As a background, I must mention in the very beginning the nature of my self. I compete. I compete whenever I think I incapable of winning. I stop running the race only when it becomes clear to me that I can win it. I do not complete all my races, but I run till I have convinced myself of my ability to win it.

I remember the times when I could gulp down ten large vodka shots in a matter or minutes and still be stable enough to drive. I did not drive, being the kind of citizen who abides by all laws, meaningless or not; but I was stable enough to do so. Then, why is it so different now? Why can’t my body take even a tenth of what my mind is capable of? Maybe, just maybe, my mind is not capable of it. But I cannot accept it. The day I do, I will kill myself. Why, all of a sudden, have I started losing control over myself so easily? People with weaker constitutions appear stronger now. People who don’t have half my stamina, half my speed, half my desire to control myself, are way ahead of me as far as controlling themselves is concerned.

WHY ?

I don’t have an answer. But I do know that I am running this race. I am running, and I am running fast, and I am running till I either win or drop dead. I cannot live otherwise.

I am sorry.

Shylaja:

The Woman

He turned to see
What he had made of her
As she awaited by the banks
Of the sacred river

Her vermilion etched forehead
Crept by the moving window sill
Of his rickety old motor boat
As she disappeared into the horizon
As a faint dot, a fading flame.

By the endless fish drenched ocean
His sweat rolled by the sun’s lust
Morbid fell the fish amassed by his net
Empty though was his heart that raged
By old rusted window sill

Dawn to dusk, week to week
He sat there in the sea
Wondered where this woman
Who’s vermilion etched forehead
Rested safely by his hearts cease
Had burst out of the little flower girl
Who sat coyly by his side as Agni
Announced the couple to be
And blessed them with prosperity.

He sighed another sigh
As his hands withdrew roughly the net
He so carefully scattered below the sea
Quivering to his sight as he closed his eyes
He saw her willful entity
As she burst open the doors
Of the flower girl who once wed he.

Her lips stained by his teeth
Her breath heaving silently
Her arms tightly around he.
She surrendered for him to see.

As the net he laid brought back bounty
The knot he tied got him she

Not the flower girl.
But the woman whose vermilion etched forehead
Told the world, that there was he.

Stop before you hurt yourself

Ritwik:

Life is complex. The complexity of the human mind is, no doubt, responsible for the complexities of human life. Innumerable factors come into the picture where a single emotion or a single action is formed in the foreground. Like the canvases you paint, there are several layers of colours and shades under the immediate picture. Blaming only the final strokes of your brush for an eventually undesirable effect is immature. Think for a while. And perhaps you will realize that the reason for your pain lies in the very first touch on the blank canvas. Blame the artist if you must blame.

But who, I ask, is the artist who paints the picture of our animated world?

Neither you nor I.

Who, then, is worthy of being held responsible for our lives?

Neither you nor I.

We operate through our limited knowledge. We argue on the basis of that knowledge whose worth appears more and more questionable with every passing moment. If you want to be responsible for the pains and the joys of your life, stop cursing yourself under your breath. Stop shedding tears for a tarnished portrait that is only a tiny part of the larger canvas. You may have concentrated all your efforts on that part till now . . . . . . move to another face, return later to this one. Study your own life as you study the frames of your favourite film. You will learn to be your best critic without burdening yourself with your pain.

I have put myself through this pedagogy. I assure you that only when your knowledge about the human mind is complete can you judge your actions correctly.

Please wait till then before passing a judgment. False notions have caused you pain in the past. Please wait, for otherwise they will cause us more pain in future.

Standing at her crossroads

Ritwik:

“What do you do when you discover that the girl you loved has turned into a woman?”

It was simple for me — fall in love with her all over again.

In her tears I see the joy that surrounds the birth of a child. In her confusion I realize the slow hesitant awakening of the morning glory. In the pain of her reluctant steps forward I feel her nostalgia for the path that lies behind her. In the pristine impatience of her steps forward I see the glory that lies ahead of her.

The journey is meant for her and for her alone. She is the only one who walks so gracefully on that path. What am I doing here, standing on her crossroads?

What am I doing here, standing at her crossroads?

 

Shylaja:

He stands on my cross roads facing the empty path ahead. Our unwinding will had brought us together. It was decided that on such and such a day, he should stand on her road for their eyes to meet and forever long and belong in each other.

He stands, his eyes caressing my whisper that refuses to tumble upon my lips. He stands to kiss my limping leg’s painful limper. His arms are satiated with my burden, and in his strong arms I tremble. He stands.

Our footsteps kiss the untouched path where the green grass lines the horizon’s distant sky. A few understand, a few question but this is how we are complete.

Thus complete.