I am amazed at how mechanical my life is. It’s such an everyday routine to get up early in the morning, to get dressed to go to work and the usual tumult of daily happenings called life. Looking at it all, from a not so usual bourgeoisie angle, one would almost certainly relate it to a sardonic joke that invites rather repugnance and pity than any amount of laughter.
It’s rather strange how mornings becoming evenings and evenings night, days become weeks and weeks months and before one realizes it’s almost a full year of numbness, that persists from the mornings to the very end of the deplorable months. Honestly I do not bother to muse about the daily pursuits of life and the merits and demerits of it from one end to another. What I do think about is that infinitesimally small ray of hope early morning, which transforms into a weak flame by afternoon and ends up leaving a deep sense unfulfilled longing by nightfall.
The fire and hope that was ignited by the touch of her soft pale skin, like a dark sky on a stormy night. That same fire still lingering inside, like a never-ending thirst.
It’s like a heart wrenching sorrow that makes me ache for her every single moment I pause in my bourgeoisie life. I try to keep busy and to not think about her. To obliterate and block her out from every single memory... But she keeps coming back to me like a soft music breaking the otherwise calm night. I wonder why the otherwise comforting warmth of bodies had never been the same as with her. Why the touch and the smell of hair have never been more than a soft sweet smell of some expensive and ornate perfume. Why the light in the eyes have never been more than just a twinkle, and the touch of the hands never more than just a squall on an otherwise parched land.
Huh, I keep wondering why waking up is so complex, when sleeping is so very simple....
Friday, December 16, 2011
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Raindrops
I woke up this morning to see the raindrops falling on my windowpane....
I woke up one morning to see her standing at the window and looking outside. I put my hand at the small of her back and asked her what she was looking at outside. She said, “I am looking at the little beads of raindrop falling on the smoky windowpane.” She said, “I am looking at the little lime green leaves dancing in the rain.” She then said, “Look how these leaves look all so green, washed and new as if they were once again born to be freshly seen.” She pointed at the small yellow flowers growing in the grass and said, “How lovely these flowers look, blossoming in the rain.”
She took her hair in her hands and moved it from the back to one side of her neck. I kissed the side of her neck and held her gently into my arms. She slid her soft warm hands into mine and gazed with her misty dark brown eyes into mine. She said, “I am looking at the raindrops outside.” And it was then that i knew the magic in the rain. We stood looking out at the raindrops falling on our windowpane.
I woke up this morning to see the raindrops falling on my windowpane. I looked outside to see the once existing happiness, now all washed away in the rain...
And another knows nought of its chilling fall
Upon him aat all,
On whom the rain comes down.
-An Autumn Rain-Scene by Thomas Hardy
I woke up one morning to see her standing at the window and looking outside. I put my hand at the small of her back and asked her what she was looking at outside. She said, “I am looking at the little beads of raindrop falling on the smoky windowpane.” She said, “I am looking at the little lime green leaves dancing in the rain.” She then said, “Look how these leaves look all so green, washed and new as if they were once again born to be freshly seen.” She pointed at the small yellow flowers growing in the grass and said, “How lovely these flowers look, blossoming in the rain.”
She took her hair in her hands and moved it from the back to one side of her neck. I kissed the side of her neck and held her gently into my arms. She slid her soft warm hands into mine and gazed with her misty dark brown eyes into mine. She said, “I am looking at the raindrops outside.” And it was then that i knew the magic in the rain. We stood looking out at the raindrops falling on our windowpane.
I woke up this morning to see the raindrops falling on my windowpane. I looked outside to see the once existing happiness, now all washed away in the rain...
And another knows nought of its chilling fall
Upon him aat all,
On whom the rain comes down.
-An Autumn Rain-Scene by Thomas Hardy
Monday, January 17, 2011
The morning thereafter…
Round the cape of a sudden came the sea,
And the sun looked over the mountain's rim:
And straight was a path of gold for him,
And the need of a world of men for me.
[-Parting At Morning by Robert Browning]
Do not we all wish that life also had those typical happy endings, just as they do in stories and poems? But as much as my heart desires to believe in the so called folklore, there’s no denying that life lives short of these happy endings at most instances.
We often, at night, look up into the beauty of the sky, and chancing upon a shooting star, close our eyes to pray for that little something which would spread happiness: Happiness which brings forth the warmth of love over our senses, making that very moment special. And even though that happiness might turn out to be momentary, we feel it to be worthwhile.
That one moment of happiness, we feel, makes up for the long and lonely void of silence left after a ravaging storm in the wet August sky. And that the soft sound of the raindrops, resonating in our senses while they last, make up for the morbid destruction and the havoc created thereafter.
And in our minds we go about the same thing, repeating day and night, to stay away from the destruction caused by Cleopatra. The same veiled beauty that charms its way to the destruction of the high and mighty. And yet we fall when the time comes.
Thence comes the tears of sorrow and of disappointment. The incessantly flowing tears which come down from the heavens above, everlasting with the dark gloomy skies hovering in the horizon and threatening to throw our life out of gear, for a long long time.
Finally one day, as a sweet drizzle takes away a gusty spring wind and the sky looks clear blue under the bright and the shimmering sun, the smile comes back to the face. The smile which breaks out like the light green leaves on a fine spring morning after a pale, dark and cold winter: the same smile that once again brings back joy on to the pallid careworn face.
But then again I try and recall why I didn’t stop myself from crying then. I suppose I didn’t, as all tears are not evil. I suppose I didn’t as I once again hopelessly believed that some stories perhaps do have a happy ending…
And the sun looked over the mountain's rim:
And straight was a path of gold for him,
And the need of a world of men for me.
[-Parting At Morning by Robert Browning]
Do not we all wish that life also had those typical happy endings, just as they do in stories and poems? But as much as my heart desires to believe in the so called folklore, there’s no denying that life lives short of these happy endings at most instances.
We often, at night, look up into the beauty of the sky, and chancing upon a shooting star, close our eyes to pray for that little something which would spread happiness: Happiness which brings forth the warmth of love over our senses, making that very moment special. And even though that happiness might turn out to be momentary, we feel it to be worthwhile.
That one moment of happiness, we feel, makes up for the long and lonely void of silence left after a ravaging storm in the wet August sky. And that the soft sound of the raindrops, resonating in our senses while they last, make up for the morbid destruction and the havoc created thereafter.
And in our minds we go about the same thing, repeating day and night, to stay away from the destruction caused by Cleopatra. The same veiled beauty that charms its way to the destruction of the high and mighty. And yet we fall when the time comes.
Thence comes the tears of sorrow and of disappointment. The incessantly flowing tears which come down from the heavens above, everlasting with the dark gloomy skies hovering in the horizon and threatening to throw our life out of gear, for a long long time.
Finally one day, as a sweet drizzle takes away a gusty spring wind and the sky looks clear blue under the bright and the shimmering sun, the smile comes back to the face. The smile which breaks out like the light green leaves on a fine spring morning after a pale, dark and cold winter: the same smile that once again brings back joy on to the pallid careworn face.
But then again I try and recall why I didn’t stop myself from crying then. I suppose I didn’t, as all tears are not evil. I suppose I didn’t as I once again hopelessly believed that some stories perhaps do have a happy ending…
Saturday, January 8, 2011
The Longing Inside
And so the year 2010 ended. And it did indeed end with a concoction of weddings, celebrations, good fortune (for one and many), parties, cheer, glee, smiles and a bucketful of happiness for not only just me but also a lot of other people.
Considering how terrible 2009 had been for me, i remember to have had taken a vow of turning a new leaf, at the end of that particular year. And with it i had thus turned the corner into 2010 with lots of expectations from self. Which, to be honest, has been realised to quite some extent, if not all. I had been happy, cheery and less of a cynic in the past year, as compared to the one before.
Yesteryear, for me, closed on a fairly good note but then again i feel that it somehow somewhere left me unfulfilled. I say so because i remember the instance of standing outside in the dead of the night, away from the crowd; looking up at the darkness of the sky. It was then that i saw a shooting star and out of a sudden impulse closed my eyes to wish for something. Something like a bit of warmth in the cold of the night: the warmth of the heart which brings forth the glee from inside on to the face. The warmth of happiness and indulgence, of satiation and surfeit, the warmth of the heart that brings a smile on that beautiful face.....
....I found the warmth, like how Browning says in Meeting at Night....
The grey sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!
….But with a longing left inside!
Considering how terrible 2009 had been for me, i remember to have had taken a vow of turning a new leaf, at the end of that particular year. And with it i had thus turned the corner into 2010 with lots of expectations from self. Which, to be honest, has been realised to quite some extent, if not all. I had been happy, cheery and less of a cynic in the past year, as compared to the one before.
Yesteryear, for me, closed on a fairly good note but then again i feel that it somehow somewhere left me unfulfilled. I say so because i remember the instance of standing outside in the dead of the night, away from the crowd; looking up at the darkness of the sky. It was then that i saw a shooting star and out of a sudden impulse closed my eyes to wish for something. Something like a bit of warmth in the cold of the night: the warmth of the heart which brings forth the glee from inside on to the face. The warmth of happiness and indulgence, of satiation and surfeit, the warmth of the heart that brings a smile on that beautiful face.....
....I found the warmth, like how Browning says in Meeting at Night....
The grey sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!
….But with a longing left inside!
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