Soulmates - Guest Post by Prateek Pandey

That dreamy look you get when someone walks into the room can mean only one thing. Your soul mate has arrived. The way they smile, the way they shift their gaze down and left with that reflective look before they answer, or the way they throw their head back when they let out a hearty laugh leaves you weak at the knees. Carefully caressing every movement of theirs with your gaze, their sigh becomes your sigh and their embrace becomes your completion.

Such deep surrender can only be possible with a soul mate. It cannot be explained any other way, right? Of course it can, but in that moment of desire, logic escapes us and the loins take over where love pretends to play. But it’s not a singular desire that drives us to lose sight of reality and suddenly abandon our faculties in favour of love, sweet love. That would be far too simple a neanderthal response to explain why such sophisticated beings as ourselves suddenly drool with desire when the brain fog sets it.

We go through life savouring successes, even tiny ones, bravely rising from each setback that befalls us. With each rising we muster a portion of renewed hope, a smattering of new wisdom, and a lowly regret that we tuck away neatly because it doesn’t quite complete the picture that we now present to the world. That’s the image of composed resilience that won’t be stifled. It would be fantastic if that cycle came around only once, but it doesn’t. It comes around more often than we’d care to remember, or even less than we’d care to admit. And so with each cycle we grow weary, but continue to exude hope and optimism, because all the fairy tales in the world cannot be wrong. My soul mate cometh, and I shall be ready and waiting to meet her at the door before the threshold, so that we can trundle in together, or not.

The reality is closer to the truth of us spending our lives seeking avenues of expression so that we may be able to reveal ourselves to the world without feeling vulnerable in the process. Striking that balance leads to a tiresome combination of restraint and expression, until one of the two become more dominant. That dominant disposition shapes our character to the world around us, eventually convincing even us that it is who we are, until that fateful moment when that soul mate enters. That soul mate comes in the form of one who expresses what we restrain, and restrains what we express, thereby striking a cord with a desire buried so deep that just teasing it leaves us giggling like lovesick teens who just witnessed the de-flowering of the world.

That completeness awakens us to the optimism and passion we once held dear, and with seeming abandon, we expose ourselves willingly in preparation for the embrace we yearned for since forever. Suddenly we wish to express to the world on their behalf what they restrain, trusting foolishly that they will express to the world what we restrain, and from between our loins shall spawn the perfectly balanced beauty of the sum of us.

PC - www.aliexpress.com

Whether they are soul mates or not is almost entirely irrelevant, or at best, subject to interpretation. We selectively interpret life, and love, and then follow it with deliberate action that either proves our views to be true, or abandons the world for being untrue. It is what we choose it to be, but such choices have to be mutual if the outcome is to be idyllic. Sometimes we meet one whose choices are inversely mutual, thereby syncing perfectly with our own, but sometimes what appears to be an initial sync turns out to be a novelty phase of fascination and not much more. When that phase passes, some will convince us that soul mates are not always intended to stay forever, while others will suggest that they weren’t ours to begin with. Either way, the outcome remains true, and the lessons we take will either build us up, or break us down.

The amazing thing is, whether we’re right or wrong is not really what matters. That’s just bonus points. How we appreciate and grow from whatever or whoever comes our way is what peppers life beautifully, or taints it horribly. Much of life is wasted waiting for opportune moments or validation. Soul mates will be drawn towards us as kindred spirits when we live authentically and pause only for air to fill our lungs before we push on again. But authenticity is not easy to express, because we’re raised to find affection and validation as markers that determine our success. No wonder, in a world of emotionally stinted half formed adults, we wait for our soul mates to join us before we immerse ourselves fully in what is always only ever a one time offer.

Life doesn’t wait for soul mates, nor should you.

***

About the Author - Prateek Pandey is an idiot. He is precisely the kind of idiot I am proud of knowing and in whose presence literature, poetry and language acquire newer dimensions. He answering questions through his prose and poetry which the world is yet to learn to ask. Lampooner. 

Badi Pagal Si Ladki Hai

Prelude - For my birthday this year, I got many gifts, in gestures, in words, in books, in love - in many other manifestations, but the gift I am sharing with you all here is the most special among them. To have had these words read out to me was an experience nothing short of magical and extremely humbling. Gratitude fills me as I post this -

Badi paagal si ladki hai..

Ajab khwaabon mein rehti hai..

Bikhre baal rakhti hai…

Alag sa haal rakhti hai…

Alag ek dhun mein rehti hai…

Hamesha hasti rehti hai…

Kabhi khamosh ho jaye…

Yun toh kam hi hota hai…

Ke jab khamosh hoti hai…

Fiza pe rang nahi chadhta..

Bahaarein laut jaati hain…

Ghatayein ghir bhi jaayein gar…

Boondein dam nahi bharti…

Aur jab muskuraati hai…

Gul bhi muskuraate hain…

Mausam khil ke aate hain…

Ajeeb ik zid si hai pakde…

Ke Gul sehraa mein khilaane hain

Sab kaante mehkaane hain..

Roton ko hasaana hai, roothon ko manaana hai..

Gham duniya ke mitaane hain..

Kabhi koi jo gham, uska..

Gar humsaaya ho jaye…

Gham se ru-ba-ru hokar..

Milaa kar aankh har ranj se…

Yun muskuraayegi..

Ke gham muskura dega

Dard ki baahon mein daal kar baahein …

Yun gungunaayegi…

Ke dard bhi gungunaayega…

Koi bhi dharm duniya ka…

Isko soojhta kab hai…

Mohabbat pooja karti hai..

Mohabbat socha karti hai…

Kabhi poochho sabab iska..

Toh hans ke itna kehti hai…

Ke tum dekhna jaana…

..Ke tum dekhna jaana…

Ik roz duniya ko…

Mohabbat Main sikha dungi..

Ik roz duniya ko…

Main ishq bana dungi…

Badi Deewani ladki hai…

Ke bas khwaabon mein rehti hai…

Picture credits - Mayank Austen Soofi

Water Memory - Guest Post by Anurag Vats

Do You see those drops falling?

Each drop of water that falls on Your skin has tales to tell.

Each swig of the drink You take; taste, or no taste, has moments.

Water retains memories. 

  

Hence each time You see rain falling,

Each time You share a drink,

Each time You drink water, sharing that glass,

You share a part of the memory.

You wouldn't realise. 

But it takes a place in Your head.

Memories of Centuries.

Memories of moments.

Memories of the moments past.

Memories of present.

It is absorbing a part of You as we breathe. 

It’s good that You live here, and we've shared a drink. 

Perhaps that's the reason, a part of You lives in me,

And You wouldn’t realise, a part of mine in Yours. 

It is neutral, it is transparent.

Because it is so opaque, with memories that You won’t be able to see.

They say that a kiss can transfer a bit of You in the other.

Who knows why?

Water memories, watermarks and water colours.

What are waters?

They are eternal. I swear.

Imagine, water goes up and precipitates, for millennia.

Ancient water.

Water sipped an unison, they speak.

Water fallen on the paper. 

Water kissed from the cheeks.

Water absorbed from the other's body.

Watery eyes.

Ever imagined saline water that runs in tears and in oceans.

We are almost water.

So is most of the Earth.

Uncountable memories.

Countable instances.

Memories make Us, most of Us.

Memories lead to love, to procreation and it doesn't end there.

Memories conjure water too and water conjures memories.

Drop by drop.

They fall like drops of You and i.

Drops of us. 

Dropped through Us.

On Us. 

In Us.

Us.

About The Poet

Anurag Vats is among the many young, promising poets I met over the past year, who leaves the listeners of his poetry exhilarated and incredulous with his deft, bordering on fantastical use of language. Anurag, besides creative expression, has the blessing of a mesmerising baritone, and even if my description of his poetic brilliance is going a bit over the top, it is still all justified, you can trust me! The above poem, if just one example, and you can find more, here - http://anurag-vats.blogspot.in/

Image Credits (For the dewy-leafy picture) - Vivek Nambiar (another awesome friend I made over the many gatherings I attend and organize. 

Running After Truth - Guest Post by Navin Dutta

Note - This is a very long post, but every small length of it is worth digging into. It happens to be one of the most fascinating, and comprehensible write-ups I have read/heard, which deal with a subject as complicated as the definition and pursuit of truth, but decodes it with the help of instances and characters that have been a part of childhood. This childhood is what constitutes the fabric of our collective memories, and there-in lies the kernel of truths of life as we know them. Read, and ponder. 

******

Prologue

Truth is belief. Truth is reason. Truth is passion. To be truthful, to me, is also to be moral. Truth is intent. Truth is outcome. Truth is death; the harshest one. It is also life. I believe it should lead me to peace. That is how I see it or want to see it.

Truth is understanding why are we here. Does it make any difference? Our actions? Or may be only some action by some stalwart in his time matters. So does this mean the rest of us are living life like insects? To say that is such a wrong thing. Do insects play no role? Or is that our role is similar to those insects i.e., in completing some sort of a cycle? Seeking truth is about answering so many simple questions that have not so simple answers. Truth is a quest.

 

The author, pondering over his truth

Truth of a Teenager

For three decades or so, I have been around observing, trying to get hold of the flawsophies in understanding the real meaning of life, of why and how and what. The first decade of my life was perhaps the best. After that I started indulging in a paranormal activity called thinking – one of the bigger blunders I have sketched so far. Why is that you ask. Hmm… I think for that you will need to know the nature of my indulgence with the world around and perhaps my own the realm of thoughts. In fact there are so many aspects of my existence, that I really do not understand them all. Whenever I tread that path of pursuit and speak to my fellow peers and friends, I come back empty handed. And with every such attempt my belief in Darwin's theory stands reinforced, getting convinced that we have descended from apes.  But let’s focus on trying to uncover the essence of truth.

As a kid, I have lived a life of blissful ignorance. I have lived in the times of Chacha Chaudhary and Saboo. I have lived to believe that He-Man was one of the masters of the universe. However funny it may sound to you, I would scathe the fields with a stick and shout in all the glory - "I have the power".

Somewhere, I actually felt that I had the power. I would rescue all the butterflies, when kids from the block would ran around trying to capture them. I felt heroic. It was like saving the world from the harsh, cruel truths. That thought, perhaps, was my first tryst with truth. Since then it has been a journey of sorts.

I believed in some things so dearly and fiercely that they held the status of the absolute truth that could ever exist, if it exists that is. To share with you a long kept secret, I believed I could fly. Not like a bird would fly, but I believed while jumping I could punch air underneath my feet and take off even higher. The jig was this - I would jump off the ground and paddle in the air to go higher. And then I would come down. The next time I would go even higher. These mini-flight were a treat of the awesomeness that I had access to. I would smile and, again, slash the air with the stick in my hand and exclaim - "I have the Power!!!"

Growing Up

And then it stopped. I grew up.

I was not under the cognitive overload poor kids these days have to face. I had access to many comics and scriptures that induced fascination to do things beyond one’s reach, to save the world and feel proud. One such book was "Jatak Kathayein" that had Buddhist stories, each with a moral. They inspired enough to make me fan of Gautama Buddha.

I didn't quite understand him then but I knew there was something common between us. Something that really connected us. It was his pursuit of truth. When this hit me, I was so motivated to pursue truth further that I seriously wanted to leave my home, everything and go. Sadly I was never able to do so, else I would be an enlightened soul today.

Talking of enlightenment, I think I was afraid of the dark. It freaked me out to the brim of crazy. We have frequent power cuts in the small towns, which facilitated many encounters between darkness and me. These encounters became my moments of introspection, faith and belief.

For clear differentiation between truth and untruth, right and wrong, just and unjust, I would try all sorts of methods to meditate and become the enlightened soul I had always read about - the know-it-all kinds; but not like a babajee of course. I also wanted to have the love of my life with me, around me. I wanted to love her to the best I can; write poetries, sing songs, dance, make merry, and I would not leave her like Siddhartha did. Not at all, if she was as pretty and intelligent as Yashodhara was described in those books. Sane. Pretty. And at the same time a very dedicated partner.

Companionship?
A painting the author drew, inspired by Leonid Afremov

I have had this strong urge to set out and explore the course of life like a river, to not be contained but be out there. While I do not want to sound any smarty pant, I realized that my peers - my friends at school and my sisters, were not like me. I was different. I do not know how. I felt I was in the crowd but aloof. I did enjoy company, but there was a sense of solitude that I enjoyed more. How did it compare? Perhaps that’s a question I’m still negotiating. I find in me a recluse who would enjoy sitting on a rock on top of a mountain and feel the joy of having achieved the climb. Maybe I don't fit. I find myself socially awkward and I have mixed feelings about that.

It is not that I don't long for a friend with whom I could share without inhibitions. It is also not that I don't long for companionship. I do. Just like anybody. I hate the void. I long to hold hands and feel assured. Or feel secure and loved in a hug. I crave for that. But I would never initiate it. I would rarely ask for it when needed. Instead, I while away. I drift. I think this is also because my parents, though loving, have been very firm and inexpressive. They have taught me not to rely too much on others and do things by myself, to be by myself. I love them, and so do they, yet rarely do we hug. It takes such an effort. Really. Sounds crazy? Well that’s how it has been.

Anyway, getting back to story of truth, now you know how similar my life then was to that of Siddhartha; except that I didn't have a loving wife, a kingdom to rule but we shared the same notions to run after truth, to seek answers. I used to think about it and discard the thought of abandoning home, mulling - "I am barely 12. Siddharth left home when he was 29". Now, I realize that he was more decisive than I am or ever will be.

The Spider Bite

Every now and then, I would see the futility and worthlessness of my existence and try to ascertain whether or not I’ll make a dent in this universe. In fact there were so many ways that I could sneak in and punch the whole strata that I started exploring, and the more time I spent exploring, the more I realized how insufficient my experience was. I had taken a plunge and it was a fall. I needed the right terminal velocity or I would drown in the history or perhaps in my own unfinished dreams. I needed the right pull before I could catapult my ideas in search of truth. I think it started, when I was 7. It was then when I was first introduced to Spidey. Yes. Our very own Spiderman from the friendly neighbourhood.

Now Spidey, I found, was an interesting character. He had similar notions of pursuance. Yes, I am talking about the truth. The urge to go beyond what is in your reach and help the world in better ways.

As Spiderman, he would beat the bad guys; jump off buildings; weave his own truth; wear his own lie yet be loved by all. As Peter he was good at studies; he was respected by girls; he helped the needy and did all this as a common man. So he was master of both his universes, not just one. To top it all, he didn’t have to leave Mary Jane. He knew exactly when to switch roles. Sadly later in the story I realized, that like Yashodhara’s case, he had to distance himself from MJ. This became a point of my concern. A serious one. Both these fair ladies were very committed to their heroes, still had to live a life of lonesomeness. This truth was a little scary. What is truth if it is not shared? No better than a lie. I thought about it. Why is it that no one who pursues it so fiercely gets to live with his companion? I was finding more and more such stories, yet my craving hadn't died. The saddest part being that most of the time, the hero opts out of the relationship, despite loving their beloved so dearly. Another hero of truth, I recently found was Mahatma Gandhi. His story is similar, but let’s not go there. This post is more about my truths than his.

Through the early years of the second decade of my life, I hoped that I would someday leave all behind and go in search of truth. At times I would secretly wish that a spider would bite me and I would morph into some kind of a super hero. Sadly, none of them happened. Perchance the mosquitoes did try, but nothing substantial came out of that.

I was still a popular kid. The females would love to have me around, so much that my guy friends would get jealous and pass comments.  I guess it was I who kept these girls at a safe distance. You see, I wouldn't mind female spiders but I guess they didn’t fancy biting me. The only way to tackle this was by engulfing myself in the inky darkness, relentlessly slaughtering all the other thoughts. It was like I was under the spell of truth. Then I was stripped off that too, by deception.  Deceptions question your illusion of validity in the frames of reality in the bigger context. Truth is then judged and measured on the scale of happiness.

Peace, Satisfaction, Happiness

To ideate deeply, there are some encounters in each of our lives that invite us to pause and think about our lives. I realised while this pursuit was an honorary and cherished one in my life, it was slowly losing its charm. So far I hadn’t understood that satisfaction and happiness are two different things and absorption in a task or a routine or a drive cannot always give you both. I originally linked truth with peace, peace with satisfaction, and satisfaction with happiness. This was changing. 

So what is it that I should aspire for now if not truth? What was happening to me was no less than any hysteria. I could see there were more side effects to it. I was becoming too serious, too rational, too giving and all of that was not easy. I had my own suffering. I was beginning to understand that perhaps "no drive" is also a "drive". I also understood that circumstances that we can’t choose and the structures in life that we choose have less to do with satisfaction or happiness or peace. All of this is largely determined by temperament. It is rarely an after effect of truth. So what is the rhyme and refrain here? It is logical to view life as series of moments; each with a value; each episode with a truth of its own; connected with the intent more than outcome. The rhyme is the understanding in repetition. The refrain is questioning your very own understanding. Well that is debatable I know. And I am still hooked.

Truth Can Seduce You

While writing whatever was coming to mind, I was wondering what exactly this post is about. What is this "essence of truth" I have been talking about? Yet again, not an easy one to answer.

Are eyes the site, or medium of truth?
The author does end up drawing them a lot.

So I asked some questions. Simple questions seeking simple answers. These seemingly simple questions led to more questions, rarely offering answers, that too in bits and pieces.

"What is truth?" - I asked myself.

Truth is something that conforms to reality, is factual, is derived out of consensus; has a logical conclusion. Yet we know that truth, sometimes, is only true in a context. I am talking about relativism. 

Questions that now propped up were:

What is real? What is factual? Is it not very dependent on individual perception? Can it always be proved by some logic? Even in relativism all points are valid, and with such a premise truth may not be true out of the premise and it so turns out that it is contradictory. Can truth be self-contradictory? Doesn't relativism defy the very nature of truth itself?

What I exactly wanted to do was define it but it seemed impossible. So if it can't be defined, does it really exist? Some say such a truth can only exist in faith. Is it? I doubt.

Truth is, maybe I am here for a reason.  Or maybe truth is that there is no such reason at all. I am just blabbering. The idea of truth has seduced me for long. What came out was no less than a gaping void. In the age when boys run after girls I ran after truth.

To think of it, whatever the truth is, unless it encounters more realms than yours it is no better than a lie and it is meaningless in essence, even if it holds good. And what good is such realization that makes no difference to you or the world around? Every truth needs a meaning. Buddha found it in sharing with people, telling them what is right, leading them away from the "ladna marna" on the path of ahimsa. Spidey found it as the exact opposite. He understood he needs a mask and people would not understand his truth. They would get irritated as to why he is endowed more than a normal human.

While truth does not lead us to chaos or a safe bay, it is just the temperament that changes in how we lead our lives. For example, if you marry a person it doesn't mean he is a chest of happiness (or sorrows, for that matter) in your life. It is his temperament (and yours), more importantly, which is deterministic in actual situations.. Truth is independent of it. It does not make a dent. Temperament does. Massively.

With that in mind, truth to me, is about a belief that I would want to carry all my life. Truth is supernatural and perhaps the greatest kept secret as well. Truth is political at times and also free from all reasons. Truth is passion. There are so many layers to it. I cannot define it as one clear emotion, or as one clear definition. It is an amalgamation of sorts.  Go ask the same question to people out there and you’ll get different answers each time. That’s what truth is. It is everybody's perception. What is yours?

Do you have something to offer? Then sprinkle me some truth. I am game.

*******

About The Author - Navin Dutta is some awesome, successful professional in his routine existence, but in the world where I had my first tryst with him, he is a majestic writer and a wonderful human being. He has an unbelievably rich trove of talents, which he quite consistently dazzles us with. Extra-ordinarily well-versed in most affairs of the world, humility stands out as a glaring, yet pleasant aberration in a person of his stature. The above write-up is an edited version of what he read out to an eager audience at the eleventh gathering of the Poetry and Cheap Humour group. You can write to him at dutta.navin@gmail.com or follow him on twitter by searching for @flawsophies. 

Hum Aapki Kyun Karein? - Guest post by Neelkamal Pandey

Hum aapki kyun karein?

Aapne humein paida kiya, toh kya?

Aapne kiya, hum hue! 

Hum humaari sehmati se toh nahi hue.

Hum aapki kyun karein?

Aapne humara laalan paalan kiya, toh kya?

Aapne kiya, humne liya!

Humein karke zimmedaar toh aap hue.

Hum humaari sehmati se toh nahi hue.

Hum aapki kyun karein?

Kehte ho bahut suvidhaayein di hain, toh kya?

Aapne di, humne li. 

Arre suvidhaayein thi tabhi toh di na. 

Ismein hum kahaan kasurvaar hue?

Hum humaari sehmati se toh nahi hue.

Hum aapki kaahe karein?

Doosre se tulna kyun karte ho?

Har race mein kyun bhagwana chahte ho?

Aur usmein bhi awwal number lavana chahte ho.

Ghode toh hum hain nahi, 

Kiya toh aapne manush hi hai. 

Aur who manush aaj niraash hai.

Tulna karna, race bhagwana hi hai

Toh bhai ghoda paalo na.

Manush par kaahe apna daav laga rahe ho?

Woh toh khud sansaarik jue mein vyast hai.

Us se kyun aas laga baithe ho?

Dekho, tulna karna band karo.

Ghadi, ghadi shikaayatein band karo.

Aapne kiya, ab hum ho gaye hain. 

Apne pairon par – ladkhada hi sahi – 

Par khade ho gaye hain.

Hum ab jad-buddhi nahi hue.

Hum humaari sehmati se toh nahi hue.

Vishwaas rakho, who bhi dridh.

Karenge hum kuchh adbhut, yeh kar liya hai pran. 

Parajay sweekar karenge nahi

Jeevan ki aapa-dhaapi mein ghoomenge nahi

Karenge, nishchit karenge

Vilamb hoga, samay lagega, nishchit woh bhi

Ban-na hai peepal ka ped,

Jhaad patte nahi.

Apne diye hue sanskaaron par vishwaas rakho

Thoda hi sahi, par dil ke paas rakho

Sanskaaron ke diye se bahut se aeb jalaane hain.

Atah sansaar ko apna loha manwana hai.

Aur phir,

Phir aapse wahi prashn poochhna hai.

Ki kyun kare hum aapki? 

Aaj tak nahi hare jeevan ke jue

Hum humaari sehmati se toh nahi hue. 

- Neelkamal Pandey

The poet

About the poet - Kamal, as he is known to me, is one very unique and talented kid. I have not known him for long, but in that brief period, I have seen him grow and mature - in manners difficult to put in words. He has overcome inhibitions - and the above poem is one big and priceless example of the same. Even though it begins with a strong statement, lets all understand, this poem seeks not to disrespect or subvert any established notions  - it merely is a plea, which reveals the heart which many of us felt heavy with while growing up. It is an expression, to let out that which is stifling and restricting. It is a request, a sensitive one, to be trusted for one's abilities. It is that which  most of us can relate with.

This kid is a beautiful addition to my life - and discovering him, and knowing about him has been a process I have enjoyed a lot. Among his many facets now known to me, another is that he is a prolific painter along with being a poet. Below is a painting he made as a dedication to Nirbhaya - the braveheart whose imprint will remain on our collective psyches. I only wish Kamal keeps exploring himself and the world around him, and is able to arrive at a destination which does justice to his talents. 

Ode to Nirbhaya by Neelkamal Pandey

"Ek Baar Phir" - Guest Post by Sidhant Mago

Ek bench.. park mein bench

Hari ghaans, khadi ghaans

Aage sadak..thodi kadak

Sakht sa waqt

Thandi hawa

Khayalon ki umas ki dawa

Kaise bhool gaya, kohra bhi tha

Ya nahi tha..

Ya mujhe laga ki..tha

Kyun main bench par

Paer ghaans par

Aur hawa ke sahaare

Us dhundhle kohre ke beech se

Meri or ek chehra...

NAHI aaya

Ek ghar..furnished ghar
Rocking chair...aage peechhe
Ek carbon paper

Khamoshiyon ke neeche
Chhapa bhi kya, ehsaas?
Ghadi theek thi, samay par
Khidki par os thi
Ya nahi thi

Ya mujhe laga ki...thi

Kyunki main chair par jhoolta

Chair ghadi ke pendulum si jhoolti

Aur us carbon paper ko hataane

Us khidki se os ko mitaane

Achanak se ek haath...

NAHI aaya

Sewaiyaan thi... mannatein thi

Jannatein thi... namaaz thi

Kuchh haath soch hi rahe thi

Aur kuchh already mil chuke the

Kuchh gale jhuk hi rahe the

Aur kuchh already mil chuke the

Ek masjid... jo door thi

Par yaad hai?

Woh rota hua bachcha?

Woh paas tha

Ya nahi tha

Ya tha

Ya mujhe laga ki...tha

Toh maine bhi wahi kiya

Hasa diya

Par phir un sewaiyon ke saath

Woh gala aur woh haath

Us bachche ko hasaate

Eid aayi... par mera yaar

NAHI aaya

About the author - 

Sidhant Mago is known to the world as Shanky, and to me, he is known as one of the best persons to

have ever stepped on this planet. And I mean it. He is one of those people whose company guarantees unlimited laughter, for humour is his forte. More often than not, you'll be taken by surprise at the kind of wit his very general comments contain. However, the thing about him which impresses me most are his perspectives - on life, on love, on friends, on society - and on every other conceivable thing. Within him is contained an inexhaustible reservoir of creativity, which has many, varied manifestations  - mostly funny, non-serious stuff, or what he proudly calls 'cheap humour'. But then, there is this side to Shanky's creativity too, reproduced here with his permission. And what better day than today to share this poem, which takes one to the melancholy behind a celebratory day.

To all reading this, Eid Mubarak!

And special wishes for Aaqib Raza Khan, whose beautiful photographs have adorned my blog-posts time and again. 

This one falls among my favourite of ARK clicks.

The Smile Which Went A Hundred Miles - Guest Post by Anamta Rizvi

Sophie sensed the tangible pandemonium around her. Mystified by the utter baffling crowd, she pretended to be calm. But this pretension made her fiercely anxious. She just had to move from Central Secretariat to the Govind Puri station but the stuffed crowd was surely being a catalyst in her angst and was fuelling her claustrophobia. She told herself,” Just step in the metro and that is it”. Pacifying herself was now the only option. Coming from a small town, metro seemed a humongous deal. She noticed her insignificant presence around. Nobody bothered where she came from. Nobody cared for her claustrophobia. Nobody had time to even look up at her.  Leave alone to help her. Unwelcoming is Delhi.  Being pushed and pulled and shoved, she entered to experience her first ever metro journey. Sophie stood terribly shaken in that callous ambience. Familiarity was not even a tinge close in those indifferent faces. Amidst the cacophony, she noticed the girl across her. Their eyes met and a meaningful smile was passed by that girl. That little curve that goes up towards the eyes unveiling bliss and lightening one’s features, that smile was a profound solace to Sophie. Among the strangest of the strange faces, that smile in the moment of her weakness gave her an uncanny secure feeling. She smiled back with the same cheer in her eyes. Just at the moment when that girl was stepping down at Lajpat nagar, Sophie happened to glance at the locket that she was wearing which said Aliena. Sophie smiled and the metro moved forward.  

It was indeed a big day for Aliena. Half an hour before time, she once again checked the order in which she had filed her published articles. This job was horribly needed. Not only that it would just pay the heavy rents and bills but it will help her to carve a niche for herself. It was just not a job for her, it was WRITING. She waited in the magnificent parlour of that publishing house. The calmness of that atmosphere, the essence of the teak wood furniture, the magnificent tranquillity certainly got on her nerves. She knew her experience was way too less than many others but she was well aware that her skill and dedication were her strengths. On being called, she gathered her stuff, settled her coat and carefully walked ahead. As she stepped on the elevator, she felt someone’s presence right behind her. Just casually turning, she was welcomed by a smile. That smile made her smile and it miraculously made that incessant thudding of her heart ease. It reminded her of her own magical power. Her own beautiful smile! She turned again to acknowledge him but just heard someone greeting him by the name Rishabh. Aliena smiled and moved forwards.

Today’s pending work yet again was added to his already plethora of work. Driving back home, Rishabh was figuring out how he will manage the whole schedule for this work packed coming week. Not only were his incomplete targets taking a toll on him but the coming Wednesday was his wedding anniversary. An off in the middle of the week would surely cost him a lot. But his continuously nagging wife was a bigger issue than most of his important tasks. The Axis bank board reminded him to pay the fees of his seven year old son. Too weary to go through the formalities today, he thought of delaying it for tomorrow. Tomorrow would be impossible; hence he did the bank duty. He recalled if he had to pay any other bill and that reminded him of a series of regular errands. It was nine in the night now. His endeavour to reach home early was yet again in vain. Waiting for the green light at the signal, he observed the unending buzzing of his city. Glancing outside, he happened to see a lean fellow on his bicycle and the pillion rider was a young anorexic girl in a sari with her brightly coloured bangles. Holding in her hands was probably their infant who seemed amazed by the surroundings. That man looked back at him and gave him a smile; a smile that made Rishabh smile back. That smile of the lean fellow was impregnated with sheer bliss, and in spite of his dark skin, he saw a tinge of blush and his thick moustaches smiled along too. Honking of the cars made him realise that the light had turned green. Rishabh smiled and moved forwards.

On the way Rishabh recalled an article that he had read on the power of smile. The author said, ”How under rated is this half moon curve on our face. Apparently, we all have it but are deplorably stingy to use it. What harm if you give it to someone once a day. What harm if that curve on your face can make a terrified soul relax. What harm if that uplifting of your cheek make and angry being cool down. What harm if that semi circle of your lips breaks the ice between two strangers. What harm if that beautiful thing on your face ends the animosity between two persons. What harms if that movement of your muscles helps you relax the tension of your own body. The million dollar smile has been taken too literally I believe. Hey my miser readers, you are not actually paying those dollars. So stop being Uncle Scrooge and smile away to glory. Smile to celebrate every moment. Smile to give happiness around. Smile to drive away sorrows. As a matter of fact, Smile is the world’s simplest phenomenon to impart happiness. Smile, to be aptly noted, is a one syllable word and has been deliberately meticulously chosen to make it light weighted, easily spelt and most importantly widely and effortlessly functioned. Why are most of our pictures with smiles our favourites? Because my dear readers we look beautiful when we smile. It makes the world around us smiles. This reminds of a couplet... Ghar se Masjid hai bahot door chalo yun karlein/ kisi rote hue bachche ko hasaya jaaye. So let us pledge to smile to the ‘knowns’ and to the ‘unknowns’.”

Recalling these words from an anonymous author, Rishabh smiled and reached to his Smiling Home. 

By Anamta Rizvi

Anamta Rizvi was the first friend I found at Jamia Millia Islamia - much before I even knew that I would be taking admission to this university situated at the end of the world for me. To have her around is to have sophistication and exuberance showered on you each moment. She is a fabulous writer as well, and I am blessed that I have her as a classmate, a co-worker, and as an amazing friend. 

An Image of Buddha - Guest Post

By Raghav Mimani

I am holding on to a black statue of Gautam Buddha in my hand. It’s about three and a half inches long; majestic, calm, impassive and smiling; and I am staring at it. And as I am doing so, it appears as if an entire narrative is unfolding itself in front of me. The princely Siddhartha leaving away all his riches and comforts of life to find the ultimate truth; now walking through the forest following crazy levels of austerity starved with his buttocks looking like a camel’s hoof and limbs like bamboo stems. Listening to and learning from the then established Gurus on meditation and salvation; sometimes debating on the philosophies of the world and at other times questioning the very purpose of our lives but still never appearing ‘holier than thou’. There is something about this man of ideas which has drawn countless folks in the past and continues to draw many a soul searching curious traveling beings even today as I write.

http://culturalpropertylaw.wordpress.com/2011/03/01/10-years-without-the-bamiyan-buddhas/

I am now looking at his Gandhara School of Art hair design; thinking of the moral revolution he experienced in his life journey. And I see in the backdrop Jawahar Lal Nehru’s ‘The Discovery of India’, which I have been meaning to read for quite some time now. So I lean forward and pick the book up looking for any text about Buddha that I may come across. And I do end up finding some. Two sub headings in the title-sake chapter 4 are devoted to him.  And it isn’t really a surprise for India’s history and its ‘discovery’ can never be completed without the Buddha. We may know of our world history through tales of wars and kingdoms and he may be an anomaly in that respect – being the ideas guy that he was. Yet his teachings and principles form the very essence of the future kings and the common public for the next many centuries; and still do even in contemporary times – Ambedkar anyone? And thus fittingly so, what I find in there makes for an apt description of the statue I am holding. “Seated on the lotus flower, calm and impassive, above passion and desire, beyond the storm and strife of this world, so far away he seems, out of reach, unattainable. Yet again we look and behind those still, unmoving features there is a passion and an emotion, strange and more powerful than the passions and emotions we have known. His eyes are closed, but some power of the spirit looks out of them and a vital energy feels the frame. The ages roll by and Buddha seems not so far away after all; his voice whispers in our ears and tells us not to run away from the struggle but, calm-eyed, to face it, and to see in life ever greater opportunities for growth and advancement.”

Images flutter within as the narrative gathers pace. I can see a glory hunting Ashoka at the blood ridden battlefield of the Kalinga War appalled by his desires fulfilling themselves at the expense of more than two hundred thousand lives. Ashoka, the Great! I can see the headless statue of one of the greatest but unfortunately not much publicly talked about kings of Indian history - Raja Kanishka of the Kushan Empire. How he embraced Buddhism, built magnificent Stupas and encouraged obsessively the translations of Buddhist literature in traditional Chinese. I think of the Taliban militants as they went about destroying many of the great treasures and artifacts of that age in their bid to impose their own ideology. The Buddhas of Bamiyan catch my attention as they are dynamited out of existence for one Mullah Omar found it idol enough to be against the principles of Islam. Even before him, the earlier so called lords of the land had thought it best to remove only the head of the statue for it had in some other way offended them. As if, the arts offending people can only be justified by people destroying art. Rulers after rulers, empires after empires have striven to rewrite history as they saw fit. Not writing it as one would hope they would be interested in but rewriting it. And so they have thought it best to demolish evidences of the actual events which took place before their time and instead give the world a view of history which they would like the world to have. Most of the times for glorification of their own ancestry; and at other times to establish supremacy of their selves over the common folks and those others around the world of whom they knew nothing about but only that they themselves are far superior to them others. The divine kings and queens, so to say, exercising God’s will. Unthinkable volumes of blood have been shed over this; innumerable places of worships and leisure have given their way to newer places and different forms of worship and leisure; and countless statues have seen the sculptor’s art go for a toss. And still the Buddha sits on his lotus throne calm and impassive, smiling as “the world renews itself every day”.

http://gautamabuddha.dev.wiseattention.orghttp://gautamabuddha.dev.wiseattention.org

The Pale Blue Dot Theory is running wild in my head but I won’t go there for it’s a tale of some other time. Lots of talk about India – China is going around these days given the fifty years anniversary to the 1962 War. And somebody mentioned to me during one of the discussions about two ways of looking at history. One is to embrace it for it really happened whether one likes it or not – which is what India did at least partly. We are a proud and integral member of the Commonwealth for crying out loud; and most of our Central Government establishments in Delhi are a continuation of the British Raj with almost nothing changed. Rashtrapati Bhawan, The Parliament and the India Gate are but a few of the examples. Not to get carried away in any sense we do have a lot to hide our faces about as well – partition being one painful example but again it’s another tale for some other time. The other is to start off completely afresh from a clean sheet of paper disregarding what happened earlier. This is apparently what China did. Their boundaries were redrawn the way they saw it right having their hearts in the Middle Ages. The entire culture was revisited and unfitting pieces were thrown out. Glorification and other procedures followed. I am not advocating for any of the two. I do believe sometimes it’s needed to have a clean slate and at other times it’s equally important if not more to be duly aware of and emotionally invested and later disinvested to be objective about the past experiences. What I instead want to do is to look into our own selves. Don’t we collect memorabilia and souvenirs wherever we go? Click pictures at the drop of the hat? Sometimes to upload it on facebook and at other times to look back and smile at and adore our brilliance. Let’s face it! We are all hoarders and we like to collect memories most of them all. And many a times we want them to be better than they really are or were. And here you see is the genesis. As we want an exaggerated version of our happiness and glories to show it to our very own selves and of course also to show the world of our supposed awesomeness, we stop being honest with ourselves. Evidences of truth give way to what suits the narrative. The horrible dish at the restaurant is not mentioned because of that amazing looking sundae. All of us are escaping from something which I believe differs from person to person. But many of us are very much escaping into our own la la lands. And don’t you dare talk about it being a bubble! I wish to pass no judgment on this for I can’t. I am as much a part of this as anyone else. And I believe that the truth, whether it is ugly or beautiful, uncomfortable and frightening, nerve-wrenching or blissful, no matter how hard we try to dress it up in cloaks of well fabricated lies, our heart knows of it – our conscience knows of it - and at least we should accept it and embrace it. Buddha, I believe, would have advised for the same. I am quite sure of it as his statue sits gracefully in front of me. Or at least I can pretend to be. In fact, I am; again creating a debate for a larger duration.

To his last journey then. And I have to borrow the following words from Michael Wood, one of my favorite documentary makers, as I am far too impressed upon by them to be able to write something similar of my own. “‘Be your own lamp,’ he said. “Seek no other refuge but yourselves” “Let truth be your light” For me, it's one of the never-failing miracles of history, that a human mind from so long ago can still speak to us directly in his own voice and mean something now in our time of change. But then his was a time of change, too. Buddhism is a system based on pure morality, what we would call universal values. Trust, truthfulness, non-violence, that sort of thing… And those ideas were very attractive to the rising class of merchants and traders in the cities of the Ganges Plain. But it's also atheistic. The logic of the Buddha's message is that belief in God itself is a form of attachment, of clinging, of desire, and in the land of 33 million gods or is it 330 million? That eventually would prove a step too far. ‘But all things must pass,’ as he would say. No one in history was clearer about that. No promise of heaven, no threat of hell. He's an old man now, around 80. This was his last journey; among the scavengers and the dispossessed, with their unending struggle for mere survival. Around 486 BC, according to the traditional date, he headed back across the plain towards the Himalayas. Now he's heading north, back to the land of his childhood. Perhaps he was consciously heading home. He knew he was going to die.  The Buddha's story ends in an endearingly scruffy little town on the Ganges Plain, Kushinagar. One of the Buddha's faithful disciples begged him to hold on a bit longer and not die here. ‘It's a miserable, wattle-and-daub little place stuck in the jungle, in the middle of nowhere,’ he said. ‘Couldn't you die in a famous place where they could give you a great funeral?’ And the Buddha said, “A small place is fitting.” He took some food in the house of a blacksmith, pork. Like most ancient Indians, the Buddha was a meat-eater. And he fell ill. Again the tradition marks the very spot on the edge of Kushinagar. At the end, his disciples can't bear to let him go. “What more do you want of me?” he says. “I've made known the teaching. Ask no more of me. You're the community now. I have reached the end of my journey.” There are several versions of the Buddha's last moments. One of them says that he made a gesture and exposed the upper part of his body to show how age and sickness had wasted it, to remind his followers of the human condition. But all versions agree that his last words were these.

“All created things must pass. Strive on diligently.”

I would like to end this with an old adage among the Buddhist folklore I presume. “If you find the Buddha on the road, kill him!”

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Raghav Mimani is a friend of a friend, and a person whom I have come to admire over the last many meetings we have had. It is a privilege to hear his thoughts and ideas, even as a mute audience, for there is much to learn and gain from his opinions. This article is but one glimpse into the way he strings his thoughts and presents them for others to peruse. Rather, relish. It was a privilege having him contribute for Nascent Emissions.