A Moonlit Dream

The night was still in its infancy.

Though the rains have ebbed,

there's this dampness still in the air,

except for the moon, and her light,

finding its way down to weary souls,

rejuvenating, filling it with hope.

The poet kept drifting through his room,

shuttling from one end to the other. 

There's something odd about tonight,

he thought as he felt the air

getting warmer around him. 

This is the aura of familiarity,

he said to himself. 

And then, he saw a boy there, 

sitting by the window,

looking out into the moonlit night. 

As the poet got closer, 

he felt drawn by a magnetic pull. 

He felt a tide rising inside his heart. 

But he was unsure what it was. 

And he asked the boy who he was,

and what tale does he have to tell?

And the boy spoke. 

And he spoke about his love,

and his quest to redeem it. 

He was the sun in a different life.

He was the source of all life and vitality.

His radiance warmed many hearts

and guarded them against the darkness.

He was worshipped,

as he was the epitome of all knowledge. 

And so, he stood at the centre of it all. 

Once in a while, 

he would take the form of a boy

and would come to earth.

Taking part in the beauty he helped create. 

And it was then he saw her,

and it was one November. 

He first saw her in that antique room. 

It's winding stairs and creaking wooden floors,

whispering all those micro-tales. 

She was simple, yet original. 

There were no pretensions in her eyes,

and there was this innocence,

which has become a rarity these days. 

The elder there introduced her to the boy,

and chance rolled its dice. 

The all-knowing too was unknowing of many things. 

And one among that was love. 

Fear gripped his heart. 

He was blinded by his radiance,

or was it his ignorance? 

He feared he would burn her then.

He, the mighty sun, 

was afraid of the unknown! 

And so, slowly eclipsed his heart's desire. 

And he left Earth for his celestial duties. 

Except, now, there's this blot in his heart.  

He has travelled across the chasm.

He continued fulfilling his chores.

Except, now, he was realising his folly. 

Was chance being kind? 

For it rolled its dice again! 

He's now back on Earth, unexpected,

where he saw her again. 

They talked, and he found his fears

melting off. 

There was an ease, and he felt whole. 

The blot in his heart disappears. 

She was serene, like a cool breeze,

and revealed herself to be the spirit of the moon.

She reflected the essence of the sun

through her light. 

She had no claims, and she owned nothing.

Yet, night and day belonged to her. 

She was the gentle reminder, 

that there is light even in darkness. 

She was the mirror, that revealed the sun,

and hers was the spark that ignited him. 

And as they spoke to each other,

there was this symphony among them both.

Balancing each other.

While she reflected his warmth, 

taking it as her own,

he was reminded by her of his purpose.

Sharing warmth and serenity,

Can this magic be contained by words? 

And the poet woke up,

his heart bursting with emotions.

What has happened? And where is the boy!

Suddenly he turned to the window,

where he saw the boy last night. 

But there were only the morning rays greeting him. 

It was not a dream, he was certain.

For now, he knew what it meant. 

And that he would wait,

for his moon to see him, and shine upon.

So that he could listen to her heart,

and what it has to say to him. 

-Harishna 

Tonight I write about Love...

Tonight I write about love, a subject of which I know only so little. Now, why should I be writing about something that I do not know? Well, I think it's a reflective action. I am only trying to understand it by letting out all the known and unknown elements in my heart. Maybe unburdening my heart from all that is "known" about it.  And thus, in the process, I hope to "remember" a thing or two about it. About this phenomenon called love. So, this is why I am embarking upon this perplexing task tonight. Standing on the mast, I become the novice dreaming about the capricious seas and the journey that lies forth. And my heart, intrigued by the mysteries beating within hers. Here I take the plunge into the depths, not knowing where the currents would lead to or what I would find in the deep. Here's the first step into the soul of love, and that is the leap of faith. After all, isn't love the starting point of all adventures? 

Looking around, I see many forms and types of love. It's even a commodity today, something that has been transformed into quantifiable "data" of preferability or likeness, dictated into the lives of millions by omnipresent algorithms run by omnipotent tech "giants". It's like the children playing with clay moulds, giving a different form, name, meaning and purpose every time they play with it, trying to present a replica of their own imaginations. And here I believe arises the central problem. 

What happens when what is eternal is contained in the parenthesis of the ephemeral? How can it be reduced to any rationale of human minds or to its imaginations? Isn't love a marvel of chance? A cosmic force of unity, perhaps? And what happens to it when it becomes contractual, binding or even blinding? And what happens to that impulsive seed within each and every one of us, the seed that makes us take that leap of faith in the first place, the seed that gives us roots so that we can brave the storms, the roots that connect one to the other, the seed that compels us to confront our own self in the face of love. And what happens to that one seed which holds love within us? Which awaits its moment to sprout, to grow, to flower... 

May the love guide us all,
may love alone show us our path... 

The flowers blooming in me

My dear friend,

Today I was asked to reflect on this title. To speak about the flowers blooming in me. And I was at a loss, and I found it difficult to see any flowers blooming in me, except for some creepers and vines perhaps. 

The pandemic has, without a doubt, changed our world, the human world, by redefining how we have lived or conducted ourselves till now. And when I write of the world, it is about the many lives around us, among us, and even within us. It speaks about all the lives that have been transformed in one way or the other, in all possible imaginable and unimaginable ways. It's about all the loved ones lost, lives abandoned and dreams orphaned. It's the insensitivities of a world and its machinery that finds humans expendable. It's about a world that went "truly online" and found itself trapped in its snare. And here I sit with my laptop, wondering what flowers bloom in me!

When we hear about flowers, the word is usually accompanied by the many colours and fragrances that come rushing into our minds, often as a pleasant feeling or a refreshing memory. But, are flowers only about their colours or fragrances? What about the many flowers that grow along the road, in the cracks and crevices, those with a pungent odour or those that don't smell at all? What about those wild unruly ones that so boldly defy the limits of our curated gardens? And so, I am asking myself about those many flowers blooming in me. Hoping to find the "nature" of my garden!

On looking closer into the creepers and vines that blocked my vision, I saw a clearing beyond. And, as I walked closer, there I saw a garden with all the fragrances of the world. And I thought this must be it. That these could be the very flowers blooming in me, that this is my beauty, real and true. Enchanted, I began strolling through the rows adorned with different colours. But, the more I walked closer to it, the more incredulous I became as if something was amiss. And I walked forth, to the other side of this garden which too had many flowers, only that neither its colours appealed to my heart nor it had any enchanting fragrance to draw me to it. And once I looked down, I saw the many creepers and wildflowers spread across the garden floor. Like a network, they had their roots spread firmly into the soil, and I saw that it was them who held the "orderly" garden in its place. And, I saw them only when I looked down to the Earth, away from the dazzling colours or colourlessness, away from the many scents or reek. To my surprise, these two too made my garden, and it was not the beauty alone!

Now, looking at the flowers blooming in me, I can see them all three together. That it is these contrasts that make my garden real and alive. That the aroma and reek come from the same place. That I hold them all within me and altogether it makes me whole. The garden is my heart, the place I least visit. The garden is my mirror, which reflects my beauty and terror. And by accepting its ways, I choose harmony. And that's how we remind ourselves to hold on until the clouds part, to persevere until the dawn comes. And that's how we live through these trying times. 

My dear friend, I wish you love.