She...stands like a reflection in still waters. 

Distant. Solemn. 

Medusa's hair, floating like carefree wavelets, 

Engulfs all yesterdays and tomorrows

She...stares, who knows where

Those empty sockets bereft of dreams

Absorb sun rays of infant delight like

Frivolous promises of unshaken faith

She... speaks not a word

For, what is speech 

But random spewing of unnecessary sounds

Sans meaning, sans occasion

She...stands there quietly

Looking on and on, 

Till the rough grey stones - all melt away

To merge with a fluorescent ball on a dusty footpath

Haiku Chain

I

They cast huge shadows

engulfing little mirrors

 - monumental beings.

II

The seed I planted

came snaking out of the ground - 

Venomous. Silent.

III

And I thought I crossed

that bridge beyond forever

twice before with you

IV

Tiny white florets

hypnotize a starry sky

with fables of faith

When you go to the sea, it's funny to see people hopping, jumping, screaming wildly and all of them so excited! 

But then as you pause to think, you realize that's how most people negotiate with the excess that they cannot handle, the vastness that they cannot comprehend. They interpret the text at the momentary impulse, almost conclusively.

The waves as they come together, holding hands, and splash with an exuberance of unexplained energy, they perhaps kindle some sort of an unadulterated joy. In fact, they initiate pristine flashes of unthinkable moments when perfect strangers across all age groups smile at each other and even share moments of thoughtless laughter. 

And yet, the wealth of civilization never came without the baggage of grotesque morons - those that punctuate the natural symphony with chaotic cacophony. 

But when you learn to unsee all of this and you look at the sea beyond these playful and restless waves, you are humbled by the vastness of the unending grey...how similar to the innumerable finite individuals who live out their lives - bubbling with activities and engagements on the surface, while the core lies deep and peaceful, brimming with thoughts that lie too deep to be disturbed by the surface realities...the vastness invites you to participate in this serenity... to witness the enigmatic process of relentlessly nurturing mysterious forms of life in complete silence down the labyrinthine subconscious which builds those lovely luminous bridges of memories - lived and imagined, across lifetimes...

You close your eyes.

The clouds float on the waves... 

 

 

The carcass of chrysanthemums lay there still

Long after the crowd dispersed

Whispers stopped 

And footsteps ceased

Memories of lost vibrancy

Sunkissed hues that had seemed colourful

Lay there still

Withdrawn from the theatre

As the lights dimmed

One by one

Not dead enough to be discarded

Nor living enough to be considered

The carcass of chrysanthemums

Lay there still

Little aware of anything

Though profoundly knowing it all

A few yards away

Plastic lights shone

And a neon sun and moon

Bereft of warmth

Masqueraded as light

Mimicking genesis

And so, when you discard - what do you discard?

The act of discarding has remained a mystery to me...

They say, discard what is useless. But then, what is useless! To define something which is no longer in use as useless, would mean getting rid of every such day marked as a yesterday. For, the yesterday no longer holds valid today and yet when you walk with firm steps to throw them away - that is, this accumulated pile of useless yesterdays - are you not also resolving to throw away that distant yesterday (among many others) when your faltering footsteps were replaced by the determinant steps which characterize your gait today...! 

And then they say, discard what is meaningless. Even more perplexing. How do you know for sure what is meaningless? To think that meaningless is that which is without meaning is a simplistic definition to pacify presentist requirements. For what is meaningful this instant, is a futile exercise in meaninglessness the very next moment. Say for example, the exercise of breathing. The breath which left you a while ago or may be some eons ago, originated from you and was lost in the nothingness of all-engulfing time...but is it meaningless? Did it not leave you a bit more equipped to negotiate with the randomness of life...! 

The pragmatic would argue in favour of discarding inanimate stuff which no longer serves a purpose. But then again, how to distinguish between purpose and purposelessness... Even the apparently meaningless, purposeless old colourful wrapper of a gift you have forgotten all about, is not redundant if you can see in it the folds marked by the careful excited fingers which were engaging in this exercise to create a few moments of memories with you, amidst the randomness and unpredictability of life as it stands to be... Just so with an old toy. It might be broken, tattered or distorted beyond recognition now, but how do you not recognize the thoughts that went into purchasing the same by people who felt it would bring a twinkle to the eyes of a child... Or may be just the crutch which stands redundant today...how to discard it as a purposeless object if you still can recollect how it supported your shaky existence when there was nothing else you could cling on to...

I sometimes feel that 'rags to riches' isn't just a phrase narrating the story of reversal of fortune...it is also the potential magic which every individual perspective is capable of...that latent presence of suppressed truth, which when endowed with recognition through memory, transforms the rags into riches..!

 

Close your eyes.

Make a wish.

And the fallen eyelash, uprooted by chance or fate, flew away silently into the vastness of invisibility.

Childhood is that period when you do not question possibilities.

You do not ask where it went. You do not look around to trace its trajectory prior to the last flight and descent.

And yet the precocious nature of inquisitiveness would initiate questions - dreamy, redundant, pointless, useless questions.

You paused to wonder is the broken eyelash a letter to the universe? Is the disintegrated fine sword - the constant companion of your emotional expressions in an existential battle which blinked as you agreed, fluttered as you expressed surprise and was drenched by your sorrow once upon a time - is it now a lone soldier in hope that you send out on a solitary battle into the overwhelming vacuum of nothingness? Or is it the last fragment of a broken wing, camouflaging its purposelessness under the promise of a dream? 

You sigh. You gather yourself. 

And you close your eyes.

To make a wish.