Ahem.

This is it. New day, new lesson. The things we think about, they're just in our head. 
It's not easy to get a hold of the heart. It beats, it flips, it has a mind of its own. It will think of thousand different possibilities and focus on the one that will hurt you the most. Generally speaking.
I guess enlightenment is easy. You just keep dropping your pretenses to the point that your soul is bare. Then you look at yourself, and accept it as your being. Then you prance around being the person you are. I'm telling you, it is that easy.
Hellos and goodbyes don't mean much, if there isn't a passionate drive to spend the moments in between with someone. And if you're left longing for more, trust me, it is a good day. It is generally advisable to be unsatisfied when you're young. Cause otherwise, what else is there?

Blegah.

You’re soaked in a grim, swallowing sweat. A tune you can dance to fills your head completely, and becomes the only escape from the spiraling mess that your mind is now. You get up to seek some company, but you realize there’s none around that matter.
Nobody notices your self-important moment when you slam the door open to get outside. And the fresh air just worsens it; you can hear yourself more clearly.
You begin to question the disability of your situation, your helpless conditioning, and the pulp of your will, generally in that order. You then fumble with a pack of cigarettes and one of them drops to the floor and gets soiled. Out of pity, you pick it up and flame it. It’s the least of your problems.
You could’ve done better. With everything. Hell, everyone in the world could’ve done better. But you could’ve done much more. Piss it. Maybe you crave loss, madness, grief. Incompetence of your being, then, is a sure-fire way to get there.

Go on then,
Whistle away that tune,
And pretend that you don’t care.

Don’t forget to lie to yourself,

Maybe it’ll get you somewhere.  

RAKJ

And he and his love,

prance in their future.

Curled and entwined,

she strokes his face.

And he and his wretched smile,

gall me to Wednesday.

His mind is weak,

he has excrement for thoughts.

And he and his calm,

and his money.

Fear is not in him,

he should die.

And he and his voice,

he is an oaf.

May he barf in his food,

and choke himself till the end.

And he and his dead stare,

I own them.

His grave should burst,

with maggots and filth.

The trees should yellow,

the rains must dry,

the forests should burn,

I'll see if can try.

Gold teeth and the curse for this town,

were all in my mouth,

Only, I don't know how they got out, dear.

Turn me back into the pet,

I was when we met,

I was happier then,

With no mindset.

And if you'd'a took to me like,

A gull takes to the wind.

Well, I'd'a jumped from my tree,

and I'd danced like a king of the eyesores,

and the rest of our lives would'a fared well.

Dark-y

And how does it feel like,

to spend a little lifetime,

sitting in the gutter.

To look the rats in the eye,

and tell them the filth tastes free.

To wait for the sun,

and then be too blinded to see.

To stand in the flood,

then to know that the water comes,

not for you, but for the sea.

To float in the muck,

and still wish you were dirty.

To choke yourself,

and be born again guilty.

I think, fight, and learn,

but the gutter will always see,
the yearn, you, and me.

Creeped.

 
Wait.
It's morning,
but my eyes won't shut.

Damned cigarettes,
and a broken rhyme.
A moist pillow,
and a dreamless night.



I don't want to go,
but I don't have to stay.
Sit on top of me,
So there's nothing left to say.

Freedom. And lies. If you don't accept them both, you roll over and die.

Ma

And what do you do when the one who bore her birthing pains for you has a face, and a heart, blotched with scars?

She used to stand for something. An eloquent, inspiring female. A wit in her step, a sparkle in her eye. She smiled, and you felt alright. She sang your first name, and told you to make your bed. You made a face, laid on the sheets and lazily drifted back to sleep, silently smiling that she was watching over.

As a kid, you'd find yourself in a marriage, dodging glances, hoping not to be seen. You'd dangle from her pallu to her right then to her left, hiding behind her comforting silhouette and her disarming charm, when she'd talk to people. While you'd be wishing that nobody would notice your awkward clothing or your smile that missed a front tooth, she'd look at you and say, “Beta, sabko namaste bola karo. It's good manners. And it's always nice to meet new people”.

Now, you find yourself tugging at her pale, drained figure, telling her to get up and make her bed.

When she reaches the sink with tired eyes and a shapeless gait, you remind her of the social visit she has been evading for long. You notice yourself repeating her instruction about meeting new people. Only midway through your sentence, you see her hollow stare looking past everything real. Then you realize that she has given up on herself.

You leave the room rubbishing away your inability to cry, thinking about happier times. When you wore shorts to school and she was your world.

Like most other things, this too shall fall into place somehow. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe a year. Maybe a life later.

Don't you always have to get there to come back.

The Devotee

It came to pass that a man drenched with thirst swam ashore on the beach. His eyes were tired, his frame was slack. Though he was young, his mind was a century of drought. He searched for worship and devotion. For god or for monster. He had heard that a man exclusively deserved the deity he chose. He wanted to submit and to belong. All the wasted threads of his body and his soul ached for a commitment to the divine.

He chanced on the figure of a magnificent creature who played in the sand. Trudging forward to see more of it, he was, not blinded, but soothed by the bronze sunlight enveloping the form. It was not male nor female, not adult nor child, not man nor beast. Intent of man, spirit of woman; brow of the sage, innocence of the cherub; eye of the tigress, gait of the stag. The form stared at him with the infinite kindness of the universe.

He then broke and wailed. The aeons of travel, the ages of grime, and the years of fatigue fell upon the sand with his tears. In him, till no moisture and solitude were left, his dry tongue moved in a plea –

“What must I do to be free of fear?”

The form replied –

“Thou doth touch me, but shan't gather lust from me.”

“Thou doth extol of my beauty in word and song, but shan't wait for a response.”

“Though doth worship me, but shan't be bid love in return.”

Hearing that, he recoiled in anguish and dread. And such was he spoke.

“What kind of god be thee?”

“What be a man, sans the love of his god.”

“What be a god, sans the devotion of his apostle.”

Thence, he resigned his fate. If submission to such terms is what it took, so be it.

He spread his arms to the heavens and peace reined on him.

In his journey, he had found that a man's god is the reflection of his fabric. So he knelt on the gallows, smiled at the executioner, and wished for a pretty end.

“Arziyaan saari mein chehre pr likh ke lya hoon,

Tumse kya maangu mein tum khud hi samajh lo maula”

“Dararein, dararein hain mathe pe maula

Marrammat mukaddar ki kar do maula”

“Tere dar pe jhuka hoon, mita hoon, bana hoon,

Marrammat mukaddar ki kar do maula”

“Pyaas leke ke aaya tha,

dariyaa vo bhar laaya,

nuur ki barish mein bheegta sa tar aaya”

“Sar utha ke mein toh kitni kwahishein ki thi,

kitne khawab dekhe the, kitni koshishein ki thi,

jab tu rubaru aya, nazarein na mila paaya,

sar jhuka ke ek pal mein maine kya nahi paaya”