The Key

As I write this, I remember the story of a man who remains imprisoned despite holding in his hands the very key that could open the gates and set him free. Ironic, isn't it? To have the means and to know the way and yet remain idle, immobile, impotent and in the dark. Unable to just simply twist the key, open the door and walk out free, without the weight of anything burdening the head and the heart. 

*********

The days have been difficult recently. If it was the tussle between the proverbial wolves that dominated the show until now, it seems that the wolves were pushed into the background, and a new player has revealed itself. I would call it the empty. Except it is all but empty. I think it's more like the giant carpet under which we push stuff into. It's the junkyard and vault of our psyche. It's that one place that is cleverly kept hidden from our sights and often even from our memory. But once the empty is awakened, then it slowly begins to churn and rot. The whole sky gets dark by the dust and smoke. The vision gets blurry, and slowly it's blindfolded that now even the brightest of colours appear dull and lifeless. Then toxins begin to seep into the body. The senses now work against themselves. And this goes on until the empty consume everything. 

*********

But I am not writing this here, now, to speak of the empty or its horrors. I write this because I want to remember the light that I saw when I was in a dark place, helpless and tired like the man with the key. Because I want to thank those specks of light that gave me the spark to push myself up again. This is about the incarnations of God who came to me today. This is about the children. Here is my prayer of gratitude to them for their kindness, compassion, innocence, lessons and love. Their presence helped clear the dark sky and loosen the blindfold, helping me see the key that I hold firm in my hands. Reminding me of the possibility of opening the door and walking out. All that's left for me to do is to find the courage and muster the strength to let life and love flow freely and happen as it's supposed to at their own pace and time. To let the bulwarks crumble under the gentle nudge of compassion and to let the toxins drain away with a little patience and a touch of kindness. And to become a child and to tell me, it's okay... 

********* 

Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself. They come through you but not from you, and though they are with you yet they belong not to you... 

You may house their bodies but not their souls, for their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams. 

                                                                               

                                                                  - The Prophet, Kahlil Gibran

 

After life and something else

I have been contemplating death for some time now. It's not that I am seeking any answers or asking any questions. But this contemplation could perhaps be the reflection of what my mind is trying to perceive. To make sense of the world that happens around us. After all, that's why we have our blissfully lost minds, right? To try and make sense. 

So, now I wonder, what is death, or precisely, when is death? When does it occur? Is it the decay and destruction of the body, or does one die with the passage of the soul? Is death a process, or is it the end? Or is it the maturity of an investment that we make when we are born? Death, I think, is oblivion. That, one truly dies only when the memory of them ceases to exist. I think this is why the ancients erected temples, tombs and edifices with their names carved on stone. This might be the reason why many cultures worshipped/s their ancestors. I think this was their attempt at immortality. So that as long as their names are spoken, through the many stories, songs, myths, legends and lores, they will be remembered, and they shall never truly die. 

And, would it be too much to think that we are kept alive by the stories we tell and the myths we share and we live as long as there are people to tell these stories and as long as there are people to remember them. And as these stories are told, in between the pauses, the breath or the sigh, the lament or glory, hope or despair, we arouse to experience life and savour its nuances. A moment to reflect before we carry on and get carried away by the stories. Like a bookmark, these moments add subtle flavour and meaning to the way we live. And in the end, these are the milestones that remind us of our journey, even if the stories are lost in the depths of memory, before fading into limbo. 

But, I think the cyber age has made us immortal in ways even God couldn't have imagined. Now, with our lives all online, between zeros and ones, all our 'stories' are posted, shared and archived. Captured, like a screenshot, the human experience is now uploaded to a cloud. Leaving pyramids and parchments all obsolete. Now the human does not have to remember, for it is remembered for him. I think I'll be immortal thus. Because, my words will from this moment on, be made a part of the skies, etched in 'clouds' all around the planet. I'll be downloaded as I'll be uploaded. And I'll be remembered by this machine, maybe until machines are all that's left. 

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...