Mango Orchard

For  you my love

A green roof is prepared for us

Of foliage thick, lush and tender

No walls to encage, or shut us tight

Just imaginary rooms ‘tween the mango trees

To set us wild, to set us free

And bathe in the sweet scented breeze.

Here is our world, just you and me

To bring alive what we believe

Play our games, call each other names

Drown in our songs and melodies

In this little heaven under the mango trees.

Bite into one, ripe and round

Lick the nectar trickling down

Let your tongue swirl about

Let your soul scream and shout

Feel the golden flesh body

Come partake a bite of me

Come meld under the mango trees.

Distasteful Silence

Of late, Alisha had become quite busy and wasn’t getting as much time to spend with me as she used to before. Mallika and Kavya said they had joined some dance classes, and George had to rush back home every day for his basketball coaching. These are the people I hang out with in college. And now with none of them free anymore, I was getting bored to death. I was also mighty pissed with them for leaving me alone and disappearing all at the same time.

That’s when I decided to venture out of my comfort zone and try and make friends with others in class. They seemed to like me, but did not persist much in conversation. I was beginning to feel loneliness tightening its grip upon me day by day. That’s when, out of the blue, I bumped into Mary from school one fine day. She had been one of my closest pals, but living at two ends of the city had afforded us fewer opportunities of meeting in these past three years. Now as we saw each other unexpectedly across the opposite ends of the road, we ran towards each other with a prolonged and boisterously unending “Hiiiiiiii!!!!!” But the moment we came into each other’s arms’ length, to enter into a hug, her genuine and blissful greeting suddenly cut short, the smile and cheerfulness completely wiped off from her face, and her mouth shut tight. The hug did happen naturally, but something seemed to have dulled her immediately.  The unexpected meeting, which should have lasted at least a half hour, as it used to earlier whenever such surprise encounters between us occurred, was cut short to a matter of few minutes this time. I was really puzzled as to what abrupt transformation had appeared for such a close friend of mine to behave in such an unnatural manner.

The days that followed plunged me into an abyss of forlorn dispiritedness. I felt everybody abandoning me, and little interested in talking to me. Even the landlady Gabriella aunty who chatted hours with me seemed to have become busy like everyone else. I became increasingly despondent. Nobody wanted to talk to me anymore or hangout with me. Why God, what had I done?? I lost sleep thinking over my actions for the past several weeks, even months, and the year gone by. Hours passed into days of introspection and self-questioning. Existential questions began to grow its ugly and dangerous roots inside me. I lost all interest in everything. Stopped talking and meeting others. Don’t really remember when I lost my appetite, was it when I started developing distaste, or did the distastefulness come into my mouth later. My mouth had become so dry by not talking, that the saliva had started thickening when I woke up in the morning. Now my mouth used to open only to release the innumerable burps that kept emanating from me throughout the day.

Finally the holidays arrived and I packed my bags for home. I had been waiting for the vacation so I could just get away from this hell-hole of despair. I found elation overcoming me as I neared home. Slowly the gloomy thoughts were draining away and joyful expectations were clouding my mind. Finally I rang the bell and waited in uncontrollable jubilation. A click sounded and I saw mom’s beaming face arising like the sun from behind the door. “Maaaaaaaa!!!” My delighted call was arrested in its trail, as my mother took a doubleback, eyes squirming and face contorted. The only match to such a dramatic reaction was my own response of popping eyes and stunned face. I wondered what blaze had I brought that threw mom back in such a histrionic fashion. The next sight of my welcome was mom clutching her nose and giving a sheepish smile.

Later that evening, as I reclined in that comfortable chair, I recalled the horrors of the weeks gone by. The turning of faces, the stopping short of smiles, the aborted meetings, the distastefulness of mouth and life. Just when I had started doubting myself, Dentist uncle saved my life.

Confessions of a Slothful Mind

 “For me, working is the equivalent of taking a break!” I was surprised to find concurrence to this belief of mine in a friend, during a deep insightful conversation over the ruminations of creative minds. The difference being, my creative mind is burdened by an immense languour, while he is far more active generally.

Freshly out of college, while the norm is to hunt for a means of livelihood if one does not belong to the blessed and fortunate category of those who have found their calling; here I was quitting my first job merely five months after having joined. Belonging to the former category I have mentioned above, unsure of my ‘career calling’, a plum paycheque was what I had prioritised. Everything else could be tolerated. Yet in five months, I realised the basic human need of job satisfaction. Having concluded with the only certainty that ‘routine’ is not my cup of tea; I decided to pack my bags. But for what next, I am yet to discover.

 Routine, schedules, deadlines, punctuality: cross. Freedom, one’s own time, diversity, change: check. This is the inference I gained out of meetings with like minds regarding creative behaviour. And I am happy in the reassurance that I am not the lone such specimen. How then is one supposed to channel all that creativity and bring it to fruition and optimal capability? For me personally, I require time…plenty of it, and without multi-tasking. Yet, a boon turning out to be a bane proves completely true in my case.

 Being ungrateful for something which I finally get after desiring for long surely makes me a monster. Particularly when it is ‘time’ – a luxury granted rarely to a chosen few. It is said that you often don’t get that which you chase. In my case I am often left wondering what to do now that I have finally got what I wanted. For, when time is all I have, instead of swimming and splashing in its waters atop a boat of creative pursuits; I soon find myself drowning in the mire of how best to make use of it. So that then gives way to mystic epiphanies of renunciation and the futility of achievements. And this leads on to existential plunges that the idle mind takes to reach an abyss of frustration.

 I don’t know whether to laugh it off or capitulate upon it, but nevertheless I find it a mischievous prank of fate; for, the creative muses seem to delight in favouring me only when I try to keep them at bay. This can probably be put as getting something when you don’t want it! One consistent pattern I have noticed since childhood is that all my creative energies peak exactly when I am supposed to devote my time to ‘constructive’ causes such as studies and exams. At such times the ink in my pen flows unstoppably and a sheet of paper turns into reams…the same sheet that remains blank when I try to put concerted efforts into filling it when I take out time for writing per se.

 You need to write daily in order to write well, or even become a great writer. For an externally motivated person like me, I often face droughts of inspiration. Yet, inspiration chooses to strike at the most inopportune moments, like the eve of an exam, or just when I am stepping out without pen or paper. At other times, procrastination is my constant companion.

 Friends and well-wishers have always encouraged me to sit with pen and paper, or the laptop in present times, and conjure up the creative potions. However, the roots of inertia grow just too deep and strong in me, that others mistake it for obstinacy.

 I am not wont to either dedicating or carving out time on a daily basis to fulfill my creative endeavours. I also look disdainfully upon those prolific writers who tear, crush and litter the surroundings of their writing table with imperfect attempts of their eventually perfect creations. The last one to agree to any inherent stubbornness, I however do concede to a particular idiosyncrasy of mine, which is to wait for things to happen; rather than making things happen, as is attributed to achievers and successful people according to manuals  and current self-help best-sellers. I’d rather write a perfect (or less-than-perfect) piece at a go when the mood strikes, than scratch and tear reams in the name of practice-makes-perfect. Till then I don’t mind waiting for Calliope, Erato, Thalia and their company….for I have all the time in the world!

Discovering Thyself

I do not know if it is because of the sun sign that she and I share, but Ayn Rand’s theory of Objectivism and her ideas of ‘selfishness’ being the ultimate truth of human nature, came as little shock to me. I found an easy acceptance of her thoughts, which echoed somewhere deep within me as my fear of voicing it aloud had prevented me from sharing it with anyone for the fear of sounding almost blasphemous. ‘The Fountainhead’ has helped me overcome this fear and I now am all set to reinforce my belief in what perhaps might sound as one of the greatest anti-moral endorsements.

 Among the many differences between human beings and all other forms of life, the most vital is the presence of Ego in the former. Ego, or the sense of ‘I’, taken in the positive sense, is a gift every person is born with. It is what gives a person his identity, and is the reason for his having taken birth in this world. The ‘I’ is therefore extremely essential for every person in order to live and make his life meaningful. Therefore, the aim of life for every person is the discovery of what he makes of the ‘I’ through the course of his life’s journey.

 While religion and morality preaches the subduing of the ‘I’, which is the key to peace and harmony for humanity; it is however, important to understand why and how the ‘I’ should not be shunned and seen as an evil. This is what Ayn Rand has ventured to expound in ‘The Fountainhead.’ In complete agreement with her, it is also a personal espousal of mine in believing in the empowerment of the ‘I’, for it is only when one is strong in oneself, can one be a provider of strength to others. I feel a similar, though indirect echo in Darwin’s theory of ‘survival of the fittest’ (another persona born under the same sign!)

  ‘The Fountainhead’ is about people and characters, rather than the plot. It is hence, of little wonder then, that in all the best literature, it is the characters that are remembered, and the books even named after, such as Jane Eyre, David Copperfield. This makes it much more real and inspiring. The greatness of an author hence perhaps lies in their ability to give life to such characters. For example, in all of Shakespeare’s plays it is the characters and the dialogues that are remembered.  Rand’s characters in the novel belong to that unforgettable treasury of human learning and experiences that have been immortalized not as mere literary characters but as mirrors of that innermost essence in people that has been trained to be concealed through deception and conceit under the guise of societal norms and social approval.  This novel compels the reader into an inevitable introspection and weighing of his deeds and actions and the contemplation of the true goal of his life.

 ‘The Fountainhead’ is a mind-altering experience. It changes you and makes you want to change into not a ‘better’ person, but simply the ‘best’; for that is what the book advocates. It encourages you to rise above yourself and to shun mediocrity. It teaches how and why to love and worship the ‘I’. Rand enlightens the need for the ‘Ego’ and of its importance.

 The novel, which consists of an un-putdownable 694 pages, is one of the very few books I have come across which are engrossing right from the beginning till the end, which is a feat considering its size. Normally, most large books have a tendency to have a slow beginning, or else tend to peter down in the middle or second quarter with a few boring pages or skippable paragraphs. ‘The Fountainhead’ has however given me sleepless nights when I was unable to finish it earlier than I wished. I have not attempted a pure review of the novel, as I believe that if one ventures to review it, then it deserves nothing less than a thorough academic analysis, for such is the vastness of Rand’s philosophies which require an in-depth study. This instead, is a pure outpour of an immediate reaction in its complete rawness. I invite anyone willing to have a spiritual awakening to let themselves experience this masterpiece in order to understand the true secret of human existence – a truth that is silenced under garbs of human constructs of selfishness – that of the negative kind.

The First Shower

The feel of cool breeze over unwiped sweat

The first drop of rain that slides down the temple all the way to the neck

The tongue reaches out to lick the trail of hot chocolate

that has drooled down the corner of the lower lip

The leftover drops and mist on the window annihilates photoshop.

With strands of curls dripping down wet

She moves like the trail of the first shower

Slithering in and out of the undulating tar

The setting fire of the senses catching her glimpse from the door ajar.

The smudge of kohl around her eyes

Rivals those floating masses in the sky

The rumbling thunder is belittled by

the melody of the trinkets on her bare feet.

As the puddle fills up, so does my heart

Saturated with desire ready to burst

Ah the agony of holding back.

In wait I sit, for her to come and rain

Come and rain upon me

Till eternity.

Describing the colour red to a blind person

It feels like blood, slithering down

It is sometimes hot, sometimes warm.

Acrid maybe, or a pungent smell,

Once recognised, it isn’t hard to tell.

It could burn your tongue; or be completely sweet,

It is festive and happy, like a child’s treat.

You can hear it rushing, like a city bus,

You can hear it soaring in a robin’s flight,

The sign of danger, cautioning your tread,

This is how it looks, the colour red.

To The Only One That Was

It has been the finest era

You helped create, brick by brick.

You converted a mere game

Into the lifeblood that made every Indian tick.

Sixteen years is all you chose to give us,

Leaving us asking for more…

Not another man has the game produced,

That we could so much adore.

You’re not gone, you never will be

You’ll continue to live in the memories of all,

Thank you for the sheer delight, thank you, ‘the Wall’.