Distinctly Yours

We are not meant to be,
A part of each other's hearts.
Entwined to beat in the same rhythm.
I rush like the ocean waves,
While you stay calm like the shore.
Often driving me to reckless attempts,
Gathering substance from the silence you hold.

We that you and I form, 

Is not to complete one another.
For you,  my love, are your own self. 

Enchanting me with every gaze I lay.

When I try to be better everyday.
You and me do not complete the other.
Completeness as I see bears end of road.
Barring the avenues of growth.

I, my companion, will witness your journey

While you observe mine. 

Our presence to comfort us both.
And bond to nourish our will towards respective goals. 

Together that we achieve, 

Be our progress through individual successes.

The love, trust,  friendship and faith,
We develop and share,

Bless us with wisdom to accept tough times.
Bestow us with strength to overcome,
Anything that makes us try.

The world might say otherwise,
Command to surrender or better divide.
They could see us apart,
Lest they know that we are together,
In the different roads we take.
Our journey distinct but destination,
Be same.

The Threads of Life

A swathe, that life is, has strands of emotions ignited and kindled by experiences faced throughout. Joy sorrow, angst, longing, disgust fear and surprise become threads that ornament our life.  They contain the moments lived gleefully, endured silently or embraced willfully. Situations vary and vanish, we age to grow wise and old but the threads bind us from birth till death. We learn the art of reacting as we live by.  What sets the matured and novice apart is control on these threads of life. The novice allows emotions to control them while matured are in charge of their threads of life.

The Flow

  

     When talking about flow, one always presumes a path that leads to a destination unfamiliar.  Straight, tumultuous, calm or wavy, forms alluded to the flow but not all at the same time. There are many who plan the eventualities of their life, every step they take is well thought upon, every other day spent and awaited are planned to perfection. Yet, the uncertainty of the future makes them describe their journey of life a flow, a straight and calm flow. Others take each day as a challenge, looking forward to the adventure it brings along; living life as it comes by, describing their ‘flow’ as surprising and wavering. 

Am no poor thing

There will be people, incidents, accidents and encounters in your life, constantly trying to bog you down. Their words pierce your good sense and tear down confidence.

They will dictate:

You poor thing, you ought to break down.
You poor thing, you mean nothing.
You poor thing, I make your decisions.
You poor thing, I command your life.
You poor thing, even if you die, you must not rest in peace.
You poor thing, you must bow down to me.
You poor thing should not see eye to eye to me or yourself.
You poor thing, agree to whatever I say.
You poor thing, do not question me.
You poor thing, hate yourself for not being pally with me.
You poor thing, I will ruin your life.
You poor thing should see yourself he way I see.
You poor thing, you are my slave.
You poor thing, you better lick my soles.
You poor thing, be to me.
You poor thing, do not make sense to me.

They would love to see you down,
Would love to make you shudder at the thought of life being unaffected by them.

Do not be affected
for all they want is to bind you,
make you immovable, shun your growth.

Let them know you can roar.
Roar out loud and silence their shout.
Fill your heart with strength not fear.

Haunting

It's a long ravaged road,
On which I walk.
The mud dug apart,
And homes taken away,
From brick and mortar.
On a deserted road.
I walk.

Don't know why?
But I keep walking.
On a road dwelled before.
They talk of a song,
Which played aloud.
To soothe the souls,
On the deserted road,
Where I walk.

The souls have moved.
The song has broken.
It makes no sense,
As the song still plays.
Though the record is broken.

Oh it pains to see,
The road this way.
I can't stop to wail.

"Wail if you want to
But don't stop walking. "
Says something to me.
Don't know what or who that is,
But has spoken to me.

There's the yellow window.
Once adorned,
with pink flowers.
The flowers burnt.
The sunshine now brown.
I wail with you, oh window,
But I got to keep moving
I can't stop walking.

My soul's tired.
Looking around.
There's no hand holding,
No eye smiling.

You could have taken me,
To where you went.
I needn't be walking,
On this road again.
Which glares my soul,
As I walk alone.

I have come afar,
To lose my way to those roads.
But the roads keep walking,
Like a ghost,
Haunting me down,
No matter where.

Silence

Do you hear the chaos?
The silence brought in.
Deafening it seems,
For you don't speak.

Speak oh dear!
Speak what it is.
In your silence,
I can hear no being.

Differences which spring,
Let it rise.
For until we see it,
We cannot realize;
How far we've come and how long still to go,
Towards the light
Where differences cease to blight.

For you in me
And me in you
Could never enhance our existence
If you were me
And me were you.
With no difference to offer.
Nothing new to endeavor.

Speak oh dear!
Need not utter words.
With your presence
Your gaze and stare.

The distance that looms,
Resides in the silence,
Spoken by disdain.
Look around dear, break the lull,

In acceptance of the differences,
Is assortment of varied shades.
Each complete in its own.
Coming together of many,
Compliment one another.

The Human Seasons

"We are too old for all this now"

- "Aren’t we almost the same age?"

"Okay, then I guess I have got too old for this now. I used to get excited at such instances during school days."

- "Do you remember 'The Human Seasons' by Keats?"

A stroke in casual conversations sometimes works like time machine, taking us back in time to experience a moment but with a new vigor, leaving you with a completely new insight.  Guess this comes with age or rather maturity when a situation brings out different meanings at different stages despite words being the same. 

My classroom was always a chaotic place to be in. Folks could keep quiet and pay heed only when a strict (read: one who could lash out to them verbally or let the stick do the talking) teacher entered the class. We had such teachers for English as well, who made us to read the text attentively and solve the exercises. Looking beyond the scribbles of the text was "out of syllabus".  

During the mid-term of standard 8 we had a new English teacher.  It was evident from her first address that it was her debut. The uneasiness in her speech and the Principal's presence in the room made us listen to her attentively.  

The Human Seasons

By John Keats

Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;

There are four seasons in the mind of man:

He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear

Takes in all beauty with an easy span:

He has his Summer, when luxuriously

Spring's honied cud of youthful thought he loves

To ruminate, and by such dreaming high

Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves

His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings

He furleth close; contented so to look

On mists in idleness—to let fair things

Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.

He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,

Or else he would forego his mortal nature.

Our new teacher read the poems loudly and gave away explanations with completion of each verse. She asked us to take notes and we had no other way than to oblige. Not that we were obedient but certainly scared of the Principal. She had a notorious way of punishing students and we had experienced all the means up her sleeves and had room for no more. 

As the address was over, the principal looked at the teacher gleefully, though she would smile but seldom in presence of the students. "This is my favorite poem and you explained it with capable examples. The students will learn a lot from you"- said she.  The room burst out into chatter as they left.

"Do you know this is our Principal's favorite poem?" 

- "Heard that.”

"We will recite this to her during our farewell after two years."

- "Oh yes! We shall do it.”

“Is it not too early to plan our agenda for farewell?”

-“This conversation would be derelict in our memories by then.”

“Will we forget each other in some years from now? Won’t we be good as friends like we are today?”

- "No. We all shall join the same college, go on treks and outing, work in the same office and be together forever.”

"But the poem says that we might not want the same things as we grow older. Our choices will change. Things that appear exciting now could appear lack luster then. And the teacher explained with an apt instance, my parents are not excited about their birthdays as I am about mine.”

-"Don't take the poem seriously. The poets write anything. They have no friends to spend time with. But we have."

“The teacher is here for the class.”

Years later, the circle of classmates has shrunk to a few heads with common interests. Most of them set on their journey towards oblivion in our memory, right after school. Some leapt into seasons way too early, settled down with things we deemed for elderly. Some move adroitly with each step perfected somewhat scientifically.  There are others who straddle like an adventurer on treasure hunt, unsure of the destination and the bounty but enthralled by the unexpectedness of the journey.  All of them undergo different seasons but at the same time. Chronology does not define the seasons. Experience does.

“Let’s go trekking.”

-We are too old for all this now"

 "Aren’t we almost the same age?"

-"Okay, then I guess I have got too old for this now. I used to get excited at such instances during school days."

"Do you remember 'The Human Seasons' by Keats?"