Ghost of a dead belief

I Believed .
Those Beliefs are now swimming in front of my eyes.
Dripping in blood.
Their heads hacked off.
For a while I thought it was over.
And off I went, to cremate my dead belief.
There were others there too.
Like me and unlike me.
Friends and foes.
They are burning, faces in fire,
Melting, losing shape,
Consumed, but not purged,
It is strange.
The Beliefs were all colored.
But the ashes , an indifferent gray.
With the dying embers, I said a prayer,
"May its soul rest in peace",
But I had burnt the soul a long time before.
With this thought in my mind,
I made my way out,
Out of heaven's doors.
What I didn't notice, was the Ghost.
Following me, was the Ghost of my dear old friend !

Green Slippers

We are surrounded by ‘things’; tangible and intangible,things which we attach value to,things we cherish and things which are just there,everpresent.There is a tarpaulin of sentiments which covers us .and these palpable ,corporeal ‘things’ become a part of it and we stay together under the tarpaulin.It is when we start associating with these objects that the abstract and the definite merge together.These objects maybe a piece of jewellery passed down from generation to generation or it may be one of the banal,day to day items of our life like a pair of slippers we don’t want to part with or a banyan tree which has been there for ages,under whose shade I played inane games,and my grandmother used to put her chair there in the evening and look at the passers by.If anyone were to cut that tree,it would have pained me because that tree had been my companion since my childhood.

Often I feel a sense of exuberance on finding some long lost object drowned in the sea of my wadrobe or lost in the labyrinth of my study.I feel an immediate consortium with that object.Maybe it becomes a part of my identity(not a significant part but still a part).Maybe I am childish,unable to detach myself from such trivialities.But sometimes these trivial objects makes one realise where does one stand.

An incident which happened to my mother triggered me to write this piece.I will digress no further and will begin with my story.

Usha(I won’t call her my mother or Mrs. T because there is more to her identity than being a mother and a wife) owned a pair of green slippers.A very down to earth,middle class pair.Nothing remarkable about its make.After being used for a considerable period of time ,the slipper gave up on her on a rainy day in a market near her residence.Usha left them in the market place,on the crossroads and came back home barefooted.Everyday she would go out to buy vegetables or grocery and she would see her slippers lying in the mud. The sight of her slippers broken and muddy would make her heart heavy.She was unable to make sense of her feelings.Why did she feel such pangs of despondency?One day she comes to me and cries. “The slippers are gone”,she says.It is then that she realised the significance of the green slippers.It symbolised her life.The slippers-dejected, desolate,broken,splintered,perforated,used,performing performing its duties till its exhausted.Similar is her life which is spent in fulfilling duties,keeping up appearances,fitting in the roles enthrusted upon her.A woman who is so tired after the day’s work that she can’t read her favourite books.They lie on the table licking dust.She has no time to get dressed up,drape herself in a saree and go out and relax.Her clothes are comfortable and no nonsensical.She prefers dark colored sarees so that even if they get oil stains,it would’t show.She hardly does anything which pampers her senses and enriches her life.Her life has become a monotonous cycle of getting up early in the morning,fulfilling her duties throughout the day and then dropping dead in bed at night.Her husband goes to work in the day,her children have gone to far away places to brighten their future.She calls her daughter once everyday,dying to talk to her and share something(these are the strings she holds on to).but sometimes even her daughter snaps on her.
Alone ,like the slippers,and finally gone without leaving an imprint on anyone apart from her flesh and blood;like the slippers,whose loss won’t effect anyone but its owner.I think this is what Usha feared.These insecurities and fears came out in the form of tears.what she dreaded was maybe the loss of her identity.A thought which had never occurred to her before.Maybe because she didn’t have the time to think.
Her tears didn’t convey this message to me then.But now thy do.Maybe because now I understand,if not fully then partially, what being a woman is.I want to prove her insecurities wrong.I carry a piece of her with me and this piece I will pass on to my child.She is my fountainhead,my stimulus. Usha will never vanish.

Good vs Good!

Hark!listen!
You fool!
Can’t you?
Can’t you hear those screams?
The agonies of your kin!
You!
You!drowning in your own laughter,
Listen….
“but I deserve this happiness”
You again!
Listen,
To the slashings and clinkings,
The trickle of blood,
The rippings of flesh.
Can’t you?
You!
You,lost in you own world.
Dropping trash in bin
And paying your bills.
Wearing a smug smile on your face.
“I am a good citizen”,it says.
“but I have done my part”
Listen!
Are you deaf?
Why are you blocking them out?
Listen to the color red,
To the heartbeats of the dead,
Listen to the war noises,
Thud!Thud!
You carnal beast!
Covering them with a blanket,
Hiding them behind your escapades in bed.
“but I have my needs”
Listen carefully now!
To those faint,faint sounds,
The parched lips,
The hungry growls,
Listen to the engine of despair,
Hooting loudly in their minds.
Can’t you?
You!sitting among savoury dishes
With a pampered palate,
Listen…
“But listen to what?”
“you are right”
“But I ‘m not wrong”
“Its not always black or white,
Wrong or right.
Good or bad,
A hero or a villain.
Sometimes,its good versus good!

My left, his Right.

One was the beginning,
The other,the end.
They met somewhere in between,
Somewhere,where the street bends.
Not a tinge of akwardness,
No opaque surfaces.
Just the pristine mirror,
Just the unmasked faces.
Love,passion and admiration guided them.
Angels and cherubs talked about their love.
They were amazed,
For they didn’t drink any potions,
Nor were they struck with any darts.
They loved,just with their hearts.
Sometimes they got lost.
But always found each other.
When they were bewildered,
They found comfort in each other’s answers.
They had been together since I don’t know when.
They were thieves and philosophers,estorics and pagans.
They were lovers.
And they were friends.
Talking and listening,
That’s what they did.
When words failed them,
They listened to heartbeats.
So much told,
So much more to tell.
This is a never-ending story,
Cos their journey won’t end.
The only difference is ,
My left is his right.
I live in the ‘upside down’ world.
But he is no Alice,
He can’t cross the line.
The line dividing the two worlds,
Between sanity and insanity,
The fixed and the moving,
The virtual and the real.
So I stand here,
And he on the other side
Happy,to see one in other’s reflection,
Happy,to have loved.
Sometimes I feel I live in an illusion,
then I go to the mirror,
And see him,smiling at me,
That clears all my trepidations.

Freedom is better

We crave for equality.That's the general hue and cry.The blacks wanted equality.Women want equality.The untouchables want equality.But why do they want to be equals to the ones whom they feared and hated.the ones who tyrannise them.what they should crave for is freedom.and freedom is not grounded in envy or jealousy.What's the use of an equal society which impinges on corruption?Would not a free society be better?
I believe that our desire to attain an equal status is grounded in our desire to be like others.But wouldn't that make us machines.And machines are insensitive.Would we want are society to be based on equality and insensitivity.Maybe the ones who are repressed become dominant and they start tyrannising.So whats the point in having a equal society.It becomes a utopia,and utopias can never be attained.Freedom would be a better option.Its a relative term.and most importantly the craving for freedom is devoid of any desire to be like others.Freedom is discovering yourself without any inhibitions.

The Wandless Magician

Somewhere in the corner of our minds,
Somewhere in the cockles of our hearts,
Somewhere inside us,
we are waiting.
To see a miracle,
to sight some magic,
waiting for a saviour,
a Ram,a Jesus or a Prophet,
to drag us out of our miserable lives.
A hunchback walking straight
A blind able to see
A barren woman becomes the epitome of Isis.
Our belief in god strengthens when we witness a miracle.
Why does our faith needs a proof?
Does god needs to prove himself that he is "above all"?
He already has.
With every single breath I take,
with my heart thumping inside me,
with each sunset and each sunrise,
with each flower unfolding its colors,
with each wave in the sea,
with each thunder in the sky,
with each bird that flies.
I witness a miracle daily.
He is a Wandless Magician.
But we believe in special effects.
Ain't we?

Pieces

Black?
Brown?
White?
Yellow?
A Caucasian?
A Mongoloid?
African American?
Jewish?
Quarter of an Indian?
Turkish Muslim?
An Indian Muslim?
A Catholic white or
a Protestant black?
A Brahmin Hindu or
an untouchable Hindu?
My head is spinning.
I'm tired.
I'm all.
I'm none of it.
I'm a human being,
not the pieces you have created.