Fear. Faith. Choice.

Men say, “Women are complicated. Life is simpler than even attempting to understand them.” However, on the contrary I believe there is a possible solution to this generalised conceived notion.  Maybe, it involves the art of observing little details, particularly tiny simple objects towards which they get inevitably attached to. The source of this belief lies in an old memory of mine.  I have a memory from approximately 12 years back, when I was around 12 years old. This memory is about a family trip around the Himalayan beauties of North Bengal, India. Although the memory of the entire trip is vague, the details are particularly attached to one night during the journey from one hill station to another. The  mountainous roads used to be narrower and less developed, leaving almost 5 inch gap between the wheels of the car and the edge of the road. If not for skilled Nepali drivers, one could almost consider a trip like that as a grand suicide mission. I was too young...

 I am standing on one side of the road, staring at a young woman, who is standing on the other end. My stare was frequently interrupted by the heavy traffic separating us. So all I could get was fleeting glimpses in the tiny intervals that office hour traffic could afford.  She looked distracted, lost in another world. Yet halfway lost, focused enough to wait for the right time to cross the road. I kept wondering about her thoughts, trying to imagine the world she was lost in. It was like grasping tiny pieces of a torn letter and making an effort to glue them up again.  That was the connection we shared for some moments. Unaware of each other’s thoughts yet aware of each other’s stares, each of us waiting for the right time to cross the road.  Next moment, I find her lying on the roadside bleeding. What just happened? I try to rewind back the time in my head, making every effort to slow down the previous moments to comprehend how she ended up there dying. I c...

I am looking through a tainted window Trying to see things as they are Trying to see myself as I am. The cook keeps talking of her life at home “A drunk husband is my gift from life A mark of that gift colours my scars  Day and night, I am reminded of life” The chauffeur keeps talking of his wishes and wants What ifs and what if nots “Wish I was rich, then the world could be mine I could drive the world, the way I want Crash down anyone who comes my way  Help the poor, help the needy  Stain my hands with the blood of the greedy” The literates keep talking of politics and philosophy  “This is right and that is wrong He is cunning and he is a fool  We know the best, vote for the best  We know what’s good for the world, yet we know not the world” The prisoner keeps talking of guilt and innocence “The police was bought, I say  Money brought me here  Behind bars, without sunlight  Yet I feel ...

I killed a man once. It felt good after a while of performing this act. A certain sense of relief, a certain kind of strange unknown satisfaction grasped me by my throat.  I used to be scared of blood. The sight of even a small amount would make me faint. There are very few things in the world that I hate, fear appears to rank topmost in that list. The world otherwise is very beautiful for me, nature is fascinating and I keep wondering at this perfect geometry of existence. I never disliked any particular person, I am very understanding by nature. I respect perspectives and I never held a grudge on any human being or any element. Never have I had any complains about life. A contented, calm state of mind is something I usually possessed, most of the time. However, such times did not last longer. A sense of fear would snatch away this identity of mine and throw me to a world where I would not recognise myself.  Hemophobia wasn’t the only disturbing factor in my lif...

'One-eyed Movement' You glared at my soul, Piercing my heart with arrows from your hellhole; Burning my blood with flames of Themis, Burying my body in the ashes of her phoenix; Drowning me in rhymes and rhythms of ecstasy, Amidst your ebb and flow of endless melancholy; Sketching me again with your strokes of resurrection, Provoking me with your voices of insurrection, While warping me to your feet for renunciation.  You glared at my soul, Demanding my memories that you stole; Exposing me to my own vanity, Splintering my sanity; Whispering me to carry on, While singing of the white swan. “Why?”, I asked, yet all along in your silence I knew, For only in faith you grew; For only in trust could you exist,  And charge me to persist; So all along you drank the potion of my obedience, While consuming my resistance; For what?; For me to keep encircling you, For me to see through, And open my heart to your shine, Only for...

Rustic is the feeling  Wanderer is the mind  East or west, I don't know  Yet here I am  Lost and found.  Fire is burning out  While the snow is melting  Leaves are falling  Yet here I am Frozen in time. Words, words, words  Vibrations and echoes  Multitudes of colours and forms  Yet here I am  Deaf and blind.  Burden of blood  Duty of spirit  Necessity beyond all  Yet here I am  Inert and still.  Rusted was iron and d ecayed was the world, The egg and the snake made love together Till birth and death took form. Chaos gazed as his own tears, Reflected were glimpses of Order. It was then that my name was called thrice, Yet here I am, with voices in your dreams and  Silent in your breath.

“Why did he run away from his responsibilities?”, asked my uncle. My father when questioned, replied, “Because it is his nature. That is just the way he is. An escapist.” I was sitting in my study room when I over-heard this conversation.  I was looking out of my window, staring blankly at a flower blossoming on a nearby plant. Suddenly, my father’s words echoed in my mind and for some unknown reason, the reason given by him seemed to make some absolute sense. One’s actions and consequences of actions seemed to have a principle cause, which leads to the observed nature of the person. Perception, cognition, behaviours, actions are simply consequences of this principle cause. These thoughts led me to some other realm of thoughts.  If one observes a blossoming flower carefully, one may notice that the space-time occupied by the innermost petal is shared by the space-time of the whole flower. It is the cause-effect relation that is significant in such a mutual rela...