Why? Why do I ask why? Do I really not feel worthy? So twisted, broken, beaten? I don't even deserve to smile? No! Thats not true, I deserve more... I've been waiting for a while.... So this time I take advantage! Do it right, Drop my regret over the years, Be more giving, Show compassion, Brush her hair behind her ears. Feel her pain, Take her fears, Its the memories that heal, The memories that breach deep, Its been comming... I've been patient... Almost weak in the knees.
Every feeling, Every sign... So this will be the moment, I lead her into her great divine, Help her grow, Help her heal, And it'll all make sense in time. All the laughs, All the tears, All the nights spent alone, The self torture, The self doubt, Tears hidden in the dark... No place truly feels like home...
It wasn't wasted feelings, It was only the long path... To find herself, And love herself... See the greatness, All the wisdom... All the beauty in her laugh.. A woman hurt, A lover scorned, Lead astray till she collapsed.. Is brighter than a diamond, Or a star that fell in your lap.
So this ones for you, I hope you know who you are, To encourage me, To inspire life, To set aspirations, Near and far. You help me up, You humble me down, Tell me to look all around. So thank you, My mirror, Which reflects the beauty I have inside, For showing me I'm still me, And I have nothing to hide...
So smile with me love, For once let yourself see, There's beauty in everything, You deserve it, As much as me.
The metro station is a whirlpool of time and faces. The trains shooting past your sight, a mother silencing a bawling child, a man standing there, amidst all the chaos, in a hollow space of personal tranquility, the earphones guarding the tragedy and shushing the heady ado. Everytime you see the 9:30 pm train brush past your existence, you know that it's too late to return home. And you question yourself one last time, is home even there, at the other station, in another chaos.
Every place has a chaos that rings redolent of that very place. I recognise a place by its chaos. Names, landmarks, post offices, all change but the chaos remains; the same sound of a tinkling bicycle bell piercing through all the noise at the turn of the road leading to your locality. The cyclist could die, the cycle could break down, but that sound will always be there, telling you that home is near. And again you will question yourself, is home really there, in that house, pasted on the silhouette of gushing stories, in brick and mortar, in a nameplate and a red letter box. What if you change your name one day, will the house still belong to you? Clinging onto every chaff of past, you will make yourself understand that you have not changed, your name has. And you will turn the key inside the lock, the shadow of your hand will turn, your white knuckles will push the door, a slight push and you will be home. You will not question yourself. Conditions are a sombre presage of being human. Even after thinking that they have broken through stereotypes, like a sluice of a clean water through a feculent drain, humans will retrace every step to their childhood home and the guava tree looming over the rooftop. What does it take to walk a different road or to walk the same road and reach a different house? I will never know. I, too, am one of 'us', snuggling in the comfort of conformation and condition.
Humanoids and science fiction and apocryphal folk tales of the childhood try to make us accept certain transgressions in the narrative. As you grow up, you start questioning their existence and one sunny afternoon, after returning from school and taking a shower, you sit at the wooden dinner table and decide that you are too big to believe. You start believing that fictitious is the synonym of false. You never for once think of an alternate reality because that can question your existence. And deep within your trembling heart, you know that you yourself have questioned it everyday but like some dinner table conversations, this has also been silenced with a cough and an extra teaspoon of curry. At evenings, you laugh at the pasquinades at the expense of your own life. Does laughing at a few self- deprecating words written in a scrawled font on a purple background, make you a rule- breaker? But when every apartment in your housing complex, nurtures this ritual of rule- breaking, does it still fall under the category of breaking? You break and you build and you find yourself in the rubble and the bricks. You dismiss your dreams, citing science of subconscious. You dismiss possibilities citing certainty. You are wise and you are passionate. You are the answer to the Google search- ' a perfect human being '. And you will cite modesty to dismiss perfection. What are you really? An ant edging away from the advancing waves? What will happen if you let the waves wash your feet? You will never know, because you have been taught that the previous month, seven people drowned to death.
Everytime I stand at the metro station, the chaos reminds me of roar of the gurgling waters. And I write a piece on human evolution while waiting for the next train. I have been fed and I will feed. Of needs and wants and minds and daunt, I write. I choose to ignore every instance that is 'different'.