I had found the freedom to explore the landscapes of my mind and ignite a passion for language. The most important spark of inspiration for me, however, came from an unexpected place: a woman who loved stories as much as I did. She was the epitome of a saree-wearing, bun-haired, middle-class intellectual.

I happened to meet her quite often, she stood apart from the crowd with an easy graceful presence, lit from within by a charismatic warmth. As we spoke, I noted her impressive erudition and love of literature. She had a way with words, of bringing stories to life, and of reciting passages from books she loved or, as was the case more often, making things up that resonated deeply with whomever happened to be listening. She was an authentic storyteller; one that left an unmistakable mark on me, you could tell she was somebody who read a lot, revering books for their transformative power to shed light on the human condition. Anything she thought made her face shine and, as she sipped the single malt and blew out cloud-like rings of smoke, the characters and the worlds lived and breathed. Each conversation felt like an expedition into new territory; we explored the meaning and motivation behind great novels and characters with equal pleasure.

She had a canny way of arriving at the core of a novel’s point or a person’s psychology, illuminating what had seemed obvious while entirely changing how I saw it. I became attached above all to the way she seemed to be literature’s very archetype, that she came into the same mould from which characters are drawn when created by novelists; that she stuck around and seemed like one of them. The way she looked and moved, telling little tales out of the corners of her bright eyes, and her voice, so worldly, had about her a dusty aura that began in the midsection and streamed out into the edges of her clothes, like some flame like enigma billowing from her body. Just being near her was to feel something inside me, that longed-ago love of writing, that desperate need to scribble on whatever was at hand, suddenly awakened as if I were plucked from a deep sleep while a volcano erupted elsewhere.

It did not take long before I started to recognise that she was not only a voracious reader; she was a muse, someone who inspired me, someone whose words and ideas fed my writing impulse. I wanted to write like her. I wanted to mimic the way she spoke. I wanted to capture our conversations in my own language.

I found myself composing sentences in my writer’s haze, determined to capture the essence of it all and shape it into vivid paragraphs on paper or the ease with which she would string phrases, summing up a novel, teasing out the provenance of an anecdote, summoning up a memory from distant years in horizons filled with the light of hope and possibility. She offered me a glimpse into corners of life I would never truly see, for the simple reason that her stories and the way she shaped them belong to a realm far beyond.

We covered how to analyze books from classic to modern works, as well as discussing the walk of characters in a novel, what makes a statement a dialogue, or why storytelling is so integral to our childhood. As the sessions went on, I threw myself further and further into the world of literature, through her encouragement and the ideas she presented. The most impressive thing about her wasn’t her learning, but the way she inhabited it. As we talked literature, her eyes would blaze, and our favourite novels were brought to life by the force of her narration.

Our friendship grew quickly, and I liked our literary encounters all the more, there was something about the experience of two thinkers in conversation, it was beautiful in its own little way, and seemed to draw on some deeper reality and truth than chatting. In her I found kinship: a collaborator and a model, an inspiring call to write from the deep well of my sense of imagination and bring its creations to fruition on the page.

While I have strayed from what she might have wanted for me, the effect she had on me remains no less tenacious. She taught me the potency of language, and the narrative act. And on that score alone, she’ll always be an inspiration.

I discovered in her an unlikely muse, someone beyond a friend, whose raw genius shamed any qualms I might have had about what I could or should be capable of writing. Whether consciously or otherwise, she provoked my impulses to prod deeper into the unexplored crevices of inspiration. Sometimes she created that much-needed inner tension to simply write. And, so I did. The influence of that teacher I found in her is as profound as ever: I might not remember many other classes I have taken over the years, nor the homework, but I remember this. I remember of living my life with purpose and passion. I remember about words. I am grateful. After all, it is still readers like her: enigmatic, seductive and inspirational, who remind us that literature can in fact transform, that it can make the muse of writing speak up within us, the readers, the storytellers among us, here and now and forevermore.

I believe that in life there are certain moments when real change takes place and that for me, that moment was meeting her. She was so intense, like every book I had ever read. She was everything I had ever written about. She was everything that was in my heart. When I looked at her I knew that a few minutes of our become; one experience made all the words in the books I had read come to life.

As a child I felt lonely at times, especially in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep. But books saved me. They offered me companionship in the dark. I read my way through the classics and contemporary novels, poetry and everything in between. I even read gardening books, ostensibly to learn how to touch the green earth. However, I read even more to know things and come to conclusions.

I love books even more than I did when I was younger, and I thrill to characters with compelling humanity and complexity, whose challenges and struggles feel familiar and resonant to me. I hunger for stories that push my buttons, that challenge my thinking, and that forcibly widen my own perspective; stories that are raucous and tender, brutal and merciful, hopeful, probing and profound.

But, even as I turned pages upon pages and read and read, there was always something missing: some conversational chord I couldn’t quite strum, some nuance of reading from life to which I could never fully transition. And then She arrived in my purview, an imagined figure come to life, still carrying the aura of a bookish character, yet shining into existence with the strangely reflective realness of fiction.

There was something about her, something enigmatic, beautiful, that swept me off my feet the moment our eyes met; an Elizabeth Bennet tempered with a Jane Eyre’s determination, and injected with an Anna Karenina ardour, who, behind it all, was a woman, with her unknown dreams and fears, transformed into this modern day avatar who stood right infront of me.

We talked and talked, about philosophy and art and literature, much as the two characters in a certain novel talked; I don’t know if it would still be called pillow talk if it was on the futon; of this and that, as if it were being talked out of me, breathed out of her, our words and our bodies circling each other in a dance that was at once electrifying and irresistible, until now I could say almost anything, about human nature, or about a fine sentence, She being the conversation partner I had always longed for, I knew I would never find a better one, for almost the first time in my life someone was reading me in a way that would change the way I read myself, it was like reading a book about you, someone else wrote it but you could read your story in it.

But it wasn’t just as a thinker or even orator that I admired her. It was her life lived truly, which to me was so much like those heroines of the books I had grown to love. Courage came from a quiver of pains, not of boasting; she felt everything as she was living but did it anyway.

She reminded me of Scout Finch; of Hermione Granger; of Clarissa Dalloway, and I was fifteen when I began imagining her like her single, stereotypically ‘perfect’ self was all it took to make me feel less damaged, less lonely; to matter more.

And in this perception of her relation to me, She appeared as the fulfillment of all books and poems I had known; of all the great or wretched or absurd personages whom I had run to meet in them, or who had been thrust upon me by them; of all those pages where, defying space and time, I had savoured the romantic or tragic happiness of women; of all those tales, and there were millions of them in which, delighting in some shepherdess with her shepherd, I had left Earth to seek a resting place among the stars.
Our relationship hadn’t been free of difficulties and distance and the longing, sure, but it was also forever a source of wonder: a great novel with turnings and turbulences, rose and reckoning, by which we only got further convinced of the intimacy and importance of words together.

In her embrace, I found someone who thought about life ; about words, about everything around her, the exact way I did. We were on to something, She and I, we were writing a story, a page at a time. And as long as we had my precious tome, we were invincible.

Indeed, She wasn’t only a figure in my personal story: She was and has been the synthesis of a lifetime of reading, the sum total of the stories that had nourished me, those that had opened my heart to love and lit my mind’s eye to loss and made me yearn for redemption. I will pass that legacy on. It has blessed every page I have written, including this one. I will be forever indebted: to her and to literature for the grace gift of transformation.

And, the drinks started flowing, and, also the grilled fish as endlessly fun to eat as it always has been, and I found myself in earnest conversation with her. The familiar mix of disappointment, self-doubts and resentments giving way to a love of literature and poetry and Tagore like my own. As we talked about books, and music, and poetry, and the way we chase our dreams, this solace became a touchstone ever deeper in the night.

Only when I sat there, amidst the gently flickering fairy lights and speakers belting out one of my favourite songs, did I recognise the incredible importance of human connection. In a world that is inhumane perhaps more often than not, for someone to find you, and you to find her. Well, if they ever make a cosmic science out of it, it should become the essence of an equation. And, if this equation is what Urban Mantra is all about, then I, writing this, stands testimony to the science: in the heart of a frantic city such as Guwahati, amid the chaos of the surrounding insanity, it was on the shoulders of this favorite place of mine, that our worlds collided.

The exchanges between us at Urban Mantra resembled a dance; things would occasionally get messy or feel a bit stuck, but that’s, too, there would be mirroring, where one would stir up a memory or feeling in themselves that was then picked up on by the other, creating a shared rhythm. At the heart of it all was a lot of storytelling; in every session, each would share personal stories of their lives or memories, elucidating their perspective on the chosen theme and contributing to the collective creativity. I listened as she developed her insight into characters, themes and contexts of books that we had both read; she had embedded into her body all the subtexts I had explicitly learnt, and through the mesh of books we could communicate in even more layers.

We picked apart themes, meanings and characterisations, thread by thread. We used our logic to argue and ponder the options. But, most of all, it was her voice that transformed our conversations from just words on a page into something vibrant and thought-provoking. These regular meetings at Urban Mantra became my safe little niche in time, a protective bubble as I sought to set aside the outside tumult, the clinking of glasses and live music a background to our literary discourses. Books became a shared alternate reality, a window into the endless possibilities and riches of verbal life.

Had the two of us traipsed around more, I would be able to tell you which side of the street she preferred, what she liked best to look at. I would see how she took in the block ahead of us before slowly moving to step by step. But even without all that, or is it because of all that, her lack? I remember standing there, surveying the city, marveling at what might have been, at how she would take the humdrum of daily life as sight, as something already experienced, as something she delighted in. Through her eyes, I imagined everything: the movement, the architecture, the dullest buildings, the boxes as a source of wonder, a thing to look upon and rejoice in. Our friendship has been a sonata, a symphony, of everything good that music can evoke, an orchestra of feelings that would resonate with me for the rest of my life.

It is why, now, when I think back on those brief and beautiful hours, I can only feel grateful that we spent them together. Her singing voice had vanished beforehand but my singing voice; at least today won’t be going anywhere. Our voices go up and down together, even if only for a moment, and somewhere inside my mind a whispered hymn remembers what it is like to create a beautiful sound with another person and call it friendship.

In several respects, though, she was like me; a person unbeholden to the various traps set by the norms of society, a seeker all the while. Her ravenous enthusiasm for life rekindled something in me that had long since lost its lustre. Now, I am just toiling to be in touch with her in this new city where the sights are so unfamiliar, so cold and foreign that her music, it haunts me, like a ghostly wail, on nights when I am alone. But every curve, every way we turned, will take me back to her: a tip of fog on a breeze, a snippet of sound belonging to someone I once knew more deeply than distance and time ever did. I still know someone so beautifully wayward. She is far, far away; but, thanks to the intensity of our intimacy, the miles between us means nothing. And yet, as I write these words, I reflect on the lessons we have learnt, on the memories we are left with from the time we spent together and on those moments of magic, so short-lived, but which helped to light our steps. I am filled, rather, with a sense of gratitude to have had the fortune to share, and to learn from and carry forward a work of beauty and wisdom.

The threads of accident that have wound us together to create moments of serendipity and experiences of fate, in which our mutual weaving makes a work of art that sings of the human heart and mind. From the sinuous turns of life’s road, each of us with the help of friends has learnt to seek not only the comfort of a good shaking hand but the light of friendship, the laughter from smiles shared, and to grow with the surety that the reminders from friends in time and from across the miles will outlast the shocks of a sometimes troubled and change-ridden journey. I have found that the tapestry of my soul is brightened by the hues of shared life, by the promise and hope and enduring love. I tread into it with pleasure and with gratitude for the magic of our world, the flash of creativity that brings us to life, and human connection itself. And, we are all connected, we are all woven.

জাগিবে একাকী, তব করুণ আঁখি,

তব অঞ্চলছায়া মোরে রহিবে ঢাকি…

For years I wanted to write about my relationship with the city of Bangalore: a love story that stretches beyond mere romance, it has in fact reached deep into the core of my soul, but somehow words fell short and, I lacked it in me to comprehend what the city meant to me, to be able to put into words the kind of influence it has had on my life and overall being. Now, as I reflect on the journey that brought me here, I am finally able to put pen to paper to contain in words the profound impact the city has had on my life.

My love affair with Bangalore was not limited to the girl who lived here, although her presence certainly added some magic to the already vibrant charm of the city, Bangalore had turned into more than just the backdrop to my love story; it was a character in itself, it shaped the narrative of my life in ways I, in no way could have predicted. For a 20 year old; back then, 15 years ago, a trip to Bangalore promised two things – a meet up with friends who had made the city their home, and the chance to meet the girl who had my heart

Every trip from Bhubaneswar to Bangalore was a journey of sorts, a 30-hour train journey that was the rite of passage into the heart of the city. As, the train pulled into Bangalore Junction and I stepped onto the platform, all lingering doubts were eased and replaced by an overwhelming sense of belonging.

The city embraced me warmly, its streets bustling with life and with this chaotic energy which left me mesmerised. On each visit, I discovered myself falling deeper and deeper in love; not only with the woman who had my heart but also with the very essence of the city itself. From the bustling markets of Jayanagar to the vibrant and serene scenes of Koramangala, every corner of Bangalore had a fragment of my heart, a confirmation of the profound bond I experienced with this dynamic metropolis. However, it wasn’t solely the scenic beauty of the city that entranced me; it was the manner in which Bangalore influenced my perspective on love and relationships. On its chaotic streets, I learnt the skills to navigate through the intricacies of human connections, to embrace the peaks and throughs of my emotions. Bangalore instilled in me that love wasn’t always simple – that it demanded patience, comprehension, and most importantly, a readiness to embrace the what Ifs and if nots.

Back then, love bloomed amid the commotion of Bangalore’s lively streets. Each moment spent with her strengthened our bond, the excitement of exploration, and the exhilarating rush of attraction. We were young and carefree, caught in the spell of our own little universe, unaware of the obstacles that awaited us. However, as time passed, reality began to creep in, and the flaws in our fairy tale romance became apparent. The very streets that once resonated with our joy now witnessed the struggle to hold on, and ultimately us falling apart. Love, it appeared, was insufficient to endure the tribulations of life, and as we drifted apart, so did my aspirations of a future in Bangalore alongside her.

Nevertheless, like all romantic tales, mine too was filled with hurdles and hindrances. While my bond with the woman I was in love with dwindled, I found myself grappling with sentiments of heartache and longing. Even as the relationship deteriorated, my connection with Bangalore stayed on.

Each journey to the city taught me about love and letting go; a gentle reminder that sometimes, love means setting someone free. Strolling down the same streets we once explored together, I, now understand that my bond with Bangalore is far from finished. It has been a voyage of self-discovery, a lesson in loving fiercely and letting go gracefully. I am now here in Bangalore, seeking solace in its memories and finding refuge in its avenues. Every visit feels like a trip down the lanes of nostalgia, a return to the time when love enveloped me entirely and the world revolved around that one connection. Even in solitude, haunted by memories, I take solace in the understanding that love, in all its facets, showcases the endurance of the human soul.

And, as I stand here, at the beginning of a fresh chapter in my journey, I cannot help but express gratitude towards the lessons I learnt, the progress I have made, and the love within me that constantly leads me onward. The city of Bangalore served as the setting for a romantic tale that fizzled out, now it serves as the blank slate on which I envision the forthcoming days: a vision teeming with optimism, with potential, and with the everlasting commitment of love and gratitude.

Bangalore, please be kind!!

The weaker sex?? This is more than just a reference made to compartmentalize the women folk, but does it hold true?? Maybe not, right from the time they start bearing those kicks inside their wombs to the unbearable pain while giving birth, this does go against the fancy of terming something while asserting the masculine superiority. And, as we celebrate womanhood and women’s day, I can think of only two such women who have played a stellar role in making me the man that I am today.

I, for myself; hadn’t realized how blessed I was until the day I was conceived and shown the light of the day by a Woman, a Goddess who inculcated in me all things good. From making me read and write and helping me in developing a political thought process at quite an early age, thanks to her own obsession of reading three newspapers a day, I now realize the worth of being in her womb, perhaps the water had to break and later she would have to get along with an asshole who stole her books and went hiding in the loo to finish reading them even before she did, I guess, she no longer regrets the same. Academically, I wasn’t that bad and so a bit of a nuisance was manageable. I thank her for being my first teacher, the alphabets were taught to me by her, the passion to connect with the characters of the books and feel for them was all her doing. I was, born a human; she made me humane.

Academics being done right, I was all set to start working and given the kind of educational background I had, it has always been difficult for me to find colleagues of the other gender. It did suck, but so far there hasn’t been any issue to deal with, no romance or friendships at the workplace and that in itself has been a blessing in disguise.

Cut to 2017, the loner in me chanced upon yet another woman, a woman of substance this time. Straight out of the books I read and the characters I romanticized, as if Dickens’ must have blessed my devotion and loyalty towards him. The grace and charm of Dora, cold, cynical and incapable of showing her emotions like Estella and as compassionate and dynamic like Lucie Manette.

A freak she was, temperamental and chaotic. Unperturbed by all the shit that flew around, undeterred by the conservative societal norms, a free soul but the irony was she loved the cocoon which held her up. The urge to break through and escape, it did matter, but then life hadn’t been a bed of roses.

Chaotic she was, that was her hallmark, and it made her up. Her anger was the sanity that kept her grounded, her highs and lows like a sinusoidal wave could be graphed and traced too, and who better than a mechie at plotting points and connecting the dots. Fingers Crossed!! Tedious task it had been, but who cared?? Although, she had always been into literature, but deciphering her was no less than rocket science. Her logic often camouflaged the emotions she held within, it could be deciphered over beer or a pizza, hard it wasn’t, but an effort made in the right direction often paid it’s own dividends. A smile out of nowhere maybe, maybe a giggle and if it did work out well she would read to me Grandmothers’ fables.

Small joys of life you see, a joy she is and will forever be.
Today, tomorrow and in the days to come, I know for sure She’ll keep me calm and bless me with her gift of chaos.

This is a struggle, hold on, and wait!! It isn’t, the spotlight is on, the audience cheering and at times booing. I bomb; I jeer and I cringe but that’s the only way out. Conflicting thoughts inside the head, a tussle of sorts. I hold a picture, somewhat blurred but that has to fade, for I can’t risk myself at blowing this up. The joke might hit them hard or boomerang back to me, right in the gut and I might fall flat on my face, trying to cover up what I hold within.

The stage: has been something I’ve held close to my heart for as long as I can remember, from extempore speeches to debates, from quizzes to even head banging at times. Comedy has just begun, a new dimension to the affair I’ve developed over the years. Not quite sure if at all it’s comedy or ‘comedy of errors’ for nothing can be error-free, certainly when facts are presented with puns. Walking on a rope, an invisible one, balancing offence and defence, wit and humour and common sense isn’t just a job, but a ritual. A passion to dish out comedy at the expense of self-depreciation; to compensate the lack of self-confidence; it isn’t tiring, this is liberating. For the stage isn’t a black hole that would suck me in like the massive egos of people who make the world up, the stage doesn’t judge me; people do and above all else; it’s the hallowed altar where I slay my demons; if at all I can.

But, this isn’t fun; not all the time though, opening the gates of the mouth to let the minds of those in the audience to feast upon the thoughts that you have; not really yours; they are but then again, it’s a battle I have to fight. The truth at times has nothing to do with anyone; in general, but the offence does, and offence like HIV is contagious, sensible ones stay protected. It does open a can of worms, more often than not those in audience handing over the opener, but then the onus is on me not to spill the stuff on them, I gotta smear it all over myself and act cool, perhaps, a ritual as I pull out the sword to fight the demons; those by then start hovering on the invisible clouds of my mind. This battle is mine, join in; have fun, laugh along for you know not where this is heading.

They say, most comics are depressed; well, they are, and most of them are. I am no comic by the way, I am trying to be one, this isn’t just a passion, it is a therapy. Underneath the veil of laughter, there lies rotten shit, facts and grudges; superimposed, concealed with the right amount of humour. This isn’t about battling the system, or stereotypes or standard norms or a status quo; this has more to do with me trying to escape from myself, an attempt at flipping the bird free from the imaginary cage of my solitary mind. Humor is hard to create, not hard to find; setting it in context is harder but the treading on the fine invisible line that separates approval from offence is the hardest. Being judged and perceived to be what I am not are the perks the stage offers, the sash of being a sarcastic insensitive prick and nasty asshole decorates the shoulder that now feels light, the monkey’s off finally. What about an Encore?? Well, let me pull out my sword; please.

P.S: This ain’t no joke; this is serious business. Chuckle, giggle or Laugh out loud; for this won’t cease, the demons won’t judge me unlike you.

The mind had made itself up, there was no going back again; no more would I coerce myself into doing something I wasn’t enjoying, writing was one such activity. But, activity it wasn’t; it wasn’t a pastime either, it had been my form of expression. To vent, to let out and to let go too; to think and to put my thoughts on paper. I have been driven by and driven into writing by a whole lot of things, initially it were me seeking a way out, it was then a person who’d go on to inspire me with her presence. Her expression found it’s way into mine, and She went on to become whatever I could think of writing.

But, life changes in the blink of an eye: but the passion to write? It did take a backseat, but with undercurrents of someone’s presence running deep within your being , you know to yourself that there’s no escape from it, you can choose to resist yourself from the temptation of turning back, but who has ever been able to control the galloping stallions of his thoughts? not me certainly!! And, thus back to expressing the way I could possibly do, and do it the way I have forever known: to write. To think, to seek, to find; and to write.

Life hadn’t been a Dickensian tale, now it is: perhaps Dickens too had been party to my tale; he did push me into amplifying whatever I had been through and to assume as if it were part of a cosmic conspiracy leading me towards something that would be heart wrenchingly beautiful. Estella had knocked on my heart’s door: and it were the beginning of a tale that would define the enchantment that lied in unfulfillment.
There’s no love greater than the love for something you’ve lost, and when the heart pines for that one thing which had once made up for everything else: you know there’s some content left in you, something more to think, a lot more to write. The best part of writing about someone who now seems elusive is that there’s no dearth of words, there remains no boundary defining the limit of your imagination.

And, this is sheer bliss!! To capture and to contain that one gigantic thought, mould it in her form and cast it as She were: this is my expression, perhaps the truest one.
Thoughts never lie, you can’t lie to your thoughts and that’s exactly what it does each time She catapults herself in mind, slinging and swinging and capturing herself, by herself and landing up on my fingers as I type the words down: I find her, elusive She is; in form maybe, but there’s another level of high in chasing the formless.

So, I choose to write, write all that I had known and shall think of, I would have thought of and thoughts She would sow in my mind. The pen’s out, the paper has lines written over them and my expressions: She’d have known better.

I’ve been wondering if in fact ideal platonic love isn’t just an intensely concentrated form of what inspires the best teachers.― Edmund Marlowe

And, it does inspire; to be, to be what it takes to be in love, to long and to set yourself free. To be able to be what one is, to care and to nurture a feeling within that holds something that isn’t governed by the convention of the real world. Hard it is to find such an affair, for it isn’t just a fling that sparks and burns out with time, it stays; stays put, keeps burning and keeps manifesting; often into art and at times into a pull that self-navigates itself. No rudderless ship it is, no shipwreck in the soul’s island. It holds, steadfast it is; the glue that binds the mind in place.

And, it happened; a pull and a surrender, for the heart was long lost and now it was time; time for the soul to seek and fall in love. The true beauty of it lied not in the individual but on the mere idea of someone, somewhere. No sense of urgency, no emotional hangover; just a backpack of resolve on the mind’s shoulders, now broadened by the existence of an idea of someone to light up the path that lied ahead, just an idea; a notion of being into someone. No ordinary confluence it was; the soul now in unison with the mind: wandering and seeking something that is beyond the understanding of the heart.

Hard it is to come across such an idea, let alone romancing the same; no trace of reality in this realm. To hold and to forge something out of nothing is no ordinary exercise. A feeling that is regenerative. The ability to feel and to be in love in this case is beyond reciprocation, beyond having a response: emotional or physical, just the awareness about the existence of someone, somewhere; who is in tune and in sync to the idea of the someone that your mind is leading you towards. Not a figment of imagination it is, it is the imagination in itself that manifests into something surreal no matter how unreal it is.

To be, to feel and to realize the essence of something that doesn’t thrive upon generic perception is at times difficult. They say: “It sounds too bookish”, but then; it is an art that the mind crafts all by itself, the pull of something that is so alluring, it leaves no space for further contemplation, to fall or to rise, or to just be. Be and it is, the mind transfixed and so is the soul, longing for just that calm, the calm that sets in when there remains no earthly control over the resolution of one’s desires.

And, inspiring it is; feeding the mind with rivulets of an unknown charm; making it possible for one to believe in the healing prowess of actually being in love. Love, but not anything like it; not bound and blinded by the wants of the physical world. The needs finally making sense, the wants nowhere in picture. The lack of companionship not ailing anything, so much like love, but nothing like it. And, nothing it is, nothing in real; but far more real than anything magnified under the lenses of reality can be.

A feeling, an idea or just a notion, maybe someone: a figment of my imagination, is now taking control. The mind’s rudder now anchoring the ship of my soul, the tides of life hitting high and low, I will hit the deck and float ashore; swiveling the swells that I come across. Love it is, may not be. Yes, it is Platonic, now I see…

Back to the place where it all started, the quest to absorb divinity; to let go an unknown burden which has been haunting my night’s sleep for quite some time now. False distractions, superficialities and sudden collisions of opposing ideas and ideals; which were running havoc in the mind, controlling every urge of mine that withheld me from breaking the shackles of my own self imposed restrictions. A prisoner I had become; caged within the four walls of my inhibitions. The surge of unfathomable emotions coupled with the desire of flowing with it, was rather choking me; I wished to swim and stay afloat, perhaps I had underestimated the prowess of my emotions, drowned I was; and here I am, victimized by my own self.

The never ending tussle within me; the right versus the right, the wrongs not anywhere in the picture, and it is bleak. Hard it is to pick and choose, to cast away a part of me that seemed so dear; to live; to laugh; to love and just as another notion strikes: to simply survive; seems hard. Dark thoughts cloud up the mind, no sign of the rain, and stay right up there; playing ball with the vulnerability that has now made way.

The cracks have to be plastered and coated yet again; the soul needs no veil, no more; just the ability to withstand the tremors of the transient thoughts. The becoming – unbecoming of all things temporary, the emotions which roam scot free and can’t be tamed, all such self-eroding practices the mind involves itself in, leading to the corruption of thoughts and onset of misery: there has to be an end to it. The apathy that has taken over every bit of me, aiding the reluctance in me; of giving it all up: there has to be an end to it. The passivity I’ve lost out; the propensity to love without any attachment involved; and the proneness to all emotions negative: this has to be set in order. The mind knows: there’s no back to default option, yet the prayer of setting it right: let this be heard.

The wandering soul for now seeks rest and refuge; for it has grown tired of itself.

The defiance will cease perhaps, the walls will collapse as I confide in me. There’s no consequence greater and of greater good than me surrendering to myself, merging the known with the unknown; setting sight onto something that will take form, formless it might be for now; but it will be liberating to let go. As I let myself go, let every ounce of emotion dissipate; this struggle of holding on will not forever be; I am here now; and I shall surrender, like I had the last time when I was here. Under His siege, I will witness the unison of what is to be, and what isn’t and will never be. There will be a way out of this, His light paving the way. The mortar of belief and the bricks of my emotions will be set in place, the Mason will create the base; if need be.

The Azhan is heard, resonating deep within my ears; as if cleansing me of the rot that had layered up on my soul. The moment of reckoning is here, and as the quail grows within, the Qawwali; playing in the neighborhood is calming me down; as if mellowing down the frenzy that had made my mind it’s eternal home. This will take time, this for now: feels like therapy; me and my moment of truth; face to face, His Divine light flushing out the remains of what I had done to myself.

Free me from my own falsehood.

These illusions of my mind.

These superficialities of my actions.

या निज़ामुद्दीन औलिया,

या निज़ामुद्दीन सलक़ा II

सितारों के आगे जहाँ और भी हैं,
अभी इश्क़ के इम्तिहाँ और भी ह॥
~ अल्लामा इक़बाल

This remains one of my favorite couplets, the true meaning of it now making more sense than it ever did. To have loved and lost, and then loved again; perhaps this cycle of love and loss transcends life and destiny itself. Beyond the stars that lights up the skies as I look above, beyond the galaxies; there rests a universe where love and destiny will coincide at a point and extend infinitely from there. A hypothetical hope, a hope nonetheless; for a hope is what sustains life after all.

To dwell in the present is what the mind for now seeks, the past is dead and buried and the future shall hold another series of tests for me to appear, the present though isn’t as bleak as I had assumed it would be, I am still holding on to that frail trail of light which had peeped in when I was at my lowest, and I will hold on to it, for there are tests to follow. In hindsight, I should have never ventured into the dwellings that now makes up the present, but; who cared for the outcome? I never controlled it either, all that I could do was to follow that trail of light, which shone bright when nothing did.

But hope, all for hope, hope is such an addiction, it is dope in itself. A bit of it and I thought to myself it was all mine for the taking, and that was before the thud beckoned, no time to reckon; and the light had washed over me again, cleansing me of the dust that had gathered over because of the fall. The light was my only hope, and it was dope. Would it guide me through?? Would it shine bright?? Perhaps, some questions have no answers, let me now frame answers first and then set questions, questioning the very basis of the source. The scourge of destiny if discounted, there would be an answer to every question that the mind now posed. Answers that screamed hope, an aspiration to live through. All said and done, ‘tis was for the mind to now make itself up for the rest of the test. Faring fairly isn’t it is all about, faring hopefully is, and this shall be. My trail of light, might just see me through.

The influence of the galaxy I now seek is far reaching, the seeds of hope now germinating into pods of answers, inducing life and pumping emotions as I battle hope against hope, for the sake of hope again. A colossal mountain to climb, as I look to reach the zenith of it, spread my arms out in embrace, wishing for the trail of light to wash me over with hope again. And, the answer’s right there. With a slight tweak in the previously set questions. Would it guide me through?? Would it shine bright?? Hell!! I’ll follow it, let it lead me.

And, I have crossed the Rubicon, I certainly have…
The colossal mountain to climb, and to spread my arms out in embrace, and my light’s now shining bright. The tests await, so does destiny. And, as the future beckons.

Beyond the stars that lights up the skies as I look above, beyond the galaxies; there rests a universe where love and destiny will coincide at a point and extend infinitely from there. A hypothetical hope, a hope nonetheless; for a hope is what sustains life after all.

सितारों के आगे जहाँ और भी हैं,
अभी इश्क़ के इम्तिहाँ और भी हैं॥