Tuesday, 21 June 2011

Wisdom of generation!

Every generation rediscovers its own beauty and wisdom, and which is why, neither becomes trite ever. The past is but merely a gateman, smiling benevolently on the wayfarers of truth.

Sunday, 19 June 2011

A joy a day!

Driving through the snarling road to his house, a gust of wind smote his face. The cold chill of a December evening, made him shrivel, even inside his thick colt wear. Yet, something else smote him more than the chill in the air. The chill in thought.
Lost in his daily chores of a full time job, he had been wandering around, in search of something that had been lost in all these years of life that had gone by. The weariness of self grated him and the gloom of the day reflected in his heart. The monotone of parading moments, made him gloomier.
“There is no thing as Happiness in this world!”, he muttered to himself, as he passed the mosque, enroute his home. “And it need not be. It’s as much a delusion as God itself is. And if there is any manifestation of it, it’s in the tiny little moments that reciprocate the call of our heart. There could but be no chasing of it, for its not reachable by chase, but only by letting it go”.

Amused by the chain of thoughts his mind had contrived, he chuckled through the gloomy drape of winter evening. But the next moment, he was jolted by the bumper , which he had overlooked and thus had jerked his bike over it. Recovering from the shakeup, he turned his head straight , only to find being discerned by a pair of watery eyes, looking through the drape of her shawl. Her face, partly hidden, partly visible was perhaps amused at the sight, but her eyes bore more than mere amusement. It had the mischief of a lass, together with the compassion of a lady. At the same time, the eyes bore the anxiety and caution of a timid girl, and that rattled his heart. Something floated from him, to her and thence to HIM.
Soon his bike crossed her, leaving behind an image to muse. It was difficult to name her, unnamed and unsought, yet stored in those attics of mind, where the flints of joy are preserved. He turned around, to get an another glance of her, just when her probing eyes locked on his, but as it happened she bent her head, dropped her eyes and gave him another smile to cherish. Then she covered her face with her shawl, with only her obtrusive nose and eyes peeping through it . That was the moment, post which , even the semblance of a rendezvous of such import had been effaced from the scene.

“But if happiness is not important, why scamper around for it?”, He didn’t wish to answer that to himself presently and moved ahead.

The tide turned, the sea rose up in anger and the rain lashed in fury , the deluge of arrows of drops, on the sea bed, making the sound of wheat grains being chaffed out. The blinding flash of thunder storm, added shine to the bed of water intermittently. The sea bore all of it, all the fury, all the noise, as was its wont to do.

The day took a new turn in its next stride. The Sun rose to a new hope , to a new desire. Happiness? No! Just a piece of joy. “Happiness is seductive, it maddens me, but I need a dose of it, just as the food needs a minor dose of salt to add taste to it, to keep my illusion alive. A Joy a day ,lets the illusion stay”, and he drove to work.

Shades of time !!

When Time will start rushing past me, I will crave for this immobility, stasis. The wheel must roll, but what of its pace and direction, they are to be orchestrated, yet be left on its own to take its own due course.

The stuffing of the constituent moments are vapid, empty and unimportant. When the objects of import start filling in, when the store will be overwhelmed by the amount it has, I will yearn for this emptiness, this vapidity and this facile recesses in order of time.

There are flashes of such moments, granting the faith that I might be pretty close to the state. The state which is its own understanding, yet too fragile to store. Too effervescent to muse upon. It’s both present and absent, yet never out of reckoning.

The faint view of this promised state entices me, and I keep looking around for wisdom of men or at times wisdom of silence. Yet, when the state itself is the wisdom, wherefrom could the wisdom of it be fathomed, but within it. This belongingness would be to my supreme.

I know I am close, yet far enough, looking for ways to approach it, to get nearer and nearer to it. To God, to delusion to the truth. The feeling begins to faint with my aggressive pursuance of it now and thus I draw back to my shell.