Me Who?

Knock-knock!

Who’s there?

Me.

Me who?

“Don’t know”.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall,

Who do you think is the smartest of all?

Look into those eyes,

Right into those melancholy black balls,

And what you see is your very own self.

That is the irony of what we call life

Because what you see is merely an image,

A tragic illusion.

Our eyes are the window,

Our ego a curtain drawn safely across;

The mind well-hidden

From the daylight of reality.

At night we dream,

To be carried along by the flow of thought.

Like a spectator we stand

And watch the game, emotionless, serene.

The match never stops,

Merely players change.

Another illusion,

As one of them is you!

Both a spectator and a player,

A contradiction, but not really so.

Our mind was well-hidden,

That’s what we thought.

Damn! The devil’s been playing all along.

Trrrrrringggg! Good morning!

The slate’s wiped clean,

Memories all erased.

We start all over again,

Just another day.

But that’s not all.

Arjun shot the eye

But it wasn’t what he actually saw.

He looked into the water;

It was an image,

Just another illusion.

But he saw right through

To the heart of the matter.

He aimed well

And saw nothing else.

But that was Arjun;

Now who am I?

Mirror, mirror, on the wall,

Who do you think can see through all?

Dream-dream, come once everyday,

I wish to see my mind at play.

Knock-knock!

Who’s there?

Me.

Me who?

Still “don’t know”.

Damn!

The Cup of Life

I, so busy and tense,

All the time,

Producing and reducing

While the sun shines.

I, so busy am I,

That I see but never look

At the all-pervading beauty of life.

I search but never see

That baby smiling up at me.

It’s not that my eyes aren’t open,

It’s due to a shut inner eye

Which causes nature’s beauty to simply pass-by.

Daffodils are beautiful,

But so is the first ray of the sun,

Peeking thru’ the white clouds.

It’s not only the crisp morning breeze

Which brings a new breath of life,

But also the sparrow’s sweet call,

Which I have never heard.

I, so busy am I,

That I never counted

The drops that each day takes away

From my Cup of Life.

An empty cup,

A shut eye,

This I will be reduced to ashes,

And the bones of I immersed in the Ganges.

Wish I had seen the day,

When I will become, for nature,

Nothing but child’s play.

I, so busy am I,

So busy am I…

A Cherub’s Touch

A fast moving world,

That’s what it was.

Thousands of people

Rushing here and there,

Some shouting

While others worked noiselessly;

And hundreds of cyclists

With bells ringing incessantly.

The streets were abuzz

And life was electric.

The noise was loud enough

To wake the sleeping Gods.

But somewhere within

Lay a dying man.

A dusky room

With a pigeon-hole window

Formed his existence.

A thin beam of sunlight

Found its way through;

The beam of Hope

Maybe that’s what it was.

The noise fell on his ears

But moved nothing within.

He heard nothing, felt nothing

But merely saw

That ray.

It cut through his dilemma

Like a sword through the heart

And things became clear

As never before.

Life had been cruel,

That’s what he thought.

Grew up an orphan

But learnt to live,

All on his own.

He’d lived righteously,

As desired by his Gods.

A mundane existence though,

Introvert as he was.

But just as life began

The End was near.

Still, something was amiss

But pinpointing it seemed impossible.

Where was the justice

And the promised reward?

Where did he go wrong?

The ‘why’ was the most important gap.

He thought hard

But to no avail.

His strength was ebbing

And he couldn’t fight anymore.

He knew his time had come

And he must relent.

The struggle was over;

It was the Kiss of Death

Something beyond human control.

The light was fading.

Was it dusk or the shutting of eyelids

He never knew.

Simply a cool breeze

Lightly running through his hair

Like the touch of a beloved.

And then the Cherub appeared

In all her glory.

She was an angel

With the poise of a princess

And affectionate like a mother.

Slowly bending over

She kissed him on the forehead,

Gently held him by the finger

And pulled him along,

Music came from nowhere,

And soft light broke the night.

She danced with him;

Her steps were dainty

Yet the flow was unblemished.

Rhythm ran in her blood

And the music played to her tune.

It was the moment

He had yearned for all along.

His Gods were not unkind;

He now understood.

He had been blessed

By the Cherub’s Touch.

My Gem

She sleeps peacefully in my arms,
Her head resting on my shoulder,
Her warm breath running down my neck,
With its soft whistling through her nose;
It’s like the music of Krishna’s flute.
Heaven can’t be as soothing as this.

The Gods have been kind to me;
Bestowed upon me their most precious gift:
My darling baby girl, this girl so pure,
In body, mind and soul.

But look! Look at those fools,
Who value not this priceless gift.
Those literate fools,
Who put aside their morals and values,
And cross all extremes,
To murder this gem before she’s born.

How unfortunate their souls are,
To have been truly blessed
And yet destined to be the cold-blooded murderer
Of this very blessing.

But blessed am I
By the radiance that emanates from My Gem’s Being.

Where is she?

He was a dreamer
An idealist too,
Yet within that framework
Existed objective analysis
Within a subjective perspective.
Tons of contradictions,
All blended together
To form the perfect picture
Of total chaos.
But someone said
That even chaos has certain patterns.

A little sweet wine,
A touch of coffee liquor
And the rest is all to taste.
Mix it all up
And the net result
Forms that perfect confusion.

The story builds this way.
He, the protagonist,
Is off on another bumpy ride
Thru’ his own ‘mental-countryside’.
The search has begun,
For what
That is yet to be known.

The horns are blaring,
This is Indian countryside, baby!
Screech!
Phew! Saved.
A thought nearly ran him down.
He stares right into it,
And there is the first clue.
Fast and furious
That’s what he’ll like,
But able to stop
When time demands.

On he moves,
He must not stop.
Life is short,
And she must fill
The Cup of her Life
To the brim.

He crosses the Ganges
And looks far across.
The waters are so peaceful and calm,
Tranquillity bestowed upon them
By the Mighty Hand.
Yet below the surface
The currents flow
With force unmatched,
Allowing nothing to hold within!
A force so potent
And a will to live,
If only she had.

Further down he meets
The religious ones.
Orange they wear
And pure white are their souls.
This purity would do her good
And help her cleanse
Her inner self,
All thru’ the process
Of Karma and Svadharma.

He moves up the hills
And the clouds begin to surround,
Like a mysterious stranger,
They wrap their arms around.
A slight cold touch
And then a soft drizzle.
The Gods may be gently crying
Or hiding from the Light.
If only she could
Let loose at times;
The grief will spill
But not bother her anymore.
Then she would fear not again
Looking within,
And seek not again
A Guru without.
The Master of herself
Is what she would become.

The road winds thru’
Jungles of solitude.
The mountains tower high
All specks of brown and green;
If only she was
A confused blend like me.
Contradictions within
And contradictions without,
A desire to learn
From this mix of all.
A need to add
More colour everyday,
To these specks of brown, green and blue.

He climbs further,
The air goes thin.
The struggle begins
But he could still win.
The words “give up”
He never knew.
He would never teach her
And she must never learn.

The journey is what counts
Not the destination,
As once you’re there
It’s already the end.

He’s still climbing
It’s rocky and steep,
Each step takes him closer
To where she awaits him
With bated breath.
He begins to slip,
The going is torturous.
The doubts creep in,
Maybe she never was there.
He’s just human
And may just break,
One cannot say.
The mind begins to drift,
The dream still exists.
A potential conflict
With disastrous consequences.

One more step
And he should be there.
The final call
Which he cannot miss.
He lunges forward
With the hand grasping the peak.
One last pull
Which had him there.

But alas!
She was nowhere to be found.
Was it all a fantasy?!
His senses he could not believe,
Half the brain in grief
And the other half astound.

The journey was over,
The end was here.
Damn! What a waste!
He’d been a great fool
As the one he was seeking
Was right there at home
Waiting all along.