Hessonite

She had eyes that sparkled,
but she never really knew
how the shine came a long way
from a deeper, warmer blue

In her heart, she held a rhythm
that fueled her soul
with love that waited patiently
for a symphony to unfold

Her feet touched the soil
of a very many lives
she held all their memories
of courage and of strife

yet it felt as if her own earth
remained still without a seed
no colors caressed by the wind
no naked wooden need

Then the birth of an awareness
of her skin, her eyes, her hands
and here was the end of all
abysmal, barren sands.

The melody was found
in drops of soft hessonite,
that shone with eternal truth
of her own spirit bright

In a swirl of struggle and revelation
she found her answers and keys
to the doors imprisoning the warmth
of all her past stories


**Hessonite in Indian Astrology is believed to have a very strong influence on the mental and spiritual equilibrium of a person. It helps in healing from depression, energizing a person to generate new ideas and turn a fresh leaf. It's the gemstone for regeneration.

Sound of the Unheard

There's a house down the road,
shining in the leafy embrace,
of it's friends that go green with envy,
if challenged by another friendly face.


For long the windows have remained,
shy of the coquettish wind,
have never opened their arms wide
to welcome the monsoon spray as it begins.

For long the sun-kissed doors
haven't let a shadow find home within.
The porch has aged in the silence,
without clinking spoons at tea, or toasts of gin.

Inside remains a soul,
afraid to step out and behold,
the love meant for her heart,
because her tale remains untold.





Photo courtesy: http://sadcan.tumblr.com/; http://softgrungepalepastelandpretty.tumblr.com/

As I wield the Brush!

Amateur attempt at painting ;)

Sound of the Unspoken

Held in my hands, I have

A chalice full of truth:

Ripples of denial, 

Or tears of purest Ruth?

The faces that float across,

Vanish moments before,

The bubbles rise to the surface,

The words have lost their source.

My mind - woven into the drapes,

That separate the two worlds alive :

One of misery, the other of light,

Permeation deprived.

And I hold the chalice of truth

Spoken by voiceless beings,

Heard by cold, passive hearts,

In throngs, loneliness gleams.

Growing Up (and Down)

Memories of my childhood are mostly nebulous- in fact, all of them are- but what really fascinates me, is that I still remember the person I was back then. 

A deeper thought reveals, that I can actually draw out an "evolution chart" of my journey as a person, and the best part is the very course of the graph- progressive for a while, and then regressive till it's progressive again.

This realization about myself is extremely empowering in the sense that it elevates the possibility of acceptance. I guess after living with myself for over eighteen years I can safely say I'm a good person. Not necessarily my best yet, but still, significantly good, despite all my follies ( enhanced during the "regressive" periods). If that is so, then taking the above idea into consideration, forgiveness becomes an easier accomplishment, for the sheer faith in the goodness of all hearts that it forges into mine. 

"Every man is better than his worst act".

 I think I could believe that. 

Lately, every time I look into the mirror, I see a reflection as transitory as time itself. And I love that! Well, it's true that holding onto ourselves- our unique existence and identities- is a tricky temptation, perhaps even an instinct that one could associate with self- preservation, but with time I've found it to be increasingly probable that it's a futile attempt. Science will tell you that within seven years, every cell in your living body has been replaced by a new one, and your experience will tell you the process is much faster when it comes to your perspective and self-identity.

That seems like a boon to me actually. The awareness that nothing about me is permanent, that I'm not the person I once was, and that whether this constant transformation is for better or for worse is considerably under my control, is like a whip to the feelings of helplessness and regret that I'm often predisposed to link with my past. 

But predisposition itself, could merely be the ghost of an act that I refuse to let go of.

Habits- good and bad- are after all the results of repeated acts of similar nature, and with equal repetitions of contradicting behavior can indeed be reversed. So any humiliating or self-depreciating personality trait that I might have come to associate with myself, is of course by my own doing, and may be as mortal as myself. 

It seems as if I'll always remain like a piece of clay in my own hands. No shape is eternal and unchanging, I could become beautiful one moment, and hideous the next. And both would be ascribed to my will and creation.

So it turns out, that this could be a new paradigm, one that compels me to believe that, I can safely trust people to eventually realize that none of their actions-from the most noble to the most despicable- really define who the are. They only stand as representations of who they were, for brief moments or periods of time. Their past, just like their future, is more or less an opportunity . They could choose to remain passive, and let it act on them, or they could choose to take their lessons to become what they want to be in their present. 

Nevertheless, I believe that eventually all of us will pick the latter of the two.

And this makes loving someone for who they were, are, and will be, finally seem a bit easier.

The Power of Vulnerability

Steven Pinker: Human nature and the blank slate

Brian Greene: Making sense of string theory