Sunday Morning

A coffee by her side,

Neatly placed on a coaster,

In fear of leaving circles:

Patterns best left for the pen.

Light beats, Noora Noor

Clear sky, save for the cottony clouds

Dancing with the glistening Khalifa

A little jewel delicately placed outside her window

Sunlight in her eyes

And a tune in her heart

Gone with the wind

Stocatto at her finger tips

It's that Sunday morning feeling

Watching shapes dancing

To that familiar beat

Conceding the present to pass

Fast cars and melodies

Chasing circles

Dedication

To a nugatory need

Trains

Like every evening , 

Greeted with speed

I step in

So many moods

Temperaments 

All those hours of toiling

Hidden behind busy eyebrows

Waiting for a seat?

This train has few to offer

You need to make your space

Or wait. Till the next hard stop

So many faces

Emotions

How has everyone's day been?

May be that expression gives it away

Or may be not

Should we ask them?

A Moment of Reflection

‘Speak to us of Friendship’

For the first time, I felt the presence of a hand. The invisible hand turning the pages, revealing thoughts and spurring emotions I did not want to feel, and certainly did not want to recount. A hand carrying the mastery of the blacksmith, smooth and knowing, an expert in his field. Reaching deep within the multiple knots of emotions, trying desperately to untangle.

Indeed it was a friendship to be cherished, and one that we had never worked towards, but allowed to blossom with grace. We grew up together after all. ‘Bum chums’ as they say. She knew everything about me, and I everything about her. Contemporary times demand contemporary emotions of ‘BFF’ and a selfie of remembrance. But we had none of those. We were just simple school girls, cycling together every evening, and sharing a thought or two. Music turned out to be an integral part of who we were. The essential ingredient in our bond of friendship. Innocence was the other. Simplicity kept us safe in happy spaces of childhood.

He’s right. She was my need answered. My confidant, partner and sister. She was always there. Always helping me out, always rescuing me. Playing the big sister. But also, the better sister. It never seemed to bother me then. She was still there. And I needed her.

But then, the joy was always claimed. She wanted the spot light, and enjoyed the spot light. She revelled in the attention when on stage and also when not. The credit, the claps, the encouragement the pat on the back. That was her motivation and that was her pride. The person seemed to matter little, and most often that person was me. It was all about rising, and all about the glory in reaching the top. And over the years, that’s all that seemed to matter. Like a silent beast by my side who grew larger in our friendship, while I stood by the corner.

And this began to reflect in our spirits. I grieved. Every time we parted, I grieved. Not out of longing, but out of anger and thirst. I needed her comfort and sympathy, while she was compelled to compete. Friendship was not a race. It was a bond. Or so I wanted it to be. There was a certain purity in childish innocence, one that seemed sufficient to keep us going till we were seventy. But, clearly not. We were growing up, and there were other people, situations and egos that demanded more.

And as we grew older, we grew more apart, and more distant. We didn’t speak, for words would only be a masquerade to the truth. There was little to say and little to dwell on.

And one day, the spirit in me spoke. It brought out the worst, the ugliest and beastly side that I hoped would live hidden and perish poor, deep within me. But it had swollen too wide and too wise for my containment, and out came the words spilling. There wasn’t much thought and neither much action. Simply cold hearted hatred. Hate so pure and deep rooted that there seemed to be no origin to this stream of ugliness. The words poured reflecting regret, anger, angst and bitterness. Emotions I would never want to associate with myself, let alone let her discover. She was precious. Was.

And it has been more than a year, of avoidance and regret. The colour has painted itself grey in our memories. For what took me one day to paint black could only fade so much. I was ashamed of who I had turned into that day. Ashamed of the words I had so comfortably let lose to ruin whatever little remained between us. Little did I know that I could push someone so precious and so close, so far away. There was no laughter, and there was no sharing of happiness. There was nothing. Nothing but cold bitterness.

And the hand turned the page. ‘Speak of Talking…You talk when you cease to be at peace with your thoughts’

City Lights

"How do you like this view from the window?" she smiled.

"It is... absolutely... breath taking... ", gasped Ira.

"I know. Spent many a night cherishing this"

She really had. That fantastic horizon... with that extensive and all embracing sea kissing the shore so gently. And yet the necklace of soaring towers embellishing the expanse, reflecting her thoughts in resonance. Darkness cradling the scene lightly, announcing it's presence, and yet allowing the little beads of light to glow. And these little lights, emanating from giant buildings, in their stillness seemed to understand. Not judge, or plan or solve. But just understand. They were constant. Re assuring. And amazing. Always there, every time Maya stood by her window at night.

It had just been about two years for Maya. Away from home, adjusting to her new life. She had seen every other cliche that she had been warned about, come true. She was single, in a large city full of people. Alone and yet hardly every had the time to be on her own. Growing and still wanting to know more. Excelling at work but never really celebrating her success. The only time she was able to reflect, absorb and realise - was at that window. All these moments came alive, with a tune of nostalgia, when re counted. She lived in the moment, in recollection. And it was this view that had transformed her. Matured her and assured her, of her existence. The day came into being, at night, by the window. 

And every day she realised, how far she had come. How wide her horizon had grown, as though guided by the horizon right outside. She felt grateful about taking the decision to leave her home town and come so far - 'to see the world' as they say. And the world really was an astonishing place. She had challenged her beliefs, and stretched every bone in her body to grow and absorb everything she could from this world. And today, she was a combination of all the people she had met. So different from what she was two years ago.

Maya lit her cigarette as she gazed upon the magnificence outside. And in that long drag that followed, it hit upon her. Did she really want to be that different?

The Blogger in You

This has been a blog left quite in the dark. And now that I return to it, that is also what is lending to the charm of writing here again. It's like writing to myself, and yet, what if some lonely lost blogger comes upon it? What if she gets lost in her thought camp and lands on mine? And that's what brings us to the fundamental question - why do people blog?

My profession is such that it makes me question things. Attitudes, emotions, motivations and behaviour. Sounds fantastic doesn't it? Well let me not burst that bubble but instead reconfirm that it's quite an interesting place to be actually. It provides perspectives and always sets the lens right. But now I'm just rambling. The sole intention of telling you what the nature of my job is to technically justify why I would be thinking of such a fundamental question in an article with so emotional a title, in the first place.

So getting back to that. Why do people blog? Think about it. And if you don't blog. Why not? Is it too painstaking? Are you secretive? See all your actions would have an attitude fundamentally driving it. What drives YOU to behave the way you do?

See, from where I come from, people love talking. There are sessions for daily banter as I would call it, which locally is referred to as adda. They love talking about everything on earth - from the weather to the changing political weather and more. It is what keeps them breathing and refreshes them even after a long hard days work - shei parar adda.

But it was only at the end of an interview in Kolkata that I realised this, when my new acquaintance told me:

"It was so great talking to you... after a long while I really enjoyed talking to someone"

What did we talk about may you ask? Well it was a 2 hour interview in which I got a sneak peek into what he stood for, what his values in life were and what had gone into making him - the individual. Our conversation spanned years - from his childhood days to his college days to his boring work life. He expressed his frustrations and motivations and what kept him going. He spoke with pride about his son and the family he had made. In all, it was 2 hours of him telling me, about himself. And all I had to do, was listen.

And even though this man lives in a city where everyone loves to talk, where everyone has an opinion and a thought, and everyone listens... but seldom is it, just about them. People feel the need to be heard. They feel the need to express and to tell their story as after all, life is on  a fast track rail road with no halt button! So when does one stop and take a breather and reflect? Apparently this 2 hour interview let the man vent and reflect and for a second step back, and think about how things had unfolded in his life.

And it is this need, of wanting to be heard, of getting our opinions out there that makes us blog, and that makes us put this information out there, whether someone chances upon it or not.

May be this is obvious. 

His Eastern Skies

In "A Midsummer Night's Dream" during the performance of the play of "Pyramus and Thisbe," Moonshine (or Moon) is represented "with lanthorn, dog, and bush of thorn." Describing his own character, later in the play, Moonshine says:

"All that I have to say, is, to tell you that the lanthorn is the moon; I, the man in the moon; this thorn-bush, my thorn-bush; and this dog, my dog."

And yet, what makes this cheese like phenomenon so incredibly dubious and arcane? Countless nights of consideration has left me with little reason. The eastern skies garland his majestic presence leaving all else "Sliver'd in the moon's eclipse".

What is it that makes us worship? Is it when we're left in awe of a presence? The omnipotence of natural law? Or is it simply- beauty? May be it's a combination of both, and then again that depends on how one chooses to define it. This heavenly body, looking down upon us from within the eastern skies has left me in awe. No where else have I seen such beauty, changing colour and might, through the day- and night. His mysterious ways... amaze. But there's only so much one can do, apart from appreciate. observe and adore.

By the window

The view seemed to explain it all. Window panes framing tiny dots on a large landscape. The darkness accentuated the silence, and all we could see were the tiny city lights. Millions of them. We were sitting on the 28th floor of the building, which made things seem more insignificant than usual. Far far in the horizon, the gulf waters blended into the sky... It was serene. And something in the inconsequential scheme of things, made us feel at peace. Her tiny head bobbed onto my shoulder and we stared out into the empty sky. 

We imagined what the drop from the horizon would feel like if the world were flat. We imagined God with an eye patch. We imagined what it would be like to fly out of this sky scraper, and whether we'd use a broom to do that or not. May be we'd touch the clouds? But the desert that day had a clear sky. God's shining third eye gloating over miles of sand... is he really everywhere? She seemed to believe so, and she convinced me of the same with sincerity. At six, there's only so much you expect of God and Santa Clause.

But we were both, just sitting there. Perfectly at peace. The sheer massiveness of the inexplainable cosmos seemed to represent itself before us... with all those flickering city lights, and all engulfing horizon... just for that moment, I felt that sense of belonging to organised chaos, and incomprehensible mayhem. At least, that's how I'd attempt to quantify that sinking yet peaceful feeling. I wonder what it was in her, though.

                                             Here's a glimpse of the same view, at day time. 

Latent Fears

Some dreams are not meant to be openly expressed. They seem to live, only to remind us of what we wanted to make of ourselves. They're images that 'we could've been someday'. That red dress... the neatly combed braid flowing amidst her long black hair shining under the spot light... while the music unleashes violently through her fingers... grace and tranquility at its extreme... performance at it's best. It was a dream. A dream that I don't think I even realised I had. Until oneday, when I realised that I'd chosen to trod a different path all together. 

The choice is not regretful. And who'd ever admit his folly anyway?! But the fear of losing that one thing that defines my nature, is deathly.  Latent fears are not well understood, until they surface, and they do so, at the most unwanted of times. 

Do you have a dream? Not one that you can spell out, but one that you recognise yourself in... not one that you'd  reduce to bragging about, but quietly admire yourself in? I do hope you get to realise it before it's too late. For it certainly is on my part. And once you've trodden a different path, you tend to get lost in the maze. And there's no turning back. After all, there's only one life we're playing this game with.

An encounter

I had been sitting there for over an hour. So long, and so lost in thought, that I hadn't even noticed the old man who'd seated himself next to me on the bench. We were two strangers aimlessly staring into the wide expanse of the beautiful lake. He'd placed his walking stick right next to him... dangerously balancing on the railing of the bench. His wrinkled face spoke of years of wisdom. And his silent smile passively unveiled his acceptance... of the world, and the situations that moulded him. I'm too young to understand that, I am told. And I believe I am too young to implement this wisdom. That's the funny thing about wisdom. It isn't really learnt, until one learns it through his mistakes. We will never realise what hardship is, until we actually face it. No number of tales and stories from grandparents will ever make us realise what it is to live through a war. Or to fight for independence. Even as I write this, I probably still don't fully understand. And the truth is, I never will, unless I actually live through it myself. 

But this aimless gaze, wasn't about no war or hardship. It was just a sea of careless thoughts trying very hard to find place to settle. It was as though he'd read my mind.... when he said,

" I have been coming here for over fifty years now, child. What brings you here?"

"Aimless pondering Sir. This is my favourite spot by the lake."

 " Well, for fifty years, this has been my favourite spot too.." And he smiled.

" I guess some things never change over time Sir."

"Hmm. Only people tend to, child. Only people tend to. And do you know why?"

"No Sir"

"Well... it's the situations. The people they meet, the aspirations and desires they wish to fulfill... and of course... all the planning."

"All the planning?"

"Why yes! All the planning. You see ... a wise man once said, always expect the unexpected. There's only so much of your life that you can plan. The rest... is well, quite out of our control. But people don't easily accept this fact. And that, child, is the root of all unhappiness. And of course, change. "

"But change is good isn't it Sir?"

"You can say so. But only if it's permanent. People don't change permanently, or... forever. Human beings, by nature, adapt. They get lost in who they are required to be. And it takes that one scent... that one familiar tune... or that one acquainted taste or place to remind them of their true selves...."

I tried considering what he said... do people really just merely adapt? What about all the life changing incidents I had heard about? ... did it all just teach us to accustom ourselves to the situations? ... may be I'm too young to understand. My mother always tells me I haven't seen enough of the world to judge anything or anyone. In that case I certainly haven't seen enough to conclude anything here.... but as I stared out into the vast waters of the lake... there seemed to be a peace in this thought that engulfed me. People, across the world, are the same. And yet... there's so much difference? There was a tiny part of me that was satisfied by the thought of all people having an innate commonness. Despite the disparities, they were essentially the same.

In excitement I turned to face the old man ....

But he was gone... disappeared in the growing darkness... silently...

Affliction

Pain... is inevitable. We are often hurt by the people who matter to us the most (why else would we consider our feelings if they didn't matter to us anyway?!) .... and more often than not, it's painful. Hurt , is painful. It can also be regretful. Remorseful. And most definitely, sorrowful. But do we realize how it is this pain... and this sorrow... that makes life so much more meaningful? 

There's a depth in pain. And we always tend to over look this acumen and dwell in the more commonly known pain. But do we realize that it is that loss... that profound misery... that unexpected accident that actually reveals our inherent strength? Strength of mind and purpose.... it is in fact this painful regret that leaves us with a lesson learnt. Sometimes it makes us realize the value and worth.... and almost always, it shows us how things can also be the way we don't imagine them . 

I believe it is this pain... and more specifically hardship, that constitutes wisdom. We get to see the 'other side'. Explore the pitfalls of emotion... and appreciate the despair of defeat. Life is incomplete if one faces no distress.  It makes one incapable of feeling... if one hasn't felt the worst of emotions. And yet, it makes one incomplete if one hasn't felt the best of emotions either! As it's popularly known,

"Everybody hurts sometimes"....  and " ... falling down ain't falling down if you don't cry when you hit the floor"... 

Everything will be alright. Pain.... is inevitable.

Change.

Have you ever felt that surge to express? That heart wrenching feeling to just be able to materialize everything that's going on through your mind? A mad mad expression... continuous inexplainable flow of thought that comes barging at you with such dexterity that you are left with no other option but to let it flow out on paper? I have. The truth is, everyone has ... at least at some point of time or the other in their lives. Some go ahead with it. The others confine. They have, what I like to call, self learnt self control.

The bitter truth in this matter lies in the fact that society moulds us that way. It teaches us to think logically, always. To express appropriately, always. Everything has to make sense. Everything needs  to make sense. Man must understand, as or else, you're wrong. Your expression is wrong. Your art is artless and writing tasteless. Song tuneless and music rhythm-less. Do we want to be categorized as unworthy of expression? Of course not! So we confine. And we mould. We shape ourselves to be what the world wants us to be. 

But may be sometimes... just sometimes... one must let go! Let go of all this conformity. Let yourself indulge. Express!! Take those cartons of paint, and splash them onto the canvas. Let that feeling of expression... flow! Let your pen scribble on the whiteness till the ink blots. Let it not make sense! Let no historian analyse and over analyse and ruin the raw bohemian beauty of that piece of creation! All these patterns and trends and predictions... does it leave room for raw human expression? Does everything necessarily have to fall into a set routine or motion? I certainly hope not... this habitual existence has made us into mere conformists. Bloody emulating conventionalist's. It is said that change is inevitable... and so change there shall be. But only when we dare to break out of this mundane existence. Dare to be different. Dare to express, differently.

Feel the happiness?

I was talking to a friend the other day, when I stumbled upon a question that I hadn't really asked myself before, and yet, I expected an answer out of him. He was the recipient of some extremely exciting news... news that brought him both success and fame. On hearing about this good news I gently inquired... "Wow! What did you do when you found out ??"

And he said, " Nothing. I smiled"

"Just smiled? But this is big! How did you express your excitement??"

"I was happy! I smiled!"

He smiled. And I paused for a second. Just to give it a thought.

What would you do if you found out something superbly thrilling? Something that you had been waiting for all your life! A news that made you so supremely happy... the occurrence of an event that made you so profoundly proud... what would you do? How does one anticipate the expression of his excitement? It's strange, but the answer to that question is not that simple. At times I wonder if it's because these fleeting blissful moments are so rare that we don't really get to work on how to express it. But then again, that is what defines it. The rarity of an evanescent touching moment makes it so difficult to express when it does materialize... and makes it all that more beautiful and worth cherishing. Does the expression really matter? I guess not. The important part is that you feel it... that heart exploding feeling... of happiness.  

Growing up?

When I was younger I used to wonder... what will it be like when I grow up? What does it mean to be 'grown up'? It seemed so over rated... everyone was always telling me... 'you will realise this once you're older'. So that's what it is? Just a couple of more years of mere existence on earth? It didn't make sense. Was there a certain day when it happened? A certain situation that brought out the 'grown up' in me? But I realise now...

Growing up is a journey. One through which we learn many a lesson. Growing up makes one realise that a lot of our dreams , may not come true... for whatever the reasons. But dreaming is important anyway.. as that is what gives one hope... lets one strive. And many a time, it's what causes painful dissatisfaction. 

Growing up is a journey through which one learns that no one is ours for ever. As cliched as it may sound.. the truth to this statement can only be learnt over time. We own, no body. Be it an unexpected flip in nature or Gods will... no person's mind or heart belongs to us for ever. Or at least, we can't expect it to. The bitter truth is we grow out of people, and cherished friendships. But if time reveals the fairytale truth , it's the happy ending we're all looking for isn't it? And then again... the happy endings never really end there do they? There's always more... just unwritten lines on blank pages.

Growing up is a journey through which one learns to make choices. Some very life changing choices too... and one learns how to live by them. It's the path you choose... and once chosen, there's no turning back. Live with it.

I was watching the Grammy's today. I hadn't the faintest idea of the nominees or the performers... in fact I hadn't even heard of some of the winners before ... and yet, i made it a point to watch. It's just something I do. Watch the Grammy's religiously year after year... I guess it has to do with certain associations. It reminds me of all those times when I was younger... and I'd watch the exact same award ceremony... with the exact same people... sitting on the exact same couch... only with dreams and aspirations that I hoped to accomplish someday. But as juvenile as those aspirations may seem today, it reminds me of all those times when I had ample possibilities before me and I actually dreamed big... and believed in all those things that I'd be one day.

Dhobi Ghat (the mumbai diaries)

It's funny writing this review after my last post, considering how this movie, in my opinion, is 'beautiful' in every sense of the word. From perfect screen shots to the delicately crafted characters... it is a movie in so many layers that one watch may not suffice. 

Four people. Four dreams. One busy city. It is a story that unveils four very strong characters who have come to accept their present reality. And among the many colorured threads that hold the movie together, the one thread that stood out to me the most, was that of inspiration. Four bold stories of inspiration. A lonely married woman, who sees happiness in the simple things in life. Notices the power of the natural beauty that surrounds her and who comes to accept her fate, not bitterly, but by reaching out ... hoping that someday a loved one will receive her messages. An artist, quite maturely understanding of the world and its ways... who finds his muse in these preserved recorded messages. He discovers a hidden world that inspires him to throw light on it... and he tries to re create what he understands of it... 

A banker, back in town to work on a project that requires her to take photographs of small businesses... she meets the everyday man... a dhobi... who inspires her and befriends her... And he himself who desires to be an actor someday. Now that I'm attempting to re write what I saw in the movie, I realise how difficult it really is on my part to do so! There were so many intertwined stories... and I've only tried to bring out the one on inspiration. How four individuals, from completely different strata of society come to play such an important part in each others lives... how they unleash creativity and subtly encourage the other to really reach out in whichever form... how we may never realise it, but we are what we see around us! We are a combination of the people we've met, and the company we've kept. 

But then again, all four individuals knew their place... the entire movie was like a brief two hour entry into a diary of how the lives of these four people changed, and how then... they moved on... there was no specific happily ever after (as there always seems to be in the filmy reality) but instead there was an intense show of passion  ... and the movie, redolent with innocent human emotion, also show cased some beautiful aspects of the busy city of Mumbai. All in all... I believe this was a film that exhibited so many different forms of simplistic love and emotion... stories of inspiration .... that the viewer would see things in the same angle that he would reflect on his life. That is what makes this movie so beautiful... true art in true art forms. A painter. A photographer. An aspirant actor. And the recording of a simple woman, with simple human wants. 

Art is Life is Art.

This was the tag line of an advertisement I'd recently seen on television. It stood out. Life is art, isn't it? At least it's meant to be. We're meant to live in an 'artful' way. Beautifully. Tastefully. We should be able to capture every passing moment in a picture frame. Bright colours and polka dots…flowing laughter and frills… there’s meant to be beauty in what we see and how we see it. It should all be pleasing to see and hear. Full of rhythm and life … and yet, is that how we live? The reality, drowned in black and white paint, seems more stagnant.

It’s money that we’re taught to sought after and not this beauty. Happiness is apparently waiting at the end. But is it? People spend years on end working , slogging hours day in and day out… earning. Where’s the beauty in all of that? It’s just a mere fulfilment of necessity. Where’s that tasteful element of pleasure? Where is that fleeting moment of bliss? All lost in this mad race to reach the top?

Is art life? Of course it is. It is what we see, that we portray. If one were to analyse art down the ages… you can see how the perspective of man has changed. I consciously refrain from calling it ‘evolution’ as I believe it is not progress but quite the opposite that has resulted. Previously, art was beauty. It was definite. Defined. Colourful and pleasing. And now, good art is when it is more abstract and yet, more blunt. It has to throw the message at a person’s face and leave you shocked. It would be a little too cynical on my part to completely deny modern day art of any beauty… but that element of sheer simplicity seems to be lacking.

Art today, is a blatant reflection of the modern human creative mind. We’re all changed beings, chasing ( in my opinion and in strictly my cynical opinion alone ) some very meaning less and valueless goals in life. The absence of that simplistic tasteful sense of art, be it in which ever form, leaves one sighing.

  

And I'm back!

Well, I'm back to writing again! Here are some of my previous posts that I had preserved ... Looking back, it sure does seem like I've grown! But more on that in my next post.

Oh... and here's wishing you and your family a peaceful new year.   :)

Goodbyes...

27.4.10

Goodbyes.

Most of the time I don't get to write as much or exactly what I'm thinking because I don't have access to the computer all the time. And more over, when I do have access, that inclination and urge to write seems to disappear. But this is one thing I've been thinking about for a while now. Goodbyes. I've come to detest them.

It's like I'm stuck, at the centre of an ever rotating merry go round, where people come , sit with me for a while when we rotate together. But that journey soon ends, and it's time for them to get off, until they visit again while I keep on rotating. People come, and people go. The world changes, but I remain there, at the very centre. Rotating.

The Muchness of Life...

The Muchness of life.

Yesterday was by far one of the most intriguing days ever... I spent the morning vomiting over-night-learnt-knowledge on a piece of paper. In the afternoon I learnt how I should think of 6 impossible things before breakfast everyday. And in the evening... the value of a family and loved ones and the monotonicity of everyday life.

Our imagination is most precious to us... and no movie could have portrayed this any better. Based on Lewis Carol's story... the world we create for our self is indeed in our minds alone. And no matter how much you might want to get away from what may seem like only a dream... it might just be where you belong. And thinking of those 6 impossible things? It might just be a little harder than you thought considering this dreary world has knocked the creative sense out of us. We think what we see. And we see what we think. The dragon and the rabbit seldom co exist in this world now, or do they? Aah, but that's the absurdity! Because they do! We just can't see them... we're too blinded to notice how our neighbour breathes fire or how the teacher is on a quest... or that the television anchor is a suitor and that the tailor indeed resembles a dress! There are trillions of them characters out there... but we see them all as one. Not to mention, how only those who see this might be considered a little mad... but the best of them are!... Bonkers and completely out of their minds!

But then you realise the burdens of life... and the reality of the love that surrounds you. Memories and much fondness... and that one table that brings the family together at dinner time. Everyone moves on someday... life is eternally changing .... and no one belongs to us for ever... and yet, we find happiness in the smaller things... the smaller achievements in life.

Yesterday really was an intriguing day... very intriguing.

Simply Pure...

19.6.09

Simply Pure

They're such simple people living such simple lives. In fact, it's this simplicity that really defines them. It makes them who they are. It makes them happy.
They don't need anyone else. They don't need anything else. Just themselves and their loving support for each other. That's all they need. That's all they need for this happiness.

This is a happiness that comes not from materialistic gains and neither from wishful fulfilment. You can see that it comes right from within them... from that unreachable place unknown to melancholic strangers.

And yet, all they have, are themselves. Two souls living together in a well kept home. Two fishes in a fish bowl.

They are not only simple, but genuine. Their love is true and their concerns real. They know how to care for you as they know how to care for each other. Their love, entwined in their deep friendship, seemed to have manifested itself in generosity and genuine affection. The two of them, were one, in being and existence. Unselfish, and united.

May be that's all we need in life, too? Trust and incorruptible attachment. Only one other individual who will be there, always, and who will give us reason for being there too. That one other person who will not only be indispensable, but also, irreplaceable. 

Expectations...

8.6.09

Futile Expectations

A new motto.

We must never expect anything. From anybody. It raises hopes, makes us dwell in momentary fantasies, and then ruins us with the bubble of imagination bursting into reality. It's unfair. Cruel. Ruthless. Pernicious.

And it affects our economy too. The spiral effect. As expectations rise, prices rise. As prices rise, in turn expectations rise even further. Vicious circle, yet again.

And so in life. Do not expect. Do not expect a sunny day, or a cold winter. Do not expect rewards or permanence. Do not look for gratitude or appreciation. If we do not expect anything... anything at all... we will be at ease with what comes our way. This is one small key to that bolted door of happiness. Do not expect anything.

But does that make us inanimate? Defunct? Emotionless? Pitiful?

No. Just indifferent.

We're ready to accept any path. The narrower path over the broader, the longer path over the shorter. We're aloof to either way. We acquire the wisdom to accept the things that we can not change and we move on. No regrets. No emotional breakdowns. No disappointments.

But the hard part is when we try to implement this. As after all we are humans? And it's an inbuilt feature in our human conscience to expect. It is our rationality that drives us to a crumbling collapse. No matter how hard we try to monitor ourselves, transforming into amateur robots, we still fall prey to hopes and dreams and ... expectations.

The consistent series of happenings seem to programme themselves in our minds so we may expect the same series of occurrences over and over and over.... Some expectations have so deeply penetrated our subconscious selves that we don't even realise it. And we don't even really need to. As until that bubble bursts, until night turns into day and day into night, and until humans stop giving birth to humans and until green leaves turn blue... and until the earth stops rotating and we stop breathing, we will continue to be the half robot we are. Trying desperately to administer our actions, thoughts and hopes and yet, feeling them the same... living with incessant expectations, curbing thoughts till they reach that turning into the lane of disappointment.