A spider's web

Built in a fissure amidst sprawling walls,
Thy silky maze stood for a scheming pall.
Woven from one’s own secreted wire,
The web has an artist to pause and admire.

To watch its arrest and to feast on its gruel,
With hunger satiated, what pride didn’t it fuel.
The triumphed binds glorified by many a prey
Thy hunter’s instincts have left fewer in fray!

But the choicest nectars from a bee’s mining,
And amidst picturesque petals, a butterfly’s dining,
Alas, evade thee that hath a castle to guard,
And a guardian too often is a captive inward.

Built in the vault amidst birth and passing,
Our world is a maze of our own dressing,
Springing from the self, many a thought envision
Our world of perfection yet hath us imprisoned.

However laborious, habits need to be severed,
Thus torch our schemes, however they be revered.
For it is by painfully consuming the web, in glee,
The spider-a survivor, turns that seeker in a bee.


A spider's web is a unique phenomenon. Built between two surfaces, by the secretions from the spider, it is meticulously woven and re-woven to capture its prey. So involved is a spider in waiting for its prey and "fine-tuning" its web before and after, that one wonders if the spider in truth is a prisoner of its own making. He doesn't get to enjoy the rich nectar like a bee or dance in a garden like a butterfly. And at times, his web doesn't spare him and ends up trapped.
Such is our lot as well.
We spin our world into being with our thoughts and tendencies that spring from our heart. We build our schemes, gaurd them like a spider does. Needless to say, we lead an unenviable life inspite of our victories and riches.
We killing our habits and withdrawing our assumptions, can make us permenantly free and happy; just like a spider withdrawing its web into itself can make it as free as a bee that seeks the best of nectar.

The musing of a spectator

The following is a recording of a spectator as he walks after watching a rapturous performance of his favourite dancer. His thoughts prove that the dancer has had a larger-than-art influence on him. The performance has left him emotional, empty-handed, his sense of purpose lost.
Yet, few would believe how envious his situation was!!!


Like the beach sand left back by the retreating waters,
Like memories washed ashore by the waves of events,
Like backyard swings as memoirs of now-wedded daughters,
Thy frame left my eyes leaving sweet tears as remnants.


Like silence lost with the advent of diction,
Like slumber stolen by that bundle of riches,
Like fiery pace muted by the labors of friction
Thy splendor did away with my trunk of wishes.


I hope you did mark me amid your rapturous dance,
And would return to grant me my secret musings,
For, I lost my alms when I clapped in a trance,
That with barren palms I now tread, musing.