The Ancestry

Like the infant retiring to her parent’s bosom,
Like the lifeless corpse on to barren ground,
To know wherefrom all its nature blossoms,
Is to find where to its retirement hath bound.

The Earth sprang from Water, by the aforesaid rule,
And Water, from Fire, what unbelievable parentage,
And Fire, an offspring of the might Wind’s fuel,
And the pristine Space be Wind’s final hermitage.

To the most subtle ancestor, be a progeny most blatant,
Hath there ever a riddle, whose answers be more pendant!

And so, the perceived World from the bosom of Senses,
The inscrutable Mind in turn bred them to their fame.
The Mind, like rays, diverged from the Intellect’s lenses,
And Intellect be The Conscience’s embryonic game.

To the most expansive ancestor, be a progeny so distinctive,
To know of this would be questioner’s unsought incentive.

It is believed that to find the orgin of any phenomenon, it is enough to find wherein it subsides - just like an infant naturally finds an embrace in her mother, etc.

Accordingly, Earth is said to have orginated from Water(as it get submerged in Water), water from fire(as it gets put off by fire), fire from wind and the wind from the expansive space.

Similarly with the Object-Senses-Mind-Intellect-Conscience relationship.

It is intersting to note that in both examples, every phenomenon subsides in a more subtle and expansive one (like, the wind subsides in space), until there is nothing to subside into. And that is the goal worth beholding.

Love and the City

On my honest mirror this monsoon night,

I see the greying sky and her promises of stars,

Together they mirror with sweetened darts,

Memories of thee and “her” fabled sites.



Few as worthy of a verse as Bangalore,

Yet they say, I loved only thee more.



Every orchard and every garden’s gates,

That I passed, hath me look back for miles,

Only more charming was thy winsome smile,

When thee looked back on a conquering gait.



Whence they come, whither they are bound,

They reach by her lakes to pause and pose,

Like my travelling thoughts with their weary toes ,

By the memories of thy deeds, are resting found.



Few as worthy of a verse as Bangalore,

Yet they say, I loved only thee more.



Her gyrating nights and over-flowing taverns,

Stir me but lesser than thy mysterious eyes,

The city and the damsel in love’s playful guise,

Have etched many a verse in my heart’s caverns.


Few as worthy of a verse as Bangalore,

Yet they say, I loved only thee more.


Many are the songs written about cities. Yet none written on Bangalore. I took the responsibility of the doing the due to this beautiful city.

He....who...?

The perennial well of ever-returning thoughts,


Who, incensed by senses, binds them in knots.

Who, with doses of memory, keeps alive the dead,

who, in my assumptive cognizance is well bred.

From whose reflective lenses rise duals and triads,

Who, as a dreamy artist paints events in their myriads.

Who knoweth all knowns but of one’s own birth,

Who killeth even the valiant, like in ghastly mirth.

Whose rising alone raises worlds and their kings,

Whose slumber alone can set one’s wisdom to wings.

Who, as a glorious speaker hath his audience in tame,

But whose origin when questioned hath him bow in shame.

Who though loudly operative is improbable to find,

Thou art the bandit, my insentient MIND.

 

Bundle of thoughts, interpreter of our senses, holder of our memory, the building blocks of our knowledge and assumptions – the mind is the one and everything that builds the world around us. It takes us through events and dresses up our opinions. It has its landlord – me- in such a hold that it operates so fearlessly by its own whims. Truly, only when cornered and questioned of his credentials will he stop and bow in shame to his master.

Thesis of a Sufferer

Many a dark thoughts, like engulfing dunes,

 Stun his spirits to dread this night of June,

Clinging to that face that horizon never gave,

Alas! As possible as were garden on stony grave.

Memories did but nothing to soothe his mane,

Their mighty claws dug deep to spell his bane,

Amusements that he harbored to force his smile,

Enjoyed in the present but despised for miles.

Consumed by rage and confused by reason,

He pursues a balm that might end this treason,

Awfully caught in this impregnable coffer,

He now lay wonder, “who is it that suffers”? 

Nay, not this protagonist, nor his swaying resolve,

 Not his intellect, nor the expectations it dissolved,

Neither his five senses, nor his stature sublime,

And neither his triumphs nor his valour they mimed.

And hence what remained that hath to be slayed,

Was merely his belief that he was that prey.      

When mis-guided individuality that thus was slain,

None was left to witness the dual of pleasure and pain.

And like that river that dissolved in mighty sea,

He lay consumed in the refrain - That art He!

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.