Resonating ripples

We were two souls,
with thoughts that were resonating ripples,
little knowing what was in store.
Thoughts... where are these conceived,
heart or the mind...

Must be the mind.
Even when we never speak about things,
it keeps weaving, with a thousand hues,
this is it, it says with authority......
but then, it wonders, and wanders.

Is it this? it asks.
It stumbles every now and then,
sometimes it agrees,
other times disagrees.

It calls me stupid, that I dwell on
some word spoken
or left unspoken.
It calls me ignorant ...
not understanding the obvious.

What was I thinking until you came?
The resonating ripples, that I were telling you....
It was you.
Thoughts of you.....
just you.....
Very difficult to put into words.

I kept thinking of you.
Nothing in particular.
just You.......
Do you get what I am trying to say?
No one would, except you.

Only you would decipher my silence,
every word that I spoke to you,
every word that I never told you....

If tears were the best way of expressions,
my dear...
my heart cries out to you...
this very moment...
So here comes all my unspoken words

Remember, I told you,
during the initial warming up,
that you filled me to the brim?
Never knew,
you ll make me overflow ...

Assault

It is very disheartening to note, we talk about everything but not the issue. There is a group of people, and mind you, this is a very big group, which immediately starts commenting on why do women work, why do women move about at such odd hours, why do women invite such things (as if women go around with invitation cards), and silly comments on the IT industry as a whole (as if the assaulters would let go of this girl had she been in some other industry), and then a group shouting, educate your boys to behave properly.

We are discussing everything but not the core issue. It is security of the people that is of concern here. The Delhi rape case occurred in spite of a man accompanying the girl. This is a slap on the myth that you are safe when there are boys around you. In fact, boys invite trouble if their group has some girls in it.

Sexual assault - only on girls? I beg to differ; boys are equally susceptible to sexual assaults. Only difference is that the assault will not be from a girl, but from another boy. Let us face the truth. Sons are at stake too not just daughters. There are so many boys out there who would not talk about how they were sexually abused, because we just don’t listen. We think only girls feel ashamed of such things, but every decent human being would be equally ashamed. It is a myth that boys just don’t care, it hurts a boy at least, as much as it hurts any girl.

I would be equally worried if my dad, my brothers, my husband or my sons come home late. 

Red and Violet

So worried was I, 

about red and violet,

that I forgot all the hues between...

It is not what you choose,

It is not what chose you,

what use of efforts, 

for all that, ended up unworthy?

Believe it or not, 

Life is so wonderful now, 

to be wasted missing you...

Rain drops, tear drops

My mornings started with your wishes

My noon filled with your concern

My evenings lit up by your lively talks

And nights were, when you made me

Wonder at the beauty of, even the darkest moonless nights.

Yes… I miss all those days, noon and nights.

But your absence from my present,

Makes your presence in my past,

Worth living into the future.

Like every drop of rain,

That falls down to

Meet the earth

And raise a bit of dust above,

Carrying the wonderful smell to the nostrils,

Every tear drop that touches my pillow

Brings back the fragrance of your memories,words and…

Your silence... 

Seeking your half souls...

The first Paulo Coelho book that I chose as my gift, was Brida. (But it was Eleven minutes that I read first) 
In Brida, I came across this beautiful idea of Alchemists, the Anima mundi.

Anima mundi, is the soul of the world and we form a part of this Anima mundi, which keeps dividing and growing, and to prevent it from weakening, the divided soul, seeks itself. And the process of finding this other half soul is, love. 

But while Paulo Coelho puts it as a soul always dividing in to a male and a female, Haruki Murakami in one of his best sellers, Kafka on the shore, puts it as male-male, female-female and male-female. I think LGBT cannot be explained in a more better way.

“Narrow minds devoid of imagination. Intolerance, theories cut off from reality, empty terminology, usurped ideals, inflexible systems. Those are the things that really frighten me. What I absolutely fear and loathe.” 

― Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

This makes much more sense to me. You never know what you seek, and whether it is your half soul you are after. Every break-up probably puts in this idea, that this is not your half soul, after all (*wink wink*).

And so, neither would we want to be accepted by others who don't come out of their preconceived notions nor would we want to go with the ideas of the majority. Only when we leave such prejudices, we probably would understand that love is not that which can be defined after all, it is not what the books describe, it is not what most people believe in. 


Love manifests to each one in his own simple way... to topple up his life completely... If you can put love in to words and give it a rigid outline, which is impossible, it simply means you never loved, it still continues to be the indefinable infinity. So, it is not about marriage or going physical. Some of us love our dads, and all of us love our moms, but who doesn't love one's children? 

And... apart from being human, what about the love for animals, birds, flowers, and material things like pen, paper and books, like I love stationary items so much... (*No... I may not be that weird!*)

Smiling at utter strangers who look a little dull... definitely brightens my day. So, love all, and keep smiling and sharing love, and yes, don't forget to love yourself more than others.

At the book fair

Come January and there are so many reasons to feel happy about. 

The start of a new year, always ushers a longing for great things to start, even if they don’t happen, lots to expect, a never ending list of all that you wish to read, and naturally, the book fair. 

Books, wherever or whatever way they are arranged… in a row on shelves or as little heaps, make me feel like I am on weeds. And at the book fair, seeing hundreds of shops was like moving around a carnival.

There are so many to choose from, and I am at a loss on what to take along. The mind does so many calculations to fit the list in the budget. The classics, or the spirituals, the children books or the renowned contemporary ones, fiction or non-fiction, lovely prose or rhythmic poetry…

My online library has so many of these too. Do I really have to own all these? It is about reading them not owning them that matters, I tell myself. But some books are to be chewed slowly. The spiritual ones especially, they need to be on my shelf. 

And after much of a debate, when I do choose a few books and check their cost, I understand they are too precious to be owned. But nevertheless, I cradle them in my arms, and keep moving this way and that until I find something that wouldn't break the shoe string, and then keep the precious pearl back in its place. It is too painful, though a little heartening that I could hold them to my heart, after all.

I did choose a few books, and made my way home, telling myself I can always get a second hand or used book for an affordable price. 

I wish I have a big library, with rows and rows of all the books I loved reading, those that were a pleasure to my nerves, and those that made tears trickle down my eyes, those that made me mad with anger… 

Better or worse, whatever I am, thanks to these wonderful beings that make me travel all over the world; meet all the people around, the good, bad and the in-between.

Pablo Neruda's poetry

If there is one thing that inspired me to learn Spanish, its Pablo Neruda's poetry, only to taste them in his own words. I couldn't go beyond the basics, and it is quite a long time since I stopped practicing, all that remains in my brain are the wishes and greetings. But still I wish I relish Pablo's poetry in Spanish some day.

If You Forget Me...

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine. 

Pablo Neruda