When I Read Out To Him

His hands flipped the pages, scanning each page for a brief second, finally resting on one which divided the book into almost two equal halves. From where I was observing, the book in his hand- opened midway- looked like a bird’s outstretched wings.

“Can you read this page to me darling?” he asked.

It was a Sunday evening. The first time he had asked me to read to him was when I was some 12 years old. Before handing me the book, he had told me that to be a good reader I would need to nurture an intimate relationship with words; I would have to internalise what the words want to say. Only then would my reading have a ‘ring’ of meaning .

  It was a J.Krishnamurti book. I went on to read it aloud....

“Have you ever noticed a tree standing naked against the sky, how beautiful it is? All its branches are outlined, and in its nakedness there is a poem, there is a song. Every leaf is gone and it is waiting for the spring. When the spring comes, it again fills the tree with the music of many leaves, which in due season fall and are blown away. And that is the way of life”

That day for the first time he said, “The text was speaking to me when you read. You have grown into a fine reader dear”.

***

They told me he was no more. I don’t know what hit me harder- the reality of the words or the abruptness with which I encountered them. In the next few moments I could feel the naked truth detonating in my brain, preparing to explode and blow me into rubble. But it was as if my emotions had  lost even the energy to explode. I stood there as silent tears ran down my cheeks-like a naked tree against the sky of life.  

***

It was 10:30 p.m. She was showing me the ‘mind-map’ she had made of the thoughts that occupy the different compartments of her brain. My eyes were intently scanning the sheet spread before me with her finger guiding me through the connecting pathways whenever I lost track. So somewhere in the middle was her father who somehow led to her KFI school which then led to a quotation by Krishnamurti and the arrow starting from there landed at my name. The quotation went as follows-

“The reality of truth is not to be bought, to be sold, to be repeated; it cannot be caught in books. It has to be found from moment to moment, in the smile, in the tear, under the dead leaf, in the vagrant thought, in the fullness of love.”

“You were the person who, I thought, was a living example of this” she said, when I threw  a questioning glance at her on seeing my name linked to it.

And then as if she could not let the meaning of that moment get lost in the subsequent chatter, she asked me, “Can I not wait till 12 O’ clock and give you your birthday present right away?”

The look in her eyes made me feel that there could not be a better time for her to give me what she wanted to and I could not take that moment away from her.

So she rushed to her room and came back with a tiny little book in her hand. The cover of the book read

“Freedom from the known” – J. Krishnamurti

I opened the book and we landed on a chapter titled ‘Love’. And even before I had read the first paragraph, I could hear myself reading it aloud. And as I went ahead in the chapter, pausing at junctures which compelled us to discuss about them; I had a subtle feeling that he was hearing me, that he had wanted to hear me read to him then.

What a perfect way to spend time with him on my birthday.

Harmony Of Contradictions

In the overwhelming darkness of the night, the moon stood aglow- a tiny circle unobscured by the infinite blackness.It was then that it suddenly struck my mind that the greatest concord in nature dwells between opposites.  The bright light of the day would engulf the gentle glow of the moon, dissolving its presence. The darkness of the night enhances the elegance of the moon, it feeds its existence . The night surrenders itself to the moon and this union of contrasts breeds divine beauty.

Voices can exist only in the presence of silence. If there was an inferno of noise everywhere, voices would have no meaning.  Rest would be robbed of its beauty in the absence of fatigue. The cool breeze has its tenderness only in the scorch of summer. It is only in the dusk of deep sorrow  that you see the light of that courage which, you had thought , was impossible in you. The most benumbing of shocks stirs to life something that was numb in you all your life. In the heart of contradictions exists impregnable harmony...

Yearning

The shades playing in the sky,

A beautiful weave of hues;

The sun sinking slowly ,

The gentle breeze whisting a soft tune.

I look back at my trail,

My footprints etched in soil;

And hear my heart whisper,

If only your footprints could be beside mine...

How easy it would have made this toil.

The moon brushing its silver in the sky,

The scarlet of the sun receding,

If only your hands would gently slip into mine,

Everything would attain so much more meaning.

As I tilt my head to the vastness above,

A million shining stars catch my eye;

But still my heart craves to see a different light,

That lingering spark in your eyes...

When they were locked into mine.

Castles Of Sand

The night is descending slowly,

Leaving me to myself,

The silent fury of life dawning into me...

My hands - they move frantically,

Sculpting a fort of fortitude,

To guard me from my past,

Only to get knocked off by a violent gush of memories...

Promising  to never make them last.

I start again ...

With endurance in my heart,

To build my castles of sand...

And comes another tide of remembrance,

Engulfing it all.

And yet I build and build again,

My castles of sand...

Fighting against the surge of nostalgia,

Struggling to survive in the storms of time,

Not letting it dissolve....

My castles of sand.

Some Things Are Better Unsaid

The  ecstasy of a sculptor shaping his dream,

A singer singing the song of his heart,

The joy of a painter filling hues into his vision,

A dancer blending with the dance as if they can never part...

A writer penning down his burning passion,

A baby etching a tearful smile on the face of the mother,

A poet lost in giving rhythm to his thoughts,

The emotions flooding the soul of two lovers...

Some of the most beautiful feelings are better unsaid

For  their intensity ought to be lost

If in the quagmire of words they get caught

Metamorphosis

It is like a storm building inside; making you more and more aware of its growing intensity. It seems to have the potential to rip apart everything that comes in its way. The outside is calm, almost shockingly calm – the eyes dry, the lips shaping a not -so- evidently struggled smile; inside the storm is refusing to die out. Its the phase of silent screams. You feel drowning inside and you scream hard. But the stillness outside makes you realise that the scream died in your throat.

The body- the physical self withdraws, refusing to change and it almost feels like an unbreakable iron shield. The wildness of the storm, the loud screams all locked inside what looks like a human structure of flesh and bones. Everytime the storm waves or the sound waves hit the inner layer of your body; you feel your veins are going to burst but the next moment you realize that it has on the contrary hardened. In that one moment, you know you are dying and being reborn at the same time. Its an experience that kills your old self and creates a new one .

Like when a person loses his legs, it gradually kills his old self which was rendered incomplete by the loss . The metamorphosis within gives rise to a new personality which is complete without the legs. Reminds me of Gestalt psychology where we learn that the part is a whole in itself. Its strange how experiences can bring so many things into perspective.  Losing a loved one is very similar to the earlier mentioned loss. Your old self does not know how to live without that person while your new self does not need it. The new self has not experienced the relationship and has hence not lost anything. It was born when that indispensable part of your life dissolved. It has never known it.

But to survive that metamorphosis, to not let your identity get lost in the resurrection; thats the journey........

In The Early Morning Light

In the early morning light

A blush of red kissing the sky,

I caught a glimpse of a pair of black wings,

Wings of a tiny bird learning to fly.

Swaying  in a silent rhythm,

She dodges a tall tree;

Her endeavour to soar higher,

Effortless as the ebb and flow of sea.

In the early morning light

Walking by the groves,

Dew drops playing at my toes,

Memories of childhood tantalizing my mind;

I glance at the vastness above,

To find once again,

Those steady tiny wings

Cutting across the sky.

In the early morning light

When seized by moments of darkness,

The dew is in my eyes;

I can see the contour of two wings

Gliding past a deeper shade of sky.

And while it tries to reach higher,

There I stand

Looking at them,

Those tiny wings...

That taught me to

Move on...

To dream...

To fly high...