Littoral Dreams

One evening, I was walking down the shore. The skies wore an ethereal blend of colours. It was dark, but not night yet. Clouds were carrying the seeds of rain and also the night. These clouds were bordered by the silver lining of the sun in some places, and somewhere else, the same sun was painted over with crimson, orange, yellow, and purplish hue. And as I continued my stroll alone, I saw something shining in the distance, in the sea. Curious, I stopped and started following the shining that now is slowly being carried to the shore by those many crashing waves. To my surprise, it was like the object was being carefully held and brought by the waves. As if the waves were deliberate in ensuring its safe delivery. Like with an infant, it was passed cautiously from one wave to another. And as I slowly walked into the tide to get a closer look, I saw it was a bottle.

It's getting dark now, and though it's a full-moon night, the moon hides behind her cloudy veil. I had to get back to my room, and as I started wading my way back to the shore, hoping to catch a glimpse of her in the sky, for a moment, I felt like my legs were being dragged back into the sea. And there I fell when the next wave shoved me to the beach like I was some hollow raft. Except, now my hands were holding onto something. It was that strange shining bottle!

I stood up and studied the thing closely in my hand. A bit unnerved and excited at the same time. There, I saw a face painted on the neck of the bottle, and it was of an angelic, beautiful young girl. And there was a piece of paper inside, neatly scrolled like her elegant locks of hair. As I carefully took it out, it read, "Look nigher and you shall find". Perplexed, I looked to the ocean itself for what it could mean. What strange fantasy would have dreamt of this moment? Thoughts flashed in my mind like those millions of drops that have begun to drizzle. It was then I saw something else attached to the bottle.

It was an Oyster. And as I slowly opened the shell, I found the most beautiful of all sights my eyes have ever seen. It was a Pearl as pure as starlight. And as I took that Pearl to my hand, there came a sudden burst of light from the dark skies. It was the moon in her brightest, and she revealed herself from the cloudy veils of the night to me. At that instant I saw, the shining of the Pearl and of the moon to be the same as if my moon has hidden her spirit in this oyster shell for me to find. For now, she is closer to me than ever. And standing there, with the pearl and her form in my hands, holding it close to my heart and drenched in moonlight, I melted away, to be the one with her.

-Harishna

(10/07/2021)

The Residual Love

Yesterday night, the daily dose of discussion was about waste. Yes, the different types of trash that we generate and come across in our day-to-day living. While some are physical and can be removed or cleaned off easily, some remain like indelible stains. Some wastes are psychological. They cling to our souls, only to pester us emotionally, polluting our minds, robbing us of our dear precious life force and peace. Now, these 'internal wastes' are quite tricky to remove as we usually fail to notice them in the first place. Often we take these 'malicious bloatwares' to be part of the genuine package and thence begins the trouble. Nevertheless, the thought shared here is about what remains after love. Of all the different varieties of waste that we carry, this is perhaps the most ubiquitous and even diabolical. 

We know what happens to those giant stars once they run out of fuel to burn. If they were big enough, these stars would get crushed by their own 'self' to become an object of unimaginable density. It would even end up becoming a black hole from which even light can't escape. Or from another example, think about our nuclear power plants. They generate much-needed electricity by splitting an atom. But, after a while, the nuclear fuel ends up being radioactive waste which will burn on itself, emitting deadly radiation to the world around for many decades to come.

Now, think about love. Not just romantic, amorous love but all kinds of love that we feel towards the other, be it a human, an animal, or something else entirely. Imagine the love that we feel constantly during our lives. The needs and desires to love and be loved. Try to see the many forms it has taken and all its myriad manifestations. Try to see all the emotions that we have had to bear associated with this idea of love, all that pain, confusion, and chaos. 

Here, I do not intend to write about the glory of love. Nor am I going to demonize and discredit the experiences and expression of love. Here, the attempt is to look into and try to make sense out of the idea of ‘residual love’. The love that remains and lingers on even after its glory days. The leftover pieces remain even long after the core has burnt out. It’s about the idea of ‘after love'. What happens to love in the end? Does it collapse unto itself like a dying star? Or would it continue to burn like the radioactive residues from a nuclear reaction? And what happens to those living with these decaying residues of love? Again, my intention is not to find any answers but rather to ask these questions themselves. 

Love is perhaps the most potent force in the universe (though some physicists might disagree). It binds and breaks at the same time as if it is the point of convergence, where both chaos and order find balance in the universe. Simply, love is the light that brings us vision, but the same light also holds the possibility of leaving us blind. So, the idea here is that the experience of love holds the possibilities of both beauty and terror at the same time, and if one does not navigate through this ocean with caution, he/she is bound to fall into the abyss. So, am I suggesting that one needs to be cautious, logical, and calculating while experiencing love? Not at all. Love is an experience of Chance, a beauty of Chance even. For love to bloom and spread its fragrance, it needs to be left alone, independent, and certainly out of our cunning, calculating minds. But what happens when love burns out of its fuel. What happens when the flower of love begins to rot instead of bloom and what happens to its fragrance? What happens when the idea of love itself causes sheer terror and fear in one’s heart? What happens to love and the lover, when it becomes reduced to waste, a dead weight in one’s soul that cripples them. I think this is what residual love is. And this is where most of us live today. Unfortunately!

The stink of residual love takes many forms. It is the fear of losing the ones we love or of losing love itself. It's anger too, and so is grief, lust, anguish, dependence, and on and on. This is when our feeling of love disrupts, clogs, and reeks our natural flow of life. This is where we are uneasy, constantly in fear, and gripped by insecurities. If love makes one feel like a prisoner, being constrained, sans confidence or independence, then that can only be a love that is barren and wasted. Residual love. And someone living in this place, holding on to this residual love, can only collapse in the end, like a dying star, drained out of all their vitality, joy, and love. 

Now, what is the way out? How can one identify and filter out the residual love from their system and restore the flow of life? I think this begins with a simple act of immense valour, in carving out a sacred space for oneself. This does not mean that one should retreat to a shell and remain isolated and insulated from the rest of the world. Instead, it is an act of self-respect. It’s about knowing and drawing boundaries, making sure there is enough room for the river of love to flow through our ‘life stream’ without drowning us. It’s also like pruning our gardens, making sure weeds are removed and each plant could grow together but in its own space. It is also about finding the courage to accept failures, setbacks, and seek and deliver forgiveness and move on. Brute force, strict discipline, or sheer willpower will not help one in cleaning and clearing residual love. It will also take compassion, mercy, and pity as the vanguard. 

All love stories begin with promises of eternal bliss. Love stories often are portrayed as burning bright with passion. But, none speaks of the residual love or the after love. We speak of an afterlife and even curate our lives accordingly to get the best possible afterlife experience. But, I think it’s time we started thinking about after love too. How do we navigate through love when it starts to lose its glitter? How do we learn to share the spark without extinguishing the other? And, how do we move on when it finally ends. I believe the journey to authentic love from the clutter of residual love begins with these simple questions. And we shall live, to learn its answers. And we shall love to earn the answers.  

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. 

-Harishna

The Web of Life

The desert winds carry

the key ingredients of life.

The oceanic currents that bring warmth,

keeps us all alive.

In a web of connections,

in this web of life,

there are the chains that link us all,

to this planet, to our world, to our home.

Not all chains are shackles.

Not all chains are to be broken.

Some exist, just to hold us right,

hold us together, to keep us in place.

The mighty of the oceans.

From the tiny plankton to the,

cheerful dolphins, warrior sharks,

and gentle whales.

Life thrives and balances itself

in the depths of the great blue desert.

There is the harmony that follows,

the melody of the many.

It's a beautiful world,

It's a wondrous world of blue.

In the great plains of Serengeti,

the Wildebeests roam free.

There again is a rhythm,

the rhythm of the rains,

of the desert winds,

and a million hoof beats,

that reminds slumbering seeds,

deep in Earths bosom,

that it's time to sprout, to arise.

In the dense forests,

under the canopy of mushroomed green,

life manifests in all its wonders.

Orchids bloom,

so the bees can fall in love.

And that love would carry the pollen grains

so that much more love would bloom.

And so goes the many miracles,

of this potent web of life,

where each string resonates,

as music for another to follow,

even from miles apart,

to dance as together,

as one life and as one planet.

-Harishna

 03/07/2021

                   

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.