeper with YOU. No fires required.

The RAPE of the CAPITAL

Eighth March is celebrated as International Women’s Day. In different regions the focus of the celebrations ranges from general celebration of respect, appreciation and love towards women to a celebration for women’s economic, political and social achievements.

A woman’s essence lies in her innate ability to care, love and sacrifice for the other. She plays an all-enveloping character of a mother, daughter, wife and sister as a friend, nurturer, guide and partner from time to time. Emotional and vulnerable, sometimes erratic, sometimes serene, she displays a wonderful range of emotions from being patient to being extremely courageous in times of crisis.

Tormented and subjugated throughout all times and ages, women have fought their way through exploitation, harassment, and have managed to secure their rights in the public domain. In spite of continuing exploitation and injustice against women both in the domestic and work sector today, several milestones have been achieved in terms of education, freedom of choice and liberty, equality etc. With growing literacy and financial independence women feel more empowered today to assert their right to a life of dignity and self worth.

Yet the plight of Women continues in a Global City like Delhi. Women are raped, murdered and thrown on sidewalks in body bags. And the public blames the police and the judiciary system, but I see a different truth through my eyes.

It is not the Police or The Judiciary System that rapes and tortures Women. The perpetrators of such acts are people who are often counted as the public who blames the Police and the Law and escapes scot free.

Implementing more task forces or other law enforcements would not guarantee the safety of women. Neither would restricting the freedom of Women. They have every right to live their lives as freely as any man would. She should have the right to have a walk at night and feel safe. The constant worry of harassment, rape and such should not keep worrying her at all times.

The male mind needs to be blamed for most of the uncomfortable situations a Woman finds herself in. Constant ogling, passing lewd comments, touching her body parts at any given chance are all signs of how the men are faltering and falling to the level of dogs.

What most men who initiate such acts never fail to realise is that the same can happen to their Mothers, Sisters and Daughters. The culprit today can become the victim tomorrow. Such horror mongers are often motivated by the silence of Women. When women choose to ignore such Animalistic acts they become contributors to the crime. They are to be even blamed.

It is understandable that you feel threatened to take any action in situations of eve teasing but never stray from calling on the public or the men who care about you. These mongrels need to be treated like the scum they are and be blown off from below the gutters of the society.

WE NEED CHANGE. WE NEED IT NOW. MEN AND WOMEN NEED TO ACT TOGETHER. THE SOCIETY NEEDS TO CHANGE. THESE ACTS AFFECT MEN AND WOMEN ALIKE. DON’T BE A MUTE SPECTATOR. SPEAK UP. BE THE CHANGE.

The Moment

The black steel. The blistered paint. The brownish dust. The rust. The humming. The wires mixed up like wet spider web. The yellow tape around. The hot, orange sun.The lonely birds. The gentle breeze. The young man approaching carefully. The heavy boots. The small, grey rocks. The shrieking of the gods. The fear. The young man leaning forward. The eyes and the sweat. The trembling fingers. The heavy suit. The memories of the high-minded knights. The helmet. The pliers. The uncertainty. The seconds. The hesitation. The vacillation. The flash of the Gordian knot. The silence. The bomb disposal robot. The mechanical sound. The extending of the metallic arm. The heavy body. The lifting. The seconds. The beads of sweat dripping from the forehead. The jamming. The silence. The static in the radio. The orders. The memories of home and the baby crib. The pliers. The decision. The short prayer. The stillness. The moment. The cut. The blast. The silence. The silence. The silence.

Monarch

The monarch flips slowly on the sidewalk with the limp, wheezy struggles of its wings. My three-year-old daughter asks, What's wrong with it? "It's dying." She asks why, and I tell her, "It's that time of year."
I'm surprised when she says, She needs a name. She's dying, Poppie.
"Give her a name," I say. She crunches a twig with her shoe and says, Sydney. "But that's your name." She nods.
We step over the spent butterfly. The leaves whisper under our steps, their final gasp before disappearing beneath the coming snow. Sydney's hand is in mine, and I do not slow my pace for her short stride.

Travelling North

Though you are dead now. Though I walk covered in dust through this strip mall in Iowa. I remember the collection of tendencies that led me here. The flat landscape. The blazing heat of cornfields. The landscape and body are one sensation.

Everywhere the books of atmospheric pressure. This book smells of miracles. That you were the chapter. That I was the slaughter. That sheep, my inheritance. That you were the shepherd who lead me here. Your hand reaching out to strike. Your hand reaching up to brush the hair from your brow. I never knew which. I never knew when. Your hand.

The cornfields are memories. You cannot remember anything. The road is filled with dust haze. Your life is. Your death. I can not find it in this landscape. This collection of tendencies.

Though you are dead now. Though your hand would reach to strike. Though your hand would reach up to brush. The hair from your brow. Though light penetrates this. It is flat. It is frozen in self-image. I must resist the symbiotic wish. I must void the infantile condition. That region. This region. The atmospheric pressure in the vicinity of living.

Though you seemed invincible when your body moved. Though the way your hand. Would reach to your brow. Even though dead. Even though each wave of light penetrates. Even though only seems to slaughter. Sheep of inheritance.

Wake up at 4 a.m. Walk out naked to the porch. Skin shimmering. The way the word porch clings. The creaky swing. Dark lake of the body. What is always erased. The way your hand would reach to your brow and wipe your hair away. And it was always your hair. Always yours. And your face jutted into the landscape. This nowhere. This clicking sound of insects. Late summer.

we are in your quest, in who's quest are you?

O one with the tilted cap,
fitted cup parched open

O beloved seducer,
reflection of who's
endearing ways
...... are you?

You are locked
in my heart,
and my eyes
under your feet.

We're in your quest,
in who's quest
...... are you?

You plunder my soul,
plunder my heart
and mind,
you ascend great heights.
Which bird of desire
...... are you?

Words are sealed
within the lips
of exasperated Khusro.

O sweet voiced parrot,
who's purity of song
...... are you?

Of Love, Hate and Nothing in Particular

I see, I analyse, I decide.All about others. Their lives, relationships, ideals, morals. Then I write stories. Hide the files and let no-one know of them.Then I scream, I accuse, I unfrock unchaste sinners. Then I think of them more, and hate them more.I have for some inherent fear never analysed myself, never pinned up a tag of decision on what I do or say. As a youth atom, I have seen love blossom at every corner down the round road. I have seen them break down right at my doorsteps. The place I live in is, after all, the haven of all heart breakers. I see those who love a new love every half a year, I see those who stick for four long years to look for greener pasture in foreign avenues. I see those who burn themselves in midnight lamp to lie tired as black soot.I see lovers, I see players.I don't realize that somewhere down in those dark galleries lives a me. A me of lies, deceit, hatred and fear. A me who is obsessed with myself, my ideals, me decisions. I hate this analysis part, particularly when it scathes me, scratches me.I have lied, I have also loved. I have lived in a heaven of days to rot in hell for the next eternity to come. I have never really liked myself, never much hated too. But, I shall never be courageous enough to own up and bow down.I don't understand these modern concepts of personal space in relationships. These ideas induced in Indian society by Mr. Farhan Akhtar don't define which part is to be his space, which part her space, and which iota their space.She boozes, she is loose.He fags, he is manly.They date, they are in love.And love encompasses to limits where He says, "Get a life! I am not your dog". Where She says, "You didn't buy me as your slave".I have seen these, never understood these. The haven of heart breakers was where I realized that love must be bounded in singularities.I have seen men and women encompass love in domains of space-time, where honeys moon all weekend at the same place for four years with different keyword. I ask are they too dissatisfied with the term love?I see girls run elope with lovers, and the lovers loving their loves with all their love. How much is that love after a decade? Is it over? Or does it flourish with someone else over some other space and some other form?Till I was about 18 I always knew that love was when two people flung all cliffs to stay together because they had no other motive in life. They loved themselves, and they loved others.All changed with number 18. I saw people hate themselves enough to love. Bubblegum boys and spicegirls. And I saw space. His, Her and an iota of Their. Then I learnt that it was not cool enough to commit, to give and take roses from the same person over years, to explain your little moves, to cry out when overwhelmed, to adhere to the little demands of the other one. I mugged these without understanding. I could not apply them in the examination. Then I realized I was made for love that was before 18 struck.And now I know that love can be loved just once, and forever that once.