The hour before sleep!

Silence! No, Dead Silence! No, Deafening Silence! I don't know, how can I explain the quietude around me. It's dark and it's silent, both sound and light are too conspicuous by their absence. Buzz of evil mosquitoes, fill my ears, as does the gentle flow of breath in and out of me.

Individual Idealism - means to human end.

Thesis and anti- thesis, dualism, unity, all have been talked a lot about. Something of a kind of  distant invincible dream that could never be achieved, yet always imploring the seekers of truth towards itself.  None live it, and any wish to be the beholder of such “ideals”, if they may be called so, is nothing more than an ocean’s wish in mid-desert, forgetting, apparently, that all that we need is a water body, and something of an oasis would do well enough ( if not just a gallon of water).

What would we do with ideals, considering that they have been realized in a hypothetical world? What would you do with happiness alone, or honesty, or for that matter that single joy, that harbinger of all?  By any standards of betterment, neither monists nor dualists would welcome that. Therein lies the error, of  our times. However, a deeper look brings out the actual truth. In absence of a system that could talk about such subtle things, such subtle virtues or vices that lie between (or across, or beyond, or just behind) those ideals, that  actuality, that subtlety, and that intangible ideal, elusive to the constructs of language, that such idealisms have been resorted to. 

Truth or rather its realization within self, was and is something that has always been the idea of human achievement, and  was never supposed to be written or taught, for it can never be transmitted from one to other, by way of language, or by human instruction. It can never seek itself in idealism established by someone that has never been the being whose truth is in question. It can never be imparted. If there is something, some idealism waiting for us to be discovered, it’s lying patently “within” us, if we can talk in that jargon. 

The perfection has so many grounds, not necessarily on the scale which moves from lower depths to higher summits. Linearity is not the prerogative of perfection or idealism.  Euclid’s geometry’s parallel with human condition, and explanation of it has been a patently mistaken idea.  

Why write of it then? If there is no purpose to be served, within the bounds of language, why invoke it? Perhaps because this is my medium of expression, perhaps because this kind of manifestation of self will evoke from within me that what have been my experiences of truth!

Considering this chain of thought, I understand, that I have been that perfection, that product of multitude of events that has shaped me. Idealism, like unity, dualism, and honesty etc. is that common phrase, shared so that we may communicate those subtle truths in some parlance, in some frame of understanding.

Achieve worst, achieve worthless, achieve sub human, and achieve futility. When we have all been through this myriad of emotion, and this realization of human aim to be utterly futile will we all realize that we have been living our beauty, our perfection all along.  My form of beauty will inspire you perhaps presently, it may inspire the confidence that perhaps we have all been brilliant as “mediocres”, but take note. This is that confluence of word that made you think, and forced in you the realization that has been achieved in you. It is not yours.

Sadly, contrary has been the fate of human thought, it seeks understanding in what it learns, it seeks understanding in what it can communicate, while at all times, its attempt has always been the idea of communication. A lot is lost in that. Apparently, reader may agree that at times, too much of the central essence could be lost.  That is why we have poetry, music and silence as the medium of better communication (note that it’s still not that what is being expressed), for in them lays an open wide horizon, leaving it upon “the end” the onus of meaning, of understanding, of idealism. 

Then, why exist? Why see the next moment flit by us, when the onerous present is unceasingly dreary and wearied. Why seek “existence’ to another day? 

I don’t find answer in written words.  A glimpse of that elusive answer lies in suffering, in growth, in reaching a higher plain of thought, but it’s all too meek in front of that purpose that does make me go by the next moment, that makes me keep within myself the framework where one second follows another. This 

“Purpose” alone is the existence’s aim. All thoughts are mere subversions of this central idea, and sadly it may not be “central” at all in its own paradigm, but vital enough, to have our existence by it, for it, forever, and ever.

As an aside, perhaps this would be the aim of thought, to render beauty within a shape and yet understand its shapelessness. All truths understood would be mere interpretations, but not necessarily of a single, unquestionable truth or anything like that. The thought, the idea would all be means to that single end, human. And may it dawn on us all, in our own uniquely distinct ways, such that we have the greatest difficulty in establishing that version of truth, and yet experience it unceasingly in our consciousness.

What is and what could be!

Unbeknownst to me, in the tiny little specks of flitting moments, that what is being expended is my self, unlike that ficticious ghost which assumes place in that distant world, in that distant time, bearing my face, and yet is far from realization.

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.

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.

This and the other

There exists a world, beside the continuum of days and nights, and we never tend to lose  sense of it. At every time, this parallel world, walks together , like a shadow, growing and fading , as our thoughts dilly-dally between an exclusively  sensual world and an another world that is wider,deeper,and beyond this  banality of existence.

O Lonely Roads

O! Lonely roads! Take me Away!

    O! Barren winds hold me in your sway!

   

Far too long, have I been in the throes.

        Far too long, have I stretched my stay.

In your arms, let your lullaby put me to dreams,

    From your bosoms, let me quaff the streams.

  

Let my face, beat against the wind,

    In whose embrace, there is a lovely song to sing.

The song,

           That has been around all the while,

    While the writer,

                     Hath always run away to hide.

   

In that far away land, there is a home to my soul,

    In those unknown people, lies an end to my withal.

And that is all I ask of you,

    Since as we tread along I know I will bask in you.

  

Here come the plains wide open,

    And there far behind, lies the silhouette of hills sloping.

Parched leaves rustle, in joy of my visit,

    And I, parched as much, wish to waft through it.

  

And soon, there is nothing to be seen,

    Plains are gone, and winds are unforeseen.

And soon I depart too, oblivious of myself,   

    What remains only, is the pristine self.

The self, that's one with you all through,

    And in that consummation, all of them fall through.

   

Then suddenly, a jolt shakes me up, and my eyes open,

    The bond has been broken and the world is again forsaken.

A cry rises from my heart, to the winds that are bidding me adieu,

    And tears roll down, as I turn away from the roads, and get back to where I am due.

                                                               - Siddharth Shankaran

ख़ुशी और ग़म

क्या सच कहा  था उसने?  उसकी बातों के तथ्य तो उसके सामने ही मौजूद थे, पर क्या उसने कभी टटोला था उन्हें ? " ख़ुशी एक पागलपन है | ख़ुशी में एक अशालीनता है| पर उदाशी और दुःख , शालीनता एवं गंभीरता का परिचायक हैं| शायद, वही एक ज्ञानी और और बड़े आदमी का सूत्र है| क्या तमने स्वयं भी यही महसूस  नहीं किया है?"

रात की पहर

इतने सारे पलों में से, बिस्तर के कोने वाले पल ही उसके ख़ास थे| दूर से आती रेल की सीटी उसे एहसास दिलाती , की वो अभी भी दूर नहीं है दुनिया से, लोगों से, जैसे की बस इक दिन वो रेल गाडी आके उसे उठा के चली जाएगी, और फिर वो आज़ाद होगा, इस डर से, इस जेल से | रात की बत्ती बंद होने पे वो खिड़की की पास जाके खड़ा हो जाता, उसकी जाली से छन के आती हुई उम्मीद की रौशनी में खुद को देखता, और जैसे ही किसी के आने की आहट होती, वापस अपने बिस्तर के कोंव में छुप जाता | आंसू से भीगे गालों को पोछता हुआ सोचता, "बस कल में चला जाऊँगा, आज मेरी आखरी रात है इस अँधेरे कुँए में|

Dream Seller

Under the leafy canopy of banyan tree, dwelt a seller of dreams. Sprawled all around him were dreams.Wet dreams, dry dreams,hot dreams, inexorable dreams,luxurious dreams,heavenly dreams. All synonymous with hope, of a better future ,of a better tomorrow. People passed by his open shop of dreams, wallowed in them, and left. Rarely did one stop to buy them. "These are just lies", they said. "If it were to have any meaning, why would the dream seller be so wretched himself, so as to lie in here, every evening, waiting for a prospective buyer."

Yet he, the seller, lay there in wait , every evening ,for a buyer. His dreams weren't costly, it didn't cost more than a wilful thought, yet it seemed to cost enough to find a buyer.

TO Continue ...

What's a human being?

What is human? An ill-conceived idea of a god?  A mistaken thought of a cultural necessity, necessitated in-turn for the existence of civilization? An individual is at the root of this creation, yet he is the one who has been given the least credit for it.  All that human is, a mere representation of mass, the real symbol of existence, of life.  Yet mass itself is the lowest a human idea can get to. A mass is mad, unthoughtful, bestial, uncivilized bulk, where the worst of every human being comes together, and creates the worst of all en masse.And this world is a crowd.  Mad, bestial uncivilized bulk. Where does human come into picture then? This transition from being a part of an uncivilized bulk to a complete, self fulfilled individual is something remarkable which a human being, keeps making innumerable times in its life time.

A killer on the street!

To kill the time, a killer was devised. It walked on the sheets, a jagged course mostly, billowing, at times. Surprisingly, the path took by the killer, took shapes, unexplained and unclear, yet a definite shape. Some of it seemed to resemble a pawn’s first half, while other part would be the depiction of a ragged hill or perhaps, a broken wall.  The killer kept moving on and on and on, and the marks of his steps checkered the entire landscape, but he never arrived anywhere, just in transit, from one infinity to another one, and yet not finishing . It took long, before it was realized that while he walked he killed something in turn, destroyed something in turn and let two forces of world unite., The man and his soul. When the two united, the letters stopped, so did his course over the sheet and he raised his head with a jolt of an abruptly terminating dream, and that, which had been one, was found now in splinters around his body, while his pen and the sheet lay intact!

As we cross it

Every movement across the road conjures in me the images of a mutilated self of mine, crushed by the speeding vehicle, on its free ride. Whose fault, had it been? It wouldn’t matter enough, when such a situation arrives, all that would remain is a torn mass of flesh and bones, bearing the semblance of having remained attached together  some time. Despite the rush, I save myself, every day from those speeding motors wagons, and stay together, and yet witness myself being torn in pieces, by the speeding vehicles of unknown rash drivers, they are difficult to be pictured, yet in a bent and unique shape they do come, ripping me apart, and yet leaving my flesh intact. Something gets torn on every such occasion, yet not visible to me. Perhaps, the accident kills in bits and pieces, and perhaps the day when the kill is final, will I realize it in this practical world. What else would I do till then, other than keep crossing the road with same union of saving myself, lest some vehicle, of a cavalier driver rips me or something called me, apart!

Dreams!

Dreams are made of stuffs  sold on streets. Days when desolation has afflicted one, dream's world  would be as clear as a story woven craftily, by the greatest of raconteurs, pleating the vicissitudes of life in proper places.

The run of the dream leaves one exhausted, eaten up by something. With open eyes, there is no reason to budge, no motivation to live.

But, the days that have been happy, dreams are confused, lacking any particular course. As if, multiples strands of dream are chasing each other in different directions and none of it becomes clear. This chase, however, doesn’t eat one up, but rather gives one a sense of purpose, to chase randomness, to chase the world. The dreams, are made of the stuffs sold in markets, and they get exhausted, get old or plain irrelevant. What remains then is nothing but the days of different dreams, made of surreptitious desires lying hidden in the dark corners during the day, playing havoc at night!

Sunny Days

All Sundays are sunny; perhaps that is why they are called so. The deception however, lies in the exception that pops one or other winter day, when clouds cover thickly the landscape below, and the Sun languishes behind it. Yet, the “pheriwala” doesn’t make exceptions. He is there every Sunday with the same shout of, " Paper! Paper!" As If Sundays are  the paper days.

The kitchen after dinner

When the food is over, what gets left behind is the faint idea of hunger, soiled plates and utensils, and a tip tap of the kitchen sink. The drip continues whole night, and when you visit it, it mocks you on your face, at the sight of animal in the man, which devoured the hunger of self and ate everything up. The kitchen, stares at you, for having exploited it for ones petty want of hunger. You get scared, a bit apologetic too, but as this sense of sorriness starts sinking in and reaches  enough depth,the  man rises back. It condescends at them, turns around and switches off the light. The hunger had been defeated and so has been the self-apologetic human.

Pain of Ego

And the noise of celebrations around the corner broke his dreams. Just as his own , theirs had been a restricted, compromised pathway to life, and now they have left him behind. Everyday, someone or other leaves someone else behind, and yet that didn't budge him enough, but today, his neighbors, the people who drew same breath as his, shared same soil and fate as his had left him behind. Till this day , they  were together in their fate, and that perhaps made them all feel safe, but as now one has moved ahead, all others are backwards, and this has stolen his content.
He will have to renew his fight now, and bring  people on to his boat. People , who he could look at and say, "why am I with them?" Amidst the chaos of chasing peace he forgot one essential thing. That thing was his ego. His self that had been hurt, and he felt the pain too, yet renamed it with something else. The ego is still  hurt, and it still seeks solace from the depravity of expedient choices, yet he doesn't have enough of something to listen to the blaring echoes of its pain.

In suffering

In suffering lies  understanding of the object. Only when  the night has suffered with darkness, does it love the morning dear, and when the day has suffered  the heat of the blistering sun, it knows the love of night. Frustration is the seed of love that grows into a plant of such kind that one can never find created in happiness. Pausing at every step, if you could realize the suffering of the moment, you will love life. When you will find that the life is the suffering of the self, you will love life. This unites the soul to the supreme, through several channels, yet never different in its end. Looking at the means, with a mild nonchalance, an attaching oneself to it you would find, what you have been in search of.

Transformed

Amidst different pathways on offer , he chose the brightest one. The dazzle of the road ahead left him in awe of it. The rush was spontaneous, lacking  thought, yet not as blinded as an animal’s chase of fodder.  On the way he found a well lying by the side of the glittering road, dark, desolate and rickety. He was thirsty, yet not enough to bring himself to drink out of that well, and with the pace he was moving the well was soon past him.  After having run another ten miles he found an inn by the side of the road. The inn was rather a hut, inhabited by a harridan lady, shouting out orders to the workers around her. All of them were busy cleaning the land. With the sun having come over his head now, the sweat beads glittered on their swarthy bodies.  He felt thirsty now, more so after looking at them. Yet again, he couldn’t allow himself to get to them. He sped past them as well. And so on , along the way he found similar things, but couldn’t get himself to drink anywhere. By the time, he had been almost exhausted; he couldn’t find any more sources of water by the side of road.

He had almost reached a different place, where perhaps water was not a concern. In search he started digressing from Main Street to the villages by the side, but he could nowhere find water.  A sudden change happened to him later, thirst of water was killed by the same extremity of thirst. He sat down by the side of the road, and began to think. The thirst has been killed, and yet I am still alive. I ought to be killed too, but death didn’t approach him. A faint fear loomed over his head and he collapsed, when he woke, he no longer felt the fear of things around. No thirst found way to his throat, and he turned to the villages around, becoming one with them, perhaps waiting for another human to come some day and see him transform.