Why
Why is simplicity not quite simple?
Why is straight all that crooked?
Why is eagerness a reluctance?
Why is inclination held in barriers?
Why is transparent so opaque,
And the obvious so obstruse?
Why is straight all that crooked?
Why is eagerness a reluctance?
Why is inclination held in barriers?
Why is transparent so opaque,
And the obvious so obstruse?
Image by ecstaticist via FlickrRakh taqwa rakh
Rakh taqwa rakh
Taqwa rakh mehbooban wala
Kaun khada darbar hamare
kabhi to sahib puchhega...
This kaafi goes a long way...
Perfect Proportions
Image via WikipediaINQULAB
Image via WikipediaEtched deep in concrete as solid.
A barrage of familiar stimuli
Inebriating the spirit
Parching my sense dry.
Sucking my will into easy comfort
A disturbed pleasure
Dissatisfaction resultant.
Remorse and contrition obviously succeed
Change is not easy to breed.
Step out and channel anew
Think aside and walk askew.
Do I have the strength in me
Resilience to offer and break free.
Flustered not by inconsequent derision
I stand upright and walk my conviction.
Randomness
Life is beautiful in my head,
Then I open my eyes and
Reality pierces through.
A falling leaf in midair,
It's draft and gravity stolen.
Still I feel perfect.
Image via Wikipedia
Exchange
Want to feel
Burn your heart.
Want to see...
Forsake the tomb.
Want to love...
Live my thoughts.
Want me...
Destroy yourself.
He said...
And disappeared.
Burn your heart.
Want to see...
Forsake the tomb.
Want to love...
Live my thoughts.
Want me...
Destroy yourself.
He said...
And disappeared.
The sum of my existence
Contrary poles on the beam of my life
Strange bedfellows heart and mind make.
One finds solace in the other's disdain
The other thrives on its counter's disregard.
Yet a locus in my cosciousness is graphed
Though I bungle along directionless.
Though I bungle along directionless.
Thoughts, emotions and a cognisance
Is this the sum of my existence?
QUEST
The quest for you is a quest for me.
Oh you that is me, where are you?
Hiding from me, my self is.
Cast away, it itself has.
This purposeless separation is what for?
My all-knowing self answer me.
You and me, two beings to see.
What a farce, this illusion be.
Would the veils be lifted so
You and I could realize though
Until then cries of the half-self echo on.
What's the Point?
What is it that we strive for? What could be the cause of this listlessness in our beings? We complicate our lives with unnecessary mistiness and then we complain about unhappiness. Our life is like an economic situation in which one has to constantly keep running just to stand where one is as if it were a treadmill without a stop button. We are constantly chasing an unknown variable that is supposed to be the key to the magical world of happiness. All our pursuits, our desires, our ambitions direct us to that hazy, shimmering promise that is supposedly there, somewhere in the dark abyss of the unknown, waiting to be penetrated by the brave and adventurous. But this tail-chasing just makes us spiral after elusive mirages and leaves us with nothing at the end. Its like one runs around catching snow flakes but only gets one's hands wet.
It's probably because we live for others and not for ourselves. We are always thinking of what others are thinking and not what is going on in our heads. Other people's approval matters more than our own conviction. This inevitably pushes us down the alley to seeking validation. We are driven by a need to be accepted by others rather than by our own conscious. Our lives are just a farce, a pretence at life. But what does it matter when everyone living is living a farce?
What is the point of living such meaningless lives? Lives that amount to nothing, lives that are mediocre and are lived for no purpose at all but for the sole reason that there is no other alternative. What is the point of going through the same emotions, impulses, sensations etc that almost every other human and even possibly animals experience? And the irony of all ironies is that we set such a score by this old, hackneyed and cliched movie that plays out in every one's lives. What could possibly be so great about selling fancy pencils in the most enterprising way and then celebrating such a sorry accomplishment?
It's probably because we live for others and not for ourselves. We are always thinking of what others are thinking and not what is going on in our heads. Other people's approval matters more than our own conviction. This inevitably pushes us down the alley to seeking validation. We are driven by a need to be accepted by others rather than by our own conscious. Our lives are just a farce, a pretence at life. But what does it matter when everyone living is living a farce?
What is the point of living such meaningless lives? Lives that amount to nothing, lives that are mediocre and are lived for no purpose at all but for the sole reason that there is no other alternative. What is the point of going through the same emotions, impulses, sensations etc that almost every other human and even possibly animals experience? And the irony of all ironies is that we set such a score by this old, hackneyed and cliched movie that plays out in every one's lives. What could possibly be so great about selling fancy pencils in the most enterprising way and then celebrating such a sorry accomplishment?
Exclusivity or Generality
"I used to travel a great deal. I always felt just like that. I’ve been told it’s because I’m a hater of mankind."
"You’re not foolish enough to believe that, are you?"
"I don’t know."
"Surely you’ve seen through that particular stupidity. I mean the one that claims the pig is the symbol of love for humanity--the creature that accepts anything. As a matter of fact, the person who loves everybody and feels at home everywhere is the true hater of mankind. He expects nothing of men, so no form of depravity can outrage him."
"You mean the person who says that there’s some good in the worst of us?"
"I mean the person who has the filthy insolence to claim that he loves equally the man who made that statue of you and the man who makes a Mickey Mouse balloon to sell on street corners. I mean the person who loves the men who prefer the Mickey Mouse to your statue--and there are many of that kind. I mean the person who loves Joan of Arc and the salesgirls in dress shops on Broadway--with an equal fervor. I mean the person who loves your beauty and the women he sees in a subway--the kind that can’t cross their knees and show flesh hanging publicly over their garters--with the same sense of exaltation. I mean the person who loves the clean, steady, unfrightened eyes of man looking through a telescope and the white stare of an imbecile--equally, I mean quite a large, generous, magnanimous company. Is it you who hate mankind, Mrs. Keating?"
"You’re saying all the things that--since I can remember--since I began to see and think--have been..." She stopped.
"Have been torturing you. Of course. One can’t love man without hating most of the creatures who pretend to bear his name. It’s one or the other. One doesn’t love God and sacrilege impartially. Except when one doesn’t know that sacrilege has been committed. Because one doesn’t know God."
"What will you say if I give you the answer people usually give me--that love is forgiveness?"
"I’ll say it’s an indecency of which you’re not capable--even though you think you’re an expert in such matters."
"Or that love is pity."
"Oh, keep still. It’s bad enough to hear things like that. To hear them from you is revolting--even as a joke."
"What’s your answer?"
"That love is reverence, and worship, and glory, and the upward glance. Not a bandage for dirty sores. But they don’t know it. Those who speak of love most promiscuously are the ones who’ve never felt it. They make some sort of feeble stew out of sympathy, compassion, contempt and general indifference, and they call it love. Once you’ve felt what it means to love as you and I know it--the total passion for the total height--you’re incapable of anything less."
"As--you and I--know it?"
"It’s what we feel when we look at a thing like your statue. There’s no forgiveness in that, and no pity. And I’d want to kill the man who claims that there should be. But, you see, when he looks at your statue--he feels nothing. That--or a dog with a broken paw--it’s all the same to him. He even feels that he’s done something nobler by bandaging the dog’s paw than by looking at your statue. So if you seek a glimpse of greatness, if you want exaltation, if you ask for God and refuse to accept the washing of wounds as substitute--you’re called a hater of humanity, Mrs. Keating, because you’ve committed the crime of knowing a love humanity has not learned to deserve."
~Fountainhead, p.389-90
"You’re not foolish enough to believe that, are you?"
"I don’t know."
"Surely you’ve seen through that particular stupidity. I mean the one that claims the pig is the symbol of love for humanity--the creature that accepts anything. As a matter of fact, the person who loves everybody and feels at home everywhere is the true hater of mankind. He expects nothing of men, so no form of depravity can outrage him."
"You mean the person who says that there’s some good in the worst of us?"
"I mean the person who has the filthy insolence to claim that he loves equally the man who made that statue of you and the man who makes a Mickey Mouse balloon to sell on street corners. I mean the person who loves the men who prefer the Mickey Mouse to your statue--and there are many of that kind. I mean the person who loves Joan of Arc and the salesgirls in dress shops on Broadway--with an equal fervor. I mean the person who loves your beauty and the women he sees in a subway--the kind that can’t cross their knees and show flesh hanging publicly over their garters--with the same sense of exaltation. I mean the person who loves the clean, steady, unfrightened eyes of man looking through a telescope and the white stare of an imbecile--equally, I mean quite a large, generous, magnanimous company. Is it you who hate mankind, Mrs. Keating?"
"You’re saying all the things that--since I can remember--since I began to see and think--have been..." She stopped.
"Have been torturing you. Of course. One can’t love man without hating most of the creatures who pretend to bear his name. It’s one or the other. One doesn’t love God and sacrilege impartially. Except when one doesn’t know that sacrilege has been committed. Because one doesn’t know God."
"What will you say if I give you the answer people usually give me--that love is forgiveness?"
"I’ll say it’s an indecency of which you’re not capable--even though you think you’re an expert in such matters."
"Or that love is pity."
"Oh, keep still. It’s bad enough to hear things like that. To hear them from you is revolting--even as a joke."
"What’s your answer?"
"That love is reverence, and worship, and glory, and the upward glance. Not a bandage for dirty sores. But they don’t know it. Those who speak of love most promiscuously are the ones who’ve never felt it. They make some sort of feeble stew out of sympathy, compassion, contempt and general indifference, and they call it love. Once you’ve felt what it means to love as you and I know it--the total passion for the total height--you’re incapable of anything less."
"As--you and I--know it?"
"It’s what we feel when we look at a thing like your statue. There’s no forgiveness in that, and no pity. And I’d want to kill the man who claims that there should be. But, you see, when he looks at your statue--he feels nothing. That--or a dog with a broken paw--it’s all the same to him. He even feels that he’s done something nobler by bandaging the dog’s paw than by looking at your statue. So if you seek a glimpse of greatness, if you want exaltation, if you ask for God and refuse to accept the washing of wounds as substitute--you’re called a hater of humanity, Mrs. Keating, because you’ve committed the crime of knowing a love humanity has not learned to deserve."
~Fountainhead, p.389-90
Think Do Be
Think Do Be
Nothing else to breathe.
Why is it you don't see
That it is not as easy?
Confidence is the trick of faith,
To find the feet of fate,
Burn the fire of septate
And go across the glorious gate.
WHEN
A circle begins,
A circle ends.
A stop is left,
Another sentence written.
A past unhidden
Wends to a future unbidden,
Backs are turned
New faces envisioned.
Separation and union make a couple
When nostalgia begets anticipation.
A circle ends.
A stop is left,
Another sentence written.
A past unhidden
Wends to a future unbidden,
Backs are turned
New faces envisioned.
Separation and union make a couple
When nostalgia begets anticipation.
Secrets of a face
"What’s the matter with both of you, Ellsworth? Why such talk--over nothing at all? People’s faces and first impressions don’t mean a thing."
"That, my dear Kiki," he answered, his voice soft and distant, as if he were giving an answer, not to her, but to a thought of his own, "is one of our greatest common fallacies. There’s nothing as significant as a human face. Nor as eloquent. We can never really know another person, except by our first glance at him. Because, in that glance, we know everything. Even though we’re not always wise enough to unravel the knowledge. Have you ever thought about the style of a soul, Kiki?"
"The...what?"
"The style of a soul. Do you remember the famous philosopher who spoke of the style of a civilization? He called it ’style.’ He said it was the nearest word he could find for it. He said that every civilization has its one basic principle, one single, supreme, determining conception, and every endeavor of men within that civilization is true, unconsciously and irrevocably, to that one principle....I think, Kiki, that every human soul has a style of its own, also. Its one basic theme. You’ll see it reflected in every thought, every act, every wish of that person. The one absolute, the one imperative in that living creature. Years of studying a man won’t show it to you. His face will. You’d have to write volumes to describe a person. Think of his face. You need nothing else."
"That sounds fantastic, Ellsworth. And unfair, if true. It would leave people naked before you."
"It’s worse than that. It also leaves you naked before them. You betray yourself by the manner in which you react to a certain face. To a certain kind of face....The style of your soul..."
~Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead, p.228-29.
"That, my dear Kiki," he answered, his voice soft and distant, as if he were giving an answer, not to her, but to a thought of his own, "is one of our greatest common fallacies. There’s nothing as significant as a human face. Nor as eloquent. We can never really know another person, except by our first glance at him. Because, in that glance, we know everything. Even though we’re not always wise enough to unravel the knowledge. Have you ever thought about the style of a soul, Kiki?"
"The...what?"
"The style of a soul. Do you remember the famous philosopher who spoke of the style of a civilization? He called it ’style.’ He said it was the nearest word he could find for it. He said that every civilization has its one basic principle, one single, supreme, determining conception, and every endeavor of men within that civilization is true, unconsciously and irrevocably, to that one principle....I think, Kiki, that every human soul has a style of its own, also. Its one basic theme. You’ll see it reflected in every thought, every act, every wish of that person. The one absolute, the one imperative in that living creature. Years of studying a man won’t show it to you. His face will. You’d have to write volumes to describe a person. Think of his face. You need nothing else."
"That sounds fantastic, Ellsworth. And unfair, if true. It would leave people naked before you."
"It’s worse than that. It also leaves you naked before them. You betray yourself by the manner in which you react to a certain face. To a certain kind of face....The style of your soul..."
~Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead, p.228-29.
Catching a Thought
Catch this swift bird in its flight
And crystallize its form,
Enrobe it in words tight
Life, on another plane is born.
But oft it happen so
Its swiftness leaves one behind,
A fluttering leaf abandoned,
When the passionate draft recedes.
Only an echo resonates;
The friend now is gone.
A reminder that this way
May never be passed at all.
Yet a strange solace flickers;
That another wind may blow
And a different bird fly,
To be caught n made alive.
Image via Wikipedia
WAYFARERS FOR COMPANIONS
Walking along many a companion one finds
Some promises, and shattered hopes leave behind.
Unfamiliar faces reflect mirages of the soulmate
A little togetherness, then everything just fades away.
Each treaded patch hums a narration
A searing ache to fill solitude’s silence.
With wondrous capacity the heart withstands
Endless gnashes from Cupid’s hand.
Bewildering innocence forgetfulness reveals
The song of my life the cosmos speaks.
Lessons unlearnt
Wayfarers for companions one takes.
Is a companion to be found ever?
Maybe, if one would look closer.
Some promises, and shattered hopes leave behind.
Unfamiliar faces reflect mirages of the soulmate
A little togetherness, then everything just fades away.
Each treaded patch hums a narration
A searing ache to fill solitude’s silence.
With wondrous capacity the heart withstands
Endless gnashes from Cupid’s hand.
Bewildering innocence forgetfulness reveals
The song of my life the cosmos speaks.
Lessons unlearnt
Wayfarers for companions one takes.
Is a companion to be found ever?
Maybe, if one would look closer.
Watery Entanglements
Awestruck, I sit here, gazing with wonder at these mighty droplet waves sailing ferociously across the sky. The trees, the leaves, my house plants, the windows all relenting under their daunting sceptre. The magic bewitches me and I reach out to feel its touch against my hands, but it eludes me, I am enthralled. I stand at the threshold dreamily watching this beauty dance to the lyrical wind. One moment it attempts embracing me, then suddenly it recedes, changes directions and moves away; challenging me to dare to challenge it. Vainly it shows off its strength to me as if to say, "What do you think of me now? Do you still dare to come near me? I doubt it." But I just stand there wondering, experiencing, marveling, nonplussed. Then like a little child demanding attention it suddenly kisses me on my face, awakening me from my reverie. I breathe the mint air as the maiden droplets brush against my face. Its coldness against my warm body enlivens me.
I muster up a little strength, take a step towards it but stop. Why do I stop? What do I fear? I stand clutching the post admiring these beautiful splashes bouncing off the wall and garden table, but don't dare to go beyond. It beckons me again, teases me too, but I can't move. I am content to have my soul washed by its virgin freshness, to have its simplicity engulf my mind and its loveliness resonate in my soul.
I open the door, the windows, pull a sofa and sit back, balmed by it. I muse over the puny wonder that is life. I wonder how similar it is to the rain. For most of us life beckons us, teases us, reaches out to us but we just stand by the sidelines, admire it pass us by. Funny how things are the way they are!
As though it understands, the torrent mellows down too, realising that the game we were playing is over. It is now drumming down slowly, rhythmically and is ebbing away as I sit and write about the beauty of the rain!
I muster up a little strength, take a step towards it but stop. Why do I stop? What do I fear? I stand clutching the post admiring these beautiful splashes bouncing off the wall and garden table, but don't dare to go beyond. It beckons me again, teases me too, but I can't move. I am content to have my soul washed by its virgin freshness, to have its simplicity engulf my mind and its loveliness resonate in my soul.
I open the door, the windows, pull a sofa and sit back, balmed by it. I muse over the puny wonder that is life. I wonder how similar it is to the rain. For most of us life beckons us, teases us, reaches out to us but we just stand by the sidelines, admire it pass us by. Funny how things are the way they are!
As though it understands, the torrent mellows down too, realising that the game we were playing is over. It is now drumming down slowly, rhythmically and is ebbing away as I sit and write about the beauty of the rain!
Walk out the door and up the street; look at the stars beneath my feet.
Remember rights that I did wrong, so here I go.
Hello, hello. There is no place I cannot go.
My mind is muddy but my heart is heavy. Does it show?
I lose the track that loses me, so here I go.
And so I sent some men to fight, and one came back at dead of night.
Said he'd seen my enemy. Said he looked just like me,
So I set out to cut myself and here I go.
I'm not calling for a second chance,
I'm screaming at the top of my voice.
Give me reason but don't give me choice.
'Cause I'll just make the same mistake again.
And maybe someday we will meet, and maybe talk and not just speak.
Don't buy the promises 'cause, there are no promises I keep.
And my reflection troubles me, so here I go.
I'm not calling for a second chance,
I'm screaming at the top of my voice.
Give me reason but don't give me choice.
'Cause I'll just make the same mistake,
I'm not calling for a second chance,
I'm screaming at the top of my voice.
Give me reason but don't give me choice.
'Cause I'll just make the same mistake again.
Saw the world turning in my sheets and once again I cannot sleep.
Walk out the door and up the street; look at the stars.
Look at the stars fall down.
And wonder where did I go wrong.
~James Blunt
And wonder where did I go wrong.
~James Blunt
Come
Come Come, whoever you are!
Wanderer, worshipper,
lover of leaving
Come.
This is not a caravan of despair.
It doesn't matter if you have broken your vow
a thousand times,
still Come,
and yet again
Come!
~Rumi (tr. Coleman Barks)
I died a hundred times and I learnt this:
Your fragrance came, and I was made alive.
I gave my life a hundred times, and fell--
I heard your call, and I was born again.
I placed a net to catch the falcon Love
Deep in my heart--it siezed my heart,
and went.
~Rumi, The Hidden Treasure
Your fragrance came, and I was made alive.
I gave my life a hundred times, and fell--
I heard your call, and I was born again.
I placed a net to catch the falcon Love
Deep in my heart--it siezed my heart,
and went.
~Rumi, The Hidden Treasure
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