There is a difficulty in letting it go because there was something deeply honest about it.
Knowingly or unknowingly, the truth or honesty of things has been a guiding light for me my whole life. Whenever given choices, as far back as I can recall, I have gravitated towards the one which intuitively felt more truthful.
In younger and simpler times, the choices would indeed feel as if between the true and the false, if not between the more true and the less true. In time though, it started feeling like the choices were inching towards the bare minimum threshold beneath which a little true may have slipped into a slight false. Could I have fought and stood the ground to keep the little true intact in itself, or did I have no force in preventing the fall? Irrespective, did I stop trying because succumbing was less painful than enduring?
Source: Google Images
Did I transcend that point and reach territory where choices were between a slight false and an absolute false? And why was it that I was constrained to choose one, not just merely hold discretion between the two? And if and when this happened, was there any avoiding situations where choices emerged between two absolute falses? Why did I need to choose between them after all? Was there an option of dormancy or not choosing or was there a personal power of generating a third counter truer option?
Where do I stand and where do I go?
In the here and the now, am I clinging to the thing that gave a glimpse of the truth in a vast sea of the false? I may have given it labels, but does it matter if labels turned out wrong, if ultimately it was the truth that indeed I saw? Can I hold it in my hands or merely follow across the choppy waves its warm and steady glow? I can stay put in this robust boat of illusion, but will I be safe here at all? Is there any other choice but to take the plunge and wade through these dark choppy waters, for the slightest chance of stepping foot on a steady truthful shore?
Am I better to placed to answer this than I was ever before?
Because alone also is lovely with you. All the ones you’ve showed me anew.
Your concealing more than revealing. Your sharing of space rather quietly. Your noticing things without letting me know or hoping at least I didn’t get to know. Your holding me close when there’s a crowd around us. Your holding me close when there’s no-one but us. Your absolute ignorance sometimes of what to talk to me about. Your reluctant innocence sometimes in sharing the things that make you proud.
Source: Google images
Your idiotic rigidity in having things your way. Your steely resolve sometimes for keeping me at bay. Your knowing your unreasonableness, but insisting anyway. Your hurting me like daggers and then simply walking away. What stupid part in me lets you have your leeway. What part of you has a hold on me so I can’t walk away.
Why is it your smile makes me hope for better days. What tempts me to smile in the flashes of your gaze. What is this strange comfort in learning your new ways. Why do I care when you’ve left me in this maze. What is your soul really up to, what is this mystery haze.
What is this meant to show me, what is the message here. Is the universe having a laugh, I’m not exactly clear. I’m blistered, bruised and broken, but I’m right here fighting fear. They say I’m a fool to love, but I’m not one to hear.
Pain comes and so comes wonder, they try pulling me asunder. I may give up just now, no blame no going under. But how do I silence the voice in me, nudging at the path of surrender. The former asking me to recede my steps, yet the latter making me ponder. Which one is the externally influenced choice, what is it my soul remembers.
Does one make me cowardly in spirit, while the other a coward in flesh. What am I here to accomplish, what is my expected prowess. What is the outcome of failure, what anyway is success. Why can’t I just have light, why the obsession with progress. Why can’t there just be love, why the stoicism in distress.
Maybe providence will guide me or judge me one day. Baby, with you or without you, I love you anyway.
There was a baby eagle. She lived with her parents on a high perched nest atop a tall pipal tree. One of her earliest and most deeply entrenched memory was of her mother returning to the nest with the kill of a bat in her talons which she had fed to the baby eagle with her own beak. So clear and rich was the memory that the baby eagle could still savor the warm texture of the meal.
The baby eagle was eager to start flying and hunting like her parents. Her parents would often warn her against her impatience. They would often recount stories/occasions of how they had become skilled only after several seasons of hunting. The baby eagle however, would often give into her impatience and often succumb to her pride.
Once she started developing strength in her wings, she would often revel in the aesthetics and pleasure of flight and not focus on the finer aspects of hunting.
One day she ventured too far from the nest and on her way back a strong/violent current of air threw her off course (or maybe a hunter’s stone bullet hit her) of which she could never recover and fell on the hard floor of a forest clearing with a loud thud. Her right wing made first impact with the ground due to which it got severely injured. Once she reached the surface and got an occasion of steadying herself, she made several attempts of taking flight again but to no avail. It was starting to get darker and she feared that the man hunters who had taken a shot at her wing might find her on the ground. She gathered some strength and half walked and half flew (in clumsy flapping of wings) to take shelter in middle of a few boulders where it would be hidden from the sight of the man hunters. Out of pain and exhaustion, she fell asleep amidst the boulders.
She was woken up by a sharp thud on her back. She panicked and clumsily got into motion in the process hurting with her talons whoever it was who had caused that thud. It was after attacking subconsciously that her sharp eyes realized that it was a mountain goat. The mountain goat also almost instinctively reacted by kicking the eagle again by her strong knuckles before beginning to recede. The eagle shrieked out in pain as the second kick landed on her injured wing.
Hearing the pain filled shriek made the baby goat come back to the eagle to check if she was fine. By now the eagle was much dejected and disappointed and on the verge of crying. This time she did not attack the approaching goat. Instead told the goat that she had injured her wing ad was now unable to go home. The goat guided her that while her wing was injured, her feet was fine and that she should try to walk her way home.
The eagle told the goat that there are other terrestrial animals including man would try to hunt her so it wasn’t safe for her to venture on foot. The goat wisely reminds her that at that point in time walking to cover distance was her only way back home. The eagle sees the point and starts to walk in the same direction as the goat.
They walk some distance together during which time they exchange stories of the goat’s terrestrial life and the eagle’s avian life. After reaching the edge the goat tells the eagle that she will need to walk the rest of the distance by herself as she had to stay with her herd. The goat could also not take the eagle to her herd as the herd would be distrusting of an eagle.
Hesitantly, the eagle walked on towards the clearing that lay between herself and her nest. For some distance she walked unnoticed, but then she saw a huge lion (name Jhabrila) not far away from her. Jhabrila walks in his royal gait towards the baby eagle curious about what kind of game/hunt/prey it was. The eagle tried to run away but on ground it was no match for the lion’s pace. The lion came too close and the eagle got very scared. She could feel the bloodied breath of the lion as well as strands of his mane over her wings as he leaned over to sniff and inspect the eagle. She nearly froze to death but then all of a sudden she felt the bloodied breath and the mane receding. The lion did not seem interested in eating it up. The lion sensed the eagle’s anxiety and broke the silence for both of them.
“Well you are a pretty little thing. Even though we ate well an hour ago, I would’ve taken you for dessert. But my cubs don’t fancy your kind of feather. Plus you’re injured and I can smell a festering infection so I wont risk eating you”, Jhabrila said.
The baby eagle sighed out a cry partly out of relief and partly out of hunger. Quickly gulping down her own sigh she propositioned to the lion, “thanks for your mercy, Mr. Lion. But with my injured wing in this open forest I’ll soon be hunted. Can you please take me with you till I can resume flying. I can assure you I will not be a nuisance.”
Jhabrila thought about the proposition for a while and then said, “fine, but you eat after me and my two cubs if they are eating with me, although they usually stay with their mother. And when we ask you to leave, you leave.”
The baby eagle agrees. She follows Jhabrila wherever he’s going. Soon she spots the carcass Jhabrila had earlier mentioned. She asks permission which Jhabrila grants and then goes and eats from the carcass.
In their days together, the baby eagle develops great respect for Jhabrila. She convinces him to teach him how to hunt. Together they develop a unique hunting method. The baby eagle hides in Jhabrila’s mane when he chases the hunt. When they are close to the prey, the eagle emerges, takes a short flight and injures the prey with its talons making it lose balance which the lion then quickly overpowers and kills. Such method comes especially handy in killing tall prey like giraffes and elephants.
The eagle outlives Jhabrila. She lives on to assist his cubs in hunting and providing for the pride. She tells them stories of how strongly he had felt emotionally for them all.
She also manages to find her way home to her mother. She returns with a fresh kill of tender bat in her beak and keeps it at the feet of her proud mother who now has a few faded feathers.
It felt like a gaping hole right in the middle of my heart. It was like whatever there was to call my existence was going to collapse and get sucked into that hole. And yet, it exuded pangs and pangs of pain that seemed to drown everything I had known to be my own. It made me aware of a longing so profound, I could not bear to deny it any longer. It was like discovering anew that my bones and muscles and organs were all made of this soft material of sentiment, which was being drawn out of me all at once. I was being drained out of all this life that had unknowingly been mine.
Source: Google images
It there was indeed a flux of nurturing force inside me, I wanted you to have it. I wanted the force to engulf you all over so no abrasive airwave could reach even the surface of you. It ached in pulses to let go of this flux, but it also failed to leave my skin rapidly enough to wrap you securely well enough, to shield you of any sorrow deeply enough – including of course my own sorrow.
But how was I to stop aching, to prevent the pulsating ripples from spreading through the space between us? How was I to keep my tears inside my eyes, wanting to betray my sheer helplessness at letting you go? How was I to let that voice dominate that pleaded me to let you go for your own good? How was I to reconcile that being selfish in love was a lesser state of being than being persuaded by the larger good?
Wasn’t it a lot, of God to ask of me or did God ask all souls to make burdensome choices? But if every soul is being burdened with pain, what is the point of existing in this world at all? Do we come here to collect our tokens of pain to vend against for our lessons ahead? Or is carrying pain duty-bound on us for having known the privilege of love in first place?
Or is it that what’s burdensome is the expectation of something in return for loving? Was my love ever my own to possess or was I merely a carrier for you to receive what was rightfully yours? Has my incarnation become fuller in having let you receive it, or has it not?
I surrender myself beyond trying to fathom the yours or mine of love. I only ask the almighty to give me strength enough, that I make keep going on. And in going ahead, replenish my heart with love abundant enough, that some day if you need it again, I can shower it freely, again all over, my love.
I made a good memory today. One that is only mine. The fact that I participated in the events of the day, gives me right over having it as a memory of my own. My memory, for me to retain, the way I would like to in the manner I have lived it. There is nobody else to claim that my version of the narrative is any less, inferior, or incomplete, in contrast with anybody else’s.
I have yearned for this, without ever realizing it was something like this I yearned for. It feels as if I have earned something today. It’s tricky to pinpoint what exactly. I have an old friend whose party I attended today at her insistence. Either she has practiced the art of formality brilliantly or she was genuinely delighted at having my presence at her party with her family. Either way, I felt satisfied that I could be there with her on her special day and be part of the celebration.
I fear I may jinx it by speaking aloud, but it feels like I took a small step out of my poverty. Just to be clear, I am not poor monetarily, nor in social status, not even in health per se. A different kind of poverty is what I am alluding to. The poverty of rightful freedom of leading my life as I deem fit.
I am afraid I may sound a little haughty in claiming this right. My elders are usually quick to remind that I may make mistakes on any path I choose of my own volition, as I am young and inexperienced and naïve to the machinations of this world. Select contemporaries, having taken traditional paths do worriedly warn that I may end up on the fringes of the established order.
I wish to state from the depths of my honesty – that I fully admit to the inadequate nuance in my maneuvering the world and conscientiously carry their advice in good stead to protect me from untoward circumstances.
Beyond these admissions however, I still wish to assert my volition in ironing out the creases of this existence I have been gifted at this time and place. I hope to learn from my mistakes and as I pray to draw strength from the residues of past messes.
They say I am impractical, well maybe I am. I want to marvel at the beauties and oddities of the universe and speak about them in whichever language affords adequate fidelity of the truth. Most times words are sufficient, but sometimes it can be music which adds value; at other times, music attributes all the meaning there needs to be fathomed. Sometimes, expressions (for instance of a dancer) may add substance to the foundation already laid by music; at other times expressions may be all one needs in understanding feelings emerging from the folds of one’s own or another’s soul. These few are mere illustrations of mediums through which one may understand and/or communicate the contours, both coarse and fine, of this world.
Is it incorrect to assume that all meaning hidden in all such languages is or at least should be accessible to all beings in this world? Then why not, can I partake in interpreting these through the lens of my experience, my life, my soul?
It would be irresponsible to not add that one’s assertion of independence and free will should in no way come at the cost of another’s volition or safety. If somebody else’s assertion of independence and free will has ever compromised mine, then I undoubtedly remain accountable that my own does not come at the cost of another’s.
It would also be unwise to not add that being mindful of another’s independence and free will may not necessary mean letting go of opportunities equally available to all, in anticipation that another might be keener on bagging them. An opportunity after all is a call to action and effort. It is only by effort that we ever become entitled to the fruit of our labour (if at all there is one).
I digress however, I do not intend to scale heights in lionizing one’s effort towards something as a barometer of one’s entitlement to it. The digression is merely a side thought, though an extremely important one, in claiming my right to a freely and fully lived life.
Source: Google images
Gratitude is what I mean to express for having my friend who cares for me deeply, for having the wherewithal of maintaining our relationship and for getting to witness her special day with her. Is gratitude the currency of trade I need in pulling myself out of the poverty I feel? Is gratitude the means of flipping one’s worldview from focusing on lack in our lives towards looking at what we have in our lives?
I do not have answers to questions I pose above, but I do know that I feel richer by an ounce today. If the answers however, to all the above are a unanimous ‘yes’ then why is it that I stayed in poverty so long? Why did I not fuse my cautious lens with these glasses of gratefulness I happen to wear today? It does not matter why, when I do still get the chance of updating my worldview for life to come. I refuse to live in this poverty of gratitude when I can instead draw from its abundance.
Meaning is not enslaved to words for existence. It is words that owe their necessity and being to meaning. Is it any surprise that the same feeling of gratitude can be expressed as a ‘Thank you’ in English, a ‘Dhanyavaad’ in Hindi, an ‘Obrigada’ in Portuguese and a ‘Gracias’ in Spanish.
Is it any surprise moreover, that some words barely serve any justice to the infinitude of meaning in things they represent. Afterall, the closeness, the affinity, the care one feels for one’s family member, a romantic partner or a friend, has it ever been adequately encompassed by a ‘Love’ in English, a ‘Prem’ in Hindi, an ‘Ishq’ or ‘Uns’ in Urdu or an ‘Amar’ in Portuguese?
Meaning in things as we recognize today existed even before we assigned words to it. Corollarily, there may be meaning in things we have not yet assigned words to.
Why, then, do we insist on seeing/witnessing the world through the limitedness of vocabularies that have been taught for ease of communication among us mere mortals? Why, then, do we refuse to listen to meaning, rather than talking about it?
Through some mysterious language, the pink, the abundances of your smile can talk to the depths of my silence. It makes me wonder though, question even – why are we here? Are we here to fill each other’s voids or do our own voids make us whole? Are we to come together in our respective wholenesses to do something and leave something behind for this world?
I don’t have answers, mostly only questions – sometimes not even questions. Sometimes, I’m left all to myself, wanting to cover my nakedness with the garb of questions if not explanations.
There is a pain that lives within me. Is it unwelcome? I can’t say that it is. It came to me when I had nothing else and nobody else to myself. It kept me full and alive, when I needed it. Letting it go or even wanting to let it go feels selfish, if not unsafe. What will I do without it? Isn’t it part of my identity, my name, my legacy now? Is it fair to want it gone, now that I have access to a semblance of joy, when it kept me warm in my coldest of nights.
Source: Google images
A naysayer may say that it was the pain that brought about the cold nights, but that would be giving into false beliefs right! Right?
I like basking in the bright morning light, but I fear it makes me unfaithful to the dead darkness of the night which has so often cradled me to sleep. I find soothing the gentle tinkles in the folds of first few sunlight rays descending to humankind, but does it make me steal from what I owe to the whistling of midnight winds which have served my lullaby all too often.
Are there two worlds and can we belong to only one? Or are they not different after all? Is it that darkness is the void in the light, yet light is the void in the darkness? Is it that light and darkness breathe together, but are beings are too thick to fathom so?
Are the ties between light and darkness written in the same language that lets your smiling abundances speak to my silent depths?
Who knows my love? Who can ever tell?
Do we live in this world or does the world draw its breath from us? Am I separate from you and you from me? Are you and I, apart or together notwithstanding, separate from this world?
Do we exist here now, and some day cease to exist, or do we simply flow from the tangible and finite to the intangible and infinite?
Where does it all begin and where, if at all, does it all end?
Maybe its pointless to know or to want to know. Isn’t it enough that you have me and I, have you?
Imtiaz Ali is one of my favorite movie makers and storytellers. I saw his latest movie – Love Aaj Kal (second edition, actually). While watching the movie, I could sense that most people might not appreciate it, but I kinda liked it. It was like a dialogue between the compulsions of bodily/material life and the impulses of romantic inspirations, being witnessed by a discerning soul.
Source: Google Images
There was a central theme and several other secondary themes. To me the central theme was how we seek fulfillment in various external things/pursuits. To some extent many of us may also be conscious/aware/consciously aware of how such external pursuits are aligned with our internal/inner pursuits/callings/desires. We may be or we may not be, buts it’s a possibility.
Some of us knowingly and willingly pick our pursuits/desires, some may unknowingly but willingly pick them while some others may unknowingly and unwillingly (forced by external factors) pick them. The causality of the why or how may vary, but we all pursue something. [Afterthought: maybe in what one pursues another may be able to see/discern what is the internal pursuit or background influence].
Popular culture/civilized world offers/propositions a set of orderly/timely/mannerly pursuits which may bring about fulfillment. For some, they may bring about fulfillment, for others they may not, but they too present a possibility. One may choose to seek fulfillment through such pursuits or not, one is still defined by the confines/rules/structures/prevalent practices of the civilized world. One has but to find a way to wager passage within the rules/structures of this world if we choose to inhabit this ‘civilized world’ and be its beneficiary.
Maybe I am adding my biases and residual feelings to the movie plot, but this write up is all about my take away from the movie, so I’ll allow myself this indiscretion.
May we need the inspiration/influence/push/nudge/catalysis of another person to come in touch with these/such inner workings. Maybe we don’t, but for some people it is a possibility.
It is a possibility that the inner workings of another person mirror with one’s in such a symmetrical/identifiable way that makes one’s own evident/detectable/manifest. Maybe such a mirroring causing such a manifestation causes one to bond with the other person, and bond in such a manner that the physical/bodily togetherness of the two people may cease to be a necessary condition to feel/be aware of what they already manifest. But maybe if the influences of the other person continue to feed into what manifest, the manifest sustains itself longer.
In other cases, it may be a possibility that the internal workings of one already are so alike those of another person that one feels an affinity/at home feeling towards the other.
Whatever our internal workings we do yearn for a different state of being, maybe a Higher Being – a divinity of sorts. We all knowingly, unknowingly, willingly or unwillingly tread our paths toward achieving this different state of being. I’d like to believe, in fact hope, that my path leads to this divinity of sorts.
Who knows, maybe I’m utterly mistaken, maybe I seek the deepest pleasures of my flesh. Who knows, maybe in the deepest pleasures of my flesh resides this divinity of sorts. Who knows, maybe I seek the burning fires of hell, because maybe beneath those fires lies the calm of the highest heaven.
But if this is not an oversimplification, then why does it seemingly not be in popular imagination. Is it just a matter of looking at proceedings of life in a different way?
Urban Shaman 