time has grown old

     Life is precisely not too obnoxious always. With all ambidextrous gesture it both nourishes and perishes. With every passing moment, there is possibility to be more destined to encounter God. Superciliousness and ambivalence are only by-products of becoming old of a gauche while godliness is supplementary to growing old.  Grow old with time and beyond it; grow as old as God himself in way that spiritual equality is reached;- love is made only then, love is born only then. It was only my one year younger me, who under a subtle spiritual colonization would treat the 'August offer' as a dominion status! 

     Unconsciously vacillating between hope and fear, there stood a disguised unemployed in the developing economy of love, oblivious of his marginal-productivity-zero. The light was red indicating 'you pause', making the room for another to deliver an yield. The only possible contribution that I could always make to creativity was this much passivity,- a pause just before the threshold of climax, panting with bovine indifference. But magic happens sometimes! Sometimes the door is opened  even during the red signal of abstinence and accident happens, with blood, tears, cry and with loss of so loved identities. The woman is at ease and now it's up to the man to be bold enough to ask for the weight of his jaw muscle on the apple before the banishment from plenty of economy down to the dearth of it, a world of vicious circle of personal-time poverty... Bring it on!       

       It was not only the creation that got banished, the creator got banished too. Intimacy caused the spiritual mutation, a process of change, development, neither good nor bad- just a change, the process of growing old had already begun. Wish got detached from instinct. God became fragmented in multitudes of equal potency with our banishment. Then craving met impulse and created a society of psycho-sexuality with hope and optimism in it. Now faith meets the society and becomes religion. There stood the goggle-eyed catatonic, a tyro of religion, a fragment of multitudes: they showed me the genital but I did not notice. I was looking deep into the eyes, you tiny fragment, I did not know it was a boy!  And for the first time, quite contrary to the bliss of carpediem, for a moment or two, at exactly 11:59 daytime, we, losing pace with time, paused unchanged, still. Only time moved on and started to grow old in the small society of our celestial togetherness. That time is now one year old! 

 

other side of the table

     Nivedita would stare at his picture, leaving the consciousness of time behind. It was the profile picture of Ayog Nandi on Facebook. He was in a casual black t-shirt and a blue jeans, sitting magnificently, resting the left leg on his right thigh. The half sleeve shirt exposed his fair arms with gentle hair as he would keep them on the coffee table, further decorated by some loose sheets, which perhaps contained his hand written scribbles, tilted about seventy degree right side. He changed the profile picture after almost four months. During those days, she would often visited his profile, just to have a look at his recent appearance. But, she had to be disappointment, every time. Now, she was happy, looking at him, his picture, which suited his profile the most, as she could think. He looked little older on his carelessly maintained beard and black framed thick spectacles. That new appearance made him a charming stranger to her, a stranger who seemed to be very known.
     But, somehow, she felt comfortable as she kept on staring at him. Something was there in the picture. What was it? she wondered; was it his bright smile to make the other person feel at ease, was it his unfathomable eyes that seemed to be the source of hope, was it his facial calmness, so soothing as if enlightenment is not impossible or was it... She was reluctant to give up so easily. To her, discovering the implicitness of his existence would be like attaining nirvana as his existence in her life caused her very own existence to be, to herself, as an individual, at least.
     Who the hell was there with him, Who could have taken that snap, it occurred to her suddenly. It must have been by one of his beloved students. As if not through the lens, but through us, our eyes, he became visible. Not by the light from the flash, as if, by our acceptance he was illumined.
     Flashes of his class lectures started to pop up before her eyes. It was an introductory class on Indian Constitution and they all expected a senior  teacher, bulky, short tempered, unapproachable kind of being. He entered, at last. His very appearance was the biggest lesson to the students; a young boy, ready to challenge you gracefully. He came to break the convention, orthodox tradition of their mind.
     Nivedita never seemed to be visible to him. She attributed that misfortune to her ancestors, the ugliness that was bequeathed to her by her parents. Even intellectually, she never existed to him. She did not utter a single word to him in the entire session. She would look up to him, awe stuck, sitting quietly in the middle row of the classroom, trying to take notes of every word he would speak. Often, she would miss a couple of sentences to take a psychological note of his expressions.
     The news claimed tears in her eyes. She could not hide it. She had to rush to the washroom as she heard that he had resigned. Some said that he had joined another organisation. Others said that he had promised not to be back in that profession. She said nothing, only stared with a blurred vision. Deep inside, she was losing her every strength and happiness. An unknown emotion was nibbling her inside. She had difficulty to breathe. An intense pain was rising from her naval portion, going up through her chest, chocking her throat. The pain made her eyes red. She tried to anticipate how would it be to miss some one, for the rest of her life!
     Some ten, fifteen days passed. they spoke about him. Some of his students got connected with him on facebook. She rushed back home and logged in with a strong determination to send him a friend request. Would he not accept her request? He was so open to all, so friendly, easy approachable, ready to make new friends always. That was what she knew about him. So let her be his new friend!    
     After seven days of waiting, when she was about to lose hope, that charismatic Ayog Nandi, a short height erudite, subtle blend of attitude and humility, revised the valuable lesson, he had emphasized throughout his semester,- 'don't lose hope so easily, it's never to late to start afresh', by not only accepting her friend request on facebook, but also sending her a personal message;- 'let us speak on FB, at least!' It all ended, or perhaps started, with a happy smiley, as usual.  

oh, my God!

     The concept of God arose out of human necessity, not from emotional impulse. So it should persist till it meets the end. What if it still persists? Then, love must have crept in. Love developed. We did not fall in love while 'using it', rather we deliberately put effort to be in love, not for materialistic gain but for emotional gratification. We also wanted our love to be reciprocated, so we kept loving. Thus we came out of the first concept of necessity only to enter the second; from the necessity of physical survival to the necessity of spiritual nourishment. we became social from being biological.
     When you are a baby, an infant, to you the earth is your mom's bosom, your primary source of physical nourishment. And who maintains your existential predicament? Your mother. You come to know that the earth is round, generous, full of food and shelter, a nice place to be. She is the Holy Mother, devi Sita, Goddess of earth! And gradually you come to know that there is a solitary reaper, constantly toiling away with blood and sweat to sustain the universe of kinship. He is the Father, God of sustenance. And "We are called by his name".
     It is the parents who are the Deities to the newborn priest. Initially the priest is so innocent that s/he does not know mantra to chant to satisfy God, s/he simply demands. In the small temple of the child, the parents become the primary God as they provide for survival, the primary instinct of any creature.Gradually, as the priest learns to chant, the child starts to flirt, starting off 'social smile' usually. Now, this worship is too cute to ignore. So, the child is blessed with reciprocation. "How may I help you". The child feels secured of emotional warranty!
     Relationship begins, necessary for both physical and emotional survival. But this relationship is not based on love. It is rather based on dependence. The child is more dependent on the parents than in love with them. Now, that day is not very far when the dependence will decrease and finally fade away and the relation shall thrive either on love or on custom.
    Now, what the hell is this custom? We shall ponder over it shortly. At first, let's examine the nature of the relationship and its various determinants. It is the behaviour of the parents towards their offspring that determines the nature of the relationship. Parents with a good sense of child rearing will find their offspring to be more dependent on them, like some Gods are more dependable, hence worshiped more than others. The child will have positive experience in the relationship which will further invariably create the urge for the child to nurture the relationship and this time for spiritual nourishment as physical fulfillment is guaranteed, as to him/her it has been a 'my life' relationship. So the chance is that the essence of the relationship will soon become love when the dependence is over on the part of the child. On the other hand, child with negative experience or with least positive experience in the relationship is more prone to continue a customary relationship with the parents, since it was a 'part of life' relationship to him/her.
    Custom is what we have been taught by the society as ought to. Custom practiced by mass becomes tradition. There are two types of people who follow tradition. One is s/he, who follows it because s/he feels like following it from within, as he finds some solace as a moral being. Another is s/he, who, on the other hand, is compelled to follow it by his socially moulded self, such is the deeply imprinted instruction of his/her society in his mind. S/He finds solace as a social being in doing it.
It is the relationship based on love which makes a man pure believer of God. Man, experienced in a relationship based on custom is a man of doubt in matter of faith in God. A 'moral' man wants to remain clear to his/her conscience and just does not want to run the risk of blasphemy; so renunciates to God. On the other hand, s/he, who is 'social' does so on social occasions with constant clash between his/her social and personal ego. Complete surrender is possible only through love. And love will be there only if the Concept of God is clear, consistent, dependable and loving.
     Thus, long ago, we started to draw imaginary figures of Lord Brahma, the creator or of Lord Shiva, the perpetrator or of Goddess Durga, the dashabhuja, the subtle combination of dichotomy, who both nourishes as well as perishes only on the basis of our personal experiences and invested love with perfect zeal.  
     Like degree of acceptance of God is determined by our acceptance of the parents, So is the degree of resistance to God. While some people resist themselves to the concept of God, some simply reject God. Resistance to God has scientific cause behind it for whom who had ruthl ess parents. Even complete rejection is possible if the experience has been gruesome. In both of these cases, the existence of God is not Questioned. But, forgive me for the upcoming words, those who deny the existence of God must review their logic behind their atheist dogma. Either God is merciful or ruthless or both but God did exist and still does exist for All.
     And, believe it or not, God does not reside within us, We are all Gods, not god, but God, for our next generation, at least. 

down the shadow lane

Down the shadow lane
You remain still
Remains hope and laughter
And those hands
To hold
Each other
To beckon and to build
A home of boredom
For melancholy and seclusion…

Remains lust, hysteria
Some silver potteries of clay
To collect fresh crop and water
Of far off creative intimacy!

Love often creates the shadow
Of love and of mutual pain
Upon the green,
Upon the white

Down the shadow lane
Remains the feel
Of togetherness,
Of eves
To behold…

i go miles

I go miles walking
When you find me
Somewhere hoarding memories
Of past relations
Being blue gradually…

drowning instinct

Some thousand miles of walk
With tortoise like politeness
Upon the sea-shore
Upon the un-ravished softness

The ancient water touches the skin
Moistening the dampened soul,
The spirituality
While kites hover gloomily

This is to feel
The feeling of phoenix-likeness
With a bit cruelty and
Unquestioning faith in the sea…

I stand, allow the sea
To enter me and take me away
For a lifelong voyage…

I drown in the water and
I drown and drown again…

Until I learn adaptation
To play and feel and
To communicate with water
Until I become
A fish to be a part of it…

celluloid

Cut
Cut it
Cut them all
And there is blood,
Red poor blood…

This city-night not for
Street licking dogs
We the cold blooded
Don’t sleep any more
They need us tonight…
Now
Come, cut me
Cut us all
Make us boneless tiger
With some mighty teeth
to laugh

And we all actors
Street natural actors
Come and stand like
Nude goal post, perplexed:
Thighs apart for gang-ecstasy…
In the feast of extreme pregnancy,
Dance in fearful melody of mutilation
With skulls of medieval ancestors
And of modern descents

Skulls don’t have religion
Religion does have skull
Skulls, a few skulls it is
What they think and so laugh.
But with timely refreshment
With religious healings we will
Surely we will or may be
We minus I equal to We without I
Will come down to juvenile dilemma
To pee upon their burning eyes!
Then even you in a more motherly
Posture shall sit to feed us milk
Of your secular tiny breast soft

The skulls will laugh modestly,
You shall never know they too need
blood!
Red rich blood
Blood full of bloody communal arcadia
And
One orthodox director
With experienced eyes
On religious lens to say:

Light

Camera

Action…

to be precise

To be precise
I remained silent
And you sent me to school

Now
After thirteen years of exile
I scroll, come to you
With hysteric antagonism
Where you sleep alone vivid
Punctuation I feel the need of
You…

Pause…
‘Comma’
Pause…

I am stranger to your body curves
Fluctuation of your frustration knows me
I sit in European fashion and
My reluctant saliva melts down
To your unexplored body
Dryness where no one kissed you ever
My barbaric tongue keeps searching
With mild gesture…

Wind lashes cold upon your sexual inferiority
You go riding…
Up to psychic Philadelphia!
With all dogmas shattered
Only silence prevails ejaculated
Tilted oldness’ mockery
Sounds like snake’s hissing and
The tiny crocodile, gecko like solidarity
Beckons, Speaks with me
In the language I’m most comfortable with

With beheaded growing
I a grown up celebrate
A juvenile delinquency and
So on…

And, to be precise
The school bell rings.

in a smoky world

With smokes
Of injuriousness I sit apart, astride,
Astute callous smoke goes
Circling around, being immerged
In the celebration of a manhood
Funeral
And I join them…

Smoke smoky smoky smoke
Climbs the hill of experiencesiveness
Of fantasy, frustration of flowers and
Her mother-tree, of emancipation
Of childhood dependence tell me
The story of hardship, of mature dying,
Of wintry fertility…

Fountain and untouched statues
And a secret intoxicating memorial,
Some hidden treasury, monastery, dead
Ivory, wheel of education and lots more
Wither away with the wilderness of smoke
While I sit apart, astride.

Ferocious benevolence of smokes
Ask for acceptance and I laugh!
Laugh and laugh
With each laugh smoke laughs back
Smokes laugh laugh and laugh
Like witty shadow
Humourously alike…
And they all fly away
With the sound of smoky laughter…
Into the stretched mid-day sky
Of typical relaxation!

You sitting apart ask yourself
Will it rain shortly?