A Fond Hope

Three days

Three moments

Three thoughts

Penned for posterity

To be shared with those who matter

In the hope that they understand

Or in a space, to let loose

Where they lie undetected

Till some unsuspecting soul

May chance upon them

And spare a thought

Woven through imagination

That may bind me perhaps

To that person forever

A divided role and self

Separated by a space

That allows the scope to make the small changes

That convince one of this division

A professional dynamic but doubted

And often resented for this unstated power

Then the switch to a role

More demure, varied and loving

A woman attentive and lovely

Creating a presence

That is felt but rarely acknowledged

Cementing unrecognised

The bind of a life

Essayed to deny its own power

Meanings ascribed or perceived

And a new life breathed into relationships

That stand otherwise defined by positions

Rather than what one really means to the other

The world this weaves of imagination, so enticing

That the actual truth remains untold

Or lost in the whirlwind of change

Till it ceases to either matter

Or then make sense

An Untold Tale

We each have our story to tell

A part narrated by others

Reflecting a common thread

That is echoed with a sense of appreciation

Of an undemanding togetherness

Another strand safely hidden away

From prying eyes

Recollected at times with anguish

 At others with sense of shame

And the third that one is really proud of

Recounted with an air of achievement

So often and in ways so varied

That others have already tired of

And resent with a vehemence

At times hidden, at others overstated

That one safely ignores or staunchly defends

In all, the story never really written

Or even narrated

Condemned to remain suspended as memories

Some real, others imagined

That those around ignore

Or narrate in ways that define them

More than oneself

A Virtual Paradox

A virtual space and interactions closer than in real life

Distances and time barriers rendered totally meaningless

And a freedom that should be exhilarating now at one’s fingertips

Yet a nagging feeling of being let down

As the thrill of emotions and intimacy offered

Through the personalisation that hearing a voice creates

 Replaced with a more convenient form of idea exchange

Words without any add-ons now appear magically

At times serving to mask the real emotions that are better not revealed

And at others offering a precision that spoken interaction may not offer

Yeh Hai Bombay, Meri Jaan!

A short burst of energy, a hurried dash, a shout; that draw attention to themselves

While the more organised or then fortunate

As placid spectators awaiting their turn to join the frenzy

Cannot suppress a smile of empathy or appreciation

Amidst all this not a thought spared for the accumulating stress

That might culminate in a physical or mental breakdown

Adding another significant yet unnoticed and unacknowledged number

To the statistics of those relegated to the periphery

As abnormal, unhealthy or suicidal

A thought never spared for oneself, others

Or the real need or worth of this naturally imbibed stress

Till the city, a land of opportunities, exacts a price

Paid unthinkingly by those, who otherwise

Prefer to count themselves among the best, who walk the earth.

Striking Roots

The storm much anticipated and awaited now settled

The pleasure of the respite from the scorching heat

Beating down and starving the tree, of comfort

Having achieved its purpose of blowing away the dust

That has settled with the sultry heat

Is giving way gradually but slowly

Now going on to shaking loose the seeds

The tree had nurtured and protected for so long

Taking the seed by surprise

For it believed it would lie there in its cosy surrounding

After the blowing away of the storm

Surprised at being pried free from its shelter

The seed now floating with the wind

Hoping that it would be blown away

To some place safe where it can again find hope

To strike roots and grow into a full blown tree

Till the awareness that it can as well be destroyed

As blown to a place that it has dreamt of

(Having been a part of the storm

That it had once only anticipated)

Realises that it needs to withstand the wind

To strike roots not in a place it falls

But in a place it chooses

If it were to fulfil the essence of its being

Finding roots; while simultaneously

Giving shelter and solace to people

Seeking a haven from the storm

That was in fact responsible for setting it on its course.

An Unresolved Dilemma

Carrying the weight of your affection

Through a shared secret that compelled me to hope

And pray that all will be well

For, anything that would have gone wrong

Would have condemned me doubly

Through accusation and guilt

And a nagging question -

Which of this was really worse

A question that was destined to remain unresolved forever

Till the end of my days

I am still plagued with doubt

That your innocent action set in motion

Wondering whether my hope and prayer

Were guided by you

Or a need to secure myself

From a dilemma far worse

Than the one I am facing now

A Realisation

An innocuous question

An unchecked train of thought

A failed attempt at resolution

And a quixotic awareness

Of what makes me me

The engulfing excitement of creative expression

The awareness of your presence

And the need to share it with you

The joy felt as the mind rushes off

To the memories we built together

And a realisation of what makes me me

One thought leading to another

A memory evoking all the close ties that have made a difference

A sudden awareness of a mundane yet disturbing reality

A thought and a feeling separate yet concurrent

And a smile that this evokes, making me me

STRAY THOUGHTS ON DEATH AND DYING

Like many others, I too had been inspired by Steve Jobs. Having known the importance of picking up the pieces of one’s life and carrying on, I somewhere deep within felt a sense of bonding, one that established a connection that obliterated all notions of scale. Reading and learning from the words that were now finding increasing space and visibility, my mind was arrested by one striking line that stood out from among many others and urged me to cross the boundary from reflection to expression: We all — in the end — die in medias res. In the middle of a story. Of many stories.

I had always been fascinated by death, as somewhere down the line we all are – maybe by its elusiveness or maybe by the sheer mystery that surrounded it. Every time I heard of it what arrested me the most were the reactions of those living – their manner of approaching death itself as also their reactions to that particular situation and most importantly to the person who had just died. For me the paradox of death lay in the fact that it somehow seemed to bring out the value of the person’s life. All that the person had said or stood for suddenly seemed to acquire a value that was far deeper than anything that had gone before. Without really undermining the emotions that people expressed, I wondered whether all that was said on the occasion or after it really mattered. All that the person had done suddenly seemed to acquire new meaning and depth with all faults being wiped out, possibly in the light of an unconscious realisation, somewhere deep within that one would now have to suffer them anymore.

Was death really then the end or was it actual awareness that it was not the end of the presence of another but being made to realise the value of what the person meant to you and what the person stood for. And then would being able to witness the reactions to one’s death not be the most valuable moment of all....... and since that would not really be possible would it not be better to react to other’s as if they were dead rather than living, giving the other a different sense of who s/he really is or then possibly affording him/her the scope to actually become that way, making life more meaningful than death.