I often visited the archive
Reviewed the history
And indulged in imagining
The return of an era.
However, the passage of time
Made me realise its futility.
The intertextuality of a certain past
With present did not suit me well.
So, much like instances earlier
Yet with a quietness and greater resolve
I turn away from the old records
To let the dust of time get them.
Intrigued by someone, one faces indecisiveness whether to show interest or to worry for one’s image that what if one might come across as imposing. The ego privileges indifference and the id is subdued.
Phew, it perturbs one what if to pursue and persist, is perceived as to protractedly pester—one might as well be passive, pass over and be at peace instead. Perhaps, people just ought to be caught up in their perfectionism, the balanced blend of professionalism, politeness and pride; and put out any flicker of possibilities. How then one ought to be prudent personally? It’s paradoxical. Period.
And as for another paradox, periodically though, the pensive pessimist in one, ponders on positivity. Irony indeed.
Chained by culture, its codes, the human some day shall be asphyxiated by the strangles of the society. The silver lining remains that I shan’t stay alive to see such and such sight in the century to come by.
.
.
.
If only to be clear and aloud about one’s intentions was easy, and mutuality was not so infrequent; if only we could speak our mind and hearts out, life would be so beautiful.
I knew a man who’d cast doubts on me for I wouldn’t readily make promises. The only thing I was sure of was my love for him, but not when and how things would unfold for us. I accounted for changes and uncertainties of life and would not entirely do away with skepticism.
He, however, was different. He was sure that we were meant to be, or so would he say. He made grand promises and claims of being tied to just one person alone for the rest of his life, quite early on. He would dismiss my apprehensions if I would have them ever. Eventually he had me put all my trust in himself, more than what I accorded myself. And that’s where I made the biggest mistake. I believed that there was this man, I would grow old with and be in love with forever.
But as life would have it, here I am years after he well demonstrated the emptiness of his words, still feeling love for him that I can’t possibly explain. So ironical, that those who didn’t make promises kept them, and those who did, forgot about them altogether. World is indeed full of contradictions I have now learnt. But, damn, words ought not to be used so carelessly. I am not sure what it was: his short-sightedness or deceit in his nature, or both.
To love someone is one thing, but to trust your own self, your own instincts, and reason is of foremost importance. Never do away with skepticism. Keep it in the background, because the moment you realise the trust is not honoured, its breaking should not break you. If your skepticism is intact, however surprising, it will not seem like an impossibility that makes you delusional.
Anyway. So never ever trust anyone more than you trust yourself. Also, because when it’s broken, you might just find it very difficult to trust anyone again. And then living and feeling become not so bearable. Trusting someone is important. When you trust another, you feel at ease. Life becomes a breeze. How much would I want to be able to put my trust in someone, gosh.
So make sure those who took you for granted, and hurt you, who’ve led to so much distrust in you, cease to exist for you, for once and all. Make them vanish, poof! And then with a deep long breath, hit the final nail in the coffin, as you bury their remains.
Hope for positive. Indeed something new and special, with someone more genuine and real, who respects your trust as well your skepticism, will follow through. It will. It will, once you have thorougly done away with any preoccupations with an undeserved past.
To a fresh start!
Signed: February 11th; a date I have remembered so far and will remember again for undoing it all.
Recently she was stricken with the fever of ‘first love’. The memories of the beloved and an unexplainable belief in being uniquely designed for togetherness, was burdening her chest. And she was struggling to breathe. Her emotions were swelling, and she was overcome by them, weakened, vulnerable. Yet, what remained in her cells was the somatic memory of surviving the heartbreak, and the traumatising separation. Her survival instincts kicked in and so did the need for self-preservation. Since the medicine was out of her reach, being in possession of someone who imposed a certain inaccessibility; she resorted to an alternative therapy: self-contentment, and giving up part of one’s agency to destiny with faith that it will have something better in store for her. It marked a slight shift in her course of therapy which predominantly used indifference and distractions as the drug earlier — one that often resulted in a withdrawal symptom if one was not careful with the dosage.
Well, she’s good now; cured. But yeah, one’s got to admit that ‘first love’ is indeed both a fever and a burden, as someone once said.
There was a little boy I knew
He’d asked me to pick for him
A few berries on my way back
As I drew past the bend in the road,
A fortress seemed to have risen
From underneath the garden
Where he played, where he sang
Where he rolled in the grass.
The fortress loomed over the horizon
The boy nowhere in sight.
Unsure if the fortress was real
Or whether I was delirious, I walked on.
All the bastions had men on guard,
Canons were loaded to fire.
Unable to come to terms with what lay
In front, I touched the wall.
The coldness of the dressed-rock
Sank in my bones, discomforting.
I looked for the door — none to avail.
Creeping up the wall — through a window
I caught a glimpse of a man, beaten down
Bulging out of the powder blue shirt
The little boy wore when he sang to me
The first song of love, he’d learnt.
I threw berries into the dungeon
Hoping the man would throw back one
I hear no sound, no movement.
I wait, and I wonder,
Will he pick them up when I am gone?
It feels as if someone is following me,
A shadow from the past, maybe.
And just when I turn back to see
It’s gone.
But the shadow leaves a trace —
Its reflection froze in the lake
Given it was the end of December.
But maybe, it was just passing by.
Baffling, as it was
Despite her hard-earned indifference
She / I went to look in the niche
Where the shadow lurked.
There was no sense of movement.
There was, however, a familiar scent —
A scent that was inviting
Attached to a memory, equally frightening.
She went down the abandoned alley
Another time, another hour.
The same stillness plagued the view
Afflicting her bone and sinew.
The excruciating pain she once knew
Came flashing before her eyes
As did passion, she never again afforded.
She stood, perplexed with thoughts, sweet and sordid.
Tides of the ocean, or the calm of the lake
Was not a choice she wanted to make.
So she chose instead
To let the sea draw close, into a lagoon.
So it was Saturday, and having finished some work pending on my plate, I sat binging on my first South Korean TV series, Hospital Ship. It’s was a nice watch. Made me cry and smile a lot. And it’s so hard to fathom how these Koreans manage to look so young, almost ten years younger than their age (talking of adults of course!).
And as I continued to binge, suddenly around 2 pm in the afternoon, it got all dark. I stepped out to get a feel of the cool breeze which in no time turned into an aggressive storm. While I picked up clothes from the drying line, I saw plastic-bags fluttering and soaring high like hot air balloons. I quickly went back in to put away the clean laundry and shut the windows. And when I came back it was already pouring. The heat evaporated, as the shower dampened the soil and in the momentary humidity rose the scent of the earth. Mesmerised by the petrichor, my mind felt at ease, my eyes closed and I took in deep breaths filling each of my lungs as much as I could. I felt more alive at that moment. Before one could absorb it all in, I heard a rumble of thunder, and I shuddered for a split-second. With that sound now in distance, I heard tramplings atop the metal roofing nearby. Hailstones the size of blueberries fell to the ground, melting as they touched down. I stretched out my hand cupped to catch some. But the rain was freezing and I fled back to the shade right after I caught a single hail which I slipped into my mouth. It literally sent a chill down my jaw. I was reminded of the simpler times when as a kid I would gather a handful and eat them without a thought. But the present seemed too beautiful to dwell over scenes from the past. Everything looked rejuvenated. I smiled looking at leaves now washed to hues of green from the previous dull tones.
And from where I stood, I saw a bamboo pole – water kept splattering from the niche at the node. I had never seen this before. And that prompted me to pick up the pencil. I couldn’t stop smiling again as I effortlessly drew that sighting later that evening.
It’s not often you come across
Someone who mirrors you so much –
Whose thoughts and emotions
Resonate with you as much.
.
And yet, they let it go,
You let it go –
Because it doesn’t come easy.
Because distance you know.
.
And in doing so we ignore –
Humans have for long known
To cover the difference, both in
Space and time.
A. I had come across a profile on Instagram ‘suggestions’ the previous day and I had appreciated some of their digital artworks in ‘likes’ that had appealed to me. I generally keep away from pouring likes on more than a photo or two at once because you know, you don’t want to come across too enthusiastic. But I didn’t hesitate because – well, they were that good. And that’s it, it couldn’t hurt.
So I woke up to a message from the same girl – I had never met her in person. She asked me if I was the one who had donated ‘Blankets’ by Craig Thomson at the college library. (Yeah, so she is a junior from college, we were never contemporaries though. She probably got in school after I had graduated.)
And the conversation hit off.
Me: Yes, that’s right. Among a few others. But yeah, Blankets is just beautiful. Try reading Habibi – also by Craig Thomson if can get your hands on it.
She: Yes, I read Habibi as soon as I was done reading Blankets.
Me: Awesome! Among others that I gave away, try reading ‘The House That Groaned’. It will be an interesting read and you will love the illustrations – they are pretty stylised and quite different. Plus I love the windows cut out in the cover.
She: Yes, I read that too! The illustrations are indeed very different in that book.
It’s a beautiful book that I read at a certain crossroad in my life and it was really helpful. Also, I really enjoy Craig’s work, it has a certain soul in itself. Thank you for sharing/ introducing me to it.
Me: It’s really sweet of you (to reach out and acknowledge). I saw a glimpse of the graphic novel you have been working on. Would love to see when it comes together as a whole.
Me: Also, you have a lovely name. What does it mean?
She: Raina means ‘night’ in Hindi. And because of spelling ‘Rayna’, my friends at school call me ‘Ray-na’, meaning ‘Princess’.
Me: Either is beautiful.
(Me, in my head: Beautiful as the night.)
And after some more discussion about a few things (like working after college – studios vs corporates) we bid our byes and carried on with our day.
Later I looked up the name and found ‘Rayna’ has Hebrew origin meaning ‘song of the Lord’. It’s indeed a very lyrical name. I will keep in mind, for it may come handy in the future! Gosh. These thoughts really suggest I have been adulting for some time now.
So, someone I had never met made me smile today. It’s great a feeling when people show love when you don’t see it coming. It’s important to put our feelings into words and actions – positivity really multiplies itself when shared. Continue reading
Nothing Is Absolute 