May death be thy vehicle....

I know that pain is the mother of poetry

“If I meet death on my way, My Lord!

Give my limbs the strength to crawl to your temple.

So that I may lay my head on thy feet.

And breathe my last.

If I meet death on my way, My Lord!

May a cobbler find my body

And convert my skin into foot wear,

For a devotee to wear and walk to thy temple.

If I meet death on my way, My Lord

Make my soul shed my body,

Near a hospital of eyes

And my sight be transferred to a blind boy to see thee through my eyes.

If I meet death on my way, My Lord

May I fall near a colony of poor,

Strip me off my belongings through their hands,

And their children, who are thy messengers, thy angels,

Be fed, be dressed.

If I meet death on my way, My Lord

Thrash my body into pieces, turn it into ashes, and spread them all over,

Let them embrace thy creation, thy beautiful creation.

But before you make many out of me,

May I ask you a favor?

For a moment if you can,

Hold my heart in your hands,

And feel how much

My heart, wounded in thousand ways and disowned by every soul,

Longed for you, wept for you, all my life.”

A poetry whose quality I am not very sure of but I feel a little relieved.
Urdu poetry that I am listening to, teaches me how to cherish pain, and love it as my most precious possession. I don’t have much to say today. Don’t feel like reading Gitanjali either. Just feel like withdrawing myself like a snail. Bye my sweet self.

Comments

Conversations with myself

Conversations with myself . I believe very few people are endowed with the authority and character to advice and enlighten others. For all the rest like me, it’s more of self advice and self talk. Even when we are called upon to address others, it takes the form of a loud self talk which is basically an attempt to reinforce our own grey areas .That’s why I have come to this conclusion that self talk is one of the most fruitful, worthwhile and relaxing activities that a commoner like me can engage in it.

The Society of Snow

They were young. A football team from Uruguay, flying to Chile. Boys with energy in their legs, laughter in their voices, parents waiting back home, girlfriends expecting phone calls, lives unfolding exactly as they should. Somewhere over the Andes, the ordinary collapsed. The aircraft struck the mountains, tearing certainty apart in a place where snow stretches endlessly and silence feels absolute. Out of 45 people on board , chaos settled quickly into a far more terrifying reality. The world had not only broken, it had disappeared. What followed was not a battle of strength, but of endurance. 71 days on ice. At altitudes where breath hurts and hope freezes faster than blood. Search planes flew above them. Close enough to be heard. Close enough to be seen. Yet they remained invisible. Imagine watching rescue pass overhead and realizing you are still alone. Again and again. Food ended. Time stretched. Choices narrowed. Survival demanded decisions no human should ever have...

Catch them before they escape

They were packing their bags. A wave of sadness had pervaded my entire house .And though I am particularly troubled by departure moments even of a fairly less acquainted person , I was closely observing the way they were moving around. I was feeling so sad that even my the tears could not find a vent .This couple who had spent their whole life for their only son, who were truly the cause of what he is and where he is, were leaving again back home. My parents had come to stay with me for 3 weeks and they were now leaving. On the one hand Aii and Baba were feeling sad that they are leaving their beloved son and on the other, they were no t comfortable staying in Mumbai where materialism ,money, crowd and noise were the prime disturbances. I remember the moments when they were planning to come to Mumbai to see me. It was all so exciting, that my parents are going to come to stay with us .Three weeks had passed like three seconds and it was time for them to go back .This took me to...

Being Ram

Search This Blog