Saturday, 7 April 2012

Sophocles long ago Heard it on the Ægæan, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery;

"You tell yourself you shall be gone to a distant place, to a distant sea..
 To  a city far lovelier than this could ever be or could hope to be"

                I write to reach out, for once, to be heard, for once, to be touched, for once to be accompanied, to be understood! I could only wait, as one who watches, wondering while TIME & RAIN was pink and fragile, quick to fall at the merest of breath, the sleepiest of breeze.

A lack of the sense of belonging, where do I belong? Am I really an OUTSIDER? They make me interpret, untold; yet felt! I write, as I have lost all the leisured measures to reach out, to CONFIDE! May be the nights that my loneliness have envisaged as grotesque nightmares have their unending innuendos! When words fail, you revert back to silence: pitch black, and self explanatory! .. There lies the castigating difference between quietness and silence: "quiet is peace, tranquility, turning down the VOLUME knob of LIFE! Silence is pushing the off button of life shutting it down all of it. "The self exposed silence of the common faceless, nameless mob, often indulges in self imposed one, "who seek CONVICTIONS to speak their cause by not speaking at all!" What I dwell amidst is the quintessential silence, of a self confined existentialist, who has taken cover in a dark attic, curled up all the edges, and tucked them under! Once had I been a LEGEND among men, who sought LOVE, and was I there like the mystique aura of kopai borne veil: of languishing peers and ever accessible hues. Ashes, I am now, all clustered into the hollow walls of silence like the ruins of ancient Mahenjodaro,  the echoes fade with the poised lustful dusk. The echoes never chose to come back like pyramids of time, the devourer:  Tempu deux rerum! Only the hollow wind that passes through; distilled and condensed, is impregnated with the far away music, not the one of retreat, but the roads less traveled, less opted, less explored. Music is there. Within the hollows of the ashes...whoever searches my traces will find them carefully protected within the darkest corners of their OWN lives. Music speaks even today, barring the noise, the cacophony of existence cavalcades of masks in the busy streets. It's the way of life they say: some men leave a trail of legend behind them, because they give their spirit to the place where they have lived, and remain forever a part of the rocks and mountain streams. It Isn't the Time that's   passing by, It is YOU & I.
                          Mr Ruin moves with time and place, like you do, in life. Moving on. The stories we all have, our own, in the intense corners of of our being. The ruins speaks of our tales, our subjective experiences, not the habitual tendencies we acquire and develop like the Super Annuated man! But the tales that we don't speak of, half forgotten by others and half uncured. We all have a story, as we grow the story changes, the starting does not fortify itself with "once upon a time" and the ending hardly ends with an "they lived happily ever-after". Rather, it takes the course, like the delta of a river, accumulating debris on its course, and leaving aside the unnecessary. Much like us. We chose to befriend and ditch, according to our own carved principles of need, convenience, and rather term it as a limitation. The path is always with us, for it feeds the present.
                                   A wind waits for us, when I stand on the terrace. Once my twine snapped and the wind took the kite, took it over flat roofs, and the waving trees and the river, and the blue hills forever, I could never see the kite anymore, my companion during my moments with Mr. Sky.. I have learned to let it go, and explore its mouthful of sky, the horizon its seeker. Ever.
. Even, My window is my window on the world. If i crane my neck sideways, and put my nose to the bars, i can see the extremities of the building, a narrow courtyard, where the carpenter mates with the wood and the tarpin oil brings to me the long lost flavors!  As they speak of Krishna and Gopi saga, the varying prices of vegetables and alcohol, I remain the bespectacled spectator, the   listener. They never get to see me.  That's  the only essence of life I ruminate upon throughout the day. The rest is quietness, stillness, and its malevolence.
But I have stopped complaining. After all, we chose our ways of life, and I have chosen this myself. However,
For once did I understand or I was forced to: I can't BELONG! They won't let me. Why do they judge? afraid am I? FEARS! :: they move a long way... they remain, reiterate with time and transcends beyond the timeless! I think I had known for a long time that life was over for me, but hardly did I hammer that in my brain, until that day. Now I know I am as much dead, frozen like those corpses which collectively move towards disoriented nonentity after those natural calamities: destiny tossed, destination lost REFUGEES! ! ! Do we have our hegemonic identities after DEATH? Will I be ever TAKEN or incorporated after death? Or even death classifies? I know questions would remain unanswered as they remain forever! Sometimes I do feel like shouting from the alienated rooftops, just for once to be heard! People arrive and move on. They mean business! 

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