The howling wind in the background faded, as this part of the conversation came to life ...
"Let's play a game."
"And what game is this?"
"Well, it won't be a game anymore if I tell you what it is."
"But you need to tell me the rules at least."
"You will figure out the rules, as you go along."
"But what if I make mistakes?"
"You will learn from those mistakes."
"That is not fair."
"Yes, I know."
"Then it might be a game to you, but not to me."
"Who said it was a game to you? I just said 'Let's play a game'."
"Okay, let's assume that I play along. How will I know that I have won?"
"You won't"
"I won't know I have won, or I won't win?"
"Whichever way you want to look at it."
"I need some answers here."
"You won't know if you have won even if you win, as a consequence you will not win."
"Why should I play the game at all?"
"Because it is not a game to you."
"Then what is it?"
"Your life."
... The howling wind came back to life, and this part on, the conversation faded.
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Monday, March 28, 2005
Comprehension of a vision
As he stared out of the window, he thought about what he had left behind. And what he had seen. Travel always gave him a new perspective. A new perspective to things that he might have believed in earlier. Or the perspective that already existed within, but did not have the time to come out. But this time it seemed to have been different. Like it was everytime. And everytime he traveled, he had this feeling.
And as the edge of the wing seemed to touch the painted sky, it all came back to him.
In black & white. Strange how, the recent past came back to him in black & white. And how the oldest memories were in vivid colours. And those in between, were in between. Colour fading to black & white, or black & white getting coloured, depending on how old or new the memory was.
It was then he realised, that the new perspectives that came to him, came to him in black & white. Just like his recent memories. Travel always gave him a new perspective that was in black & white. Cut & dry. It made things clear. Clear for those moments at least.
As she stared out of the window, she thought about where she was heading towards. And what she was going to see. Travel always gave her a new outlook. A new outlook to things that she might have believed in earlier. Or the outlook that already existed within, and was about to come out. But this time it seemed to be different. Like it was everytime. And everytime she traveled, she had this feeling.
And as the edge of the wing seemed to touch the painted sky, it all came to her.
In black & white. Strange how, the near future came to her in black & white. And how the distant future was in vivid colour. And those in between, were in between. Black & white getting coloured, or colour fading to black & white, depending on how near or far the future was.
It was then she realised, that the new outlook that came to her, came to her in black & white. Just like her anticipation of tomorrow. Travel always gave her a new outlook that was in black & white. Cut & dry. It made things clear. Clear for the moment at least.
And as the edge of the wing seemed to touch the painted sky, it all came back to him.
In black & white. Strange how, the recent past came back to him in black & white. And how the oldest memories were in vivid colours. And those in between, were in between. Colour fading to black & white, or black & white getting coloured, depending on how old or new the memory was.
It was then he realised, that the new perspectives that came to him, came to him in black & white. Just like his recent memories. Travel always gave him a new perspective that was in black & white. Cut & dry. It made things clear. Clear for those moments at least.
As she stared out of the window, she thought about where she was heading towards. And what she was going to see. Travel always gave her a new outlook. A new outlook to things that she might have believed in earlier. Or the outlook that already existed within, and was about to come out. But this time it seemed to be different. Like it was everytime. And everytime she traveled, she had this feeling.
And as the edge of the wing seemed to touch the painted sky, it all came to her.
In black & white. Strange how, the near future came to her in black & white. And how the distant future was in vivid colour. And those in between, were in between. Black & white getting coloured, or colour fading to black & white, depending on how near or far the future was.
It was then she realised, that the new outlook that came to her, came to her in black & white. Just like her anticipation of tomorrow. Travel always gave her a new outlook that was in black & white. Cut & dry. It made things clear. Clear for the moment at least.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Union
A streak of crimson ran through the sky. It was long past dusk. The night was setting in. Blue was slowly turning to black. There were no stars and the moon was hidden.
All I could hear was the wind and her voice. The wind wrapped itself around her words as they came to me. I listened and watched. I was frozen in the moment. Life buzzed by in the background. Blurred and distant. It was only us.
And suddenly, in the background of the crimson, a lone leaf lost its connection with the tree, and floated down. Down towards us and then past us. Away on its own path. Like our own path. Like the path that we had created for ourselves. Like the path we were on.
All I could hear was the wind and her voice. The wind wrapped itself around her words as they came to me. I listened and watched. I was frozen in the moment. Life buzzed by in the background. Blurred and distant. It was only us.
And suddenly, in the background of the crimson, a lone leaf lost its connection with the tree, and floated down. Down towards us and then past us. Away on its own path. Like our own path. Like the path that we had created for ourselves. Like the path we were on.
Saturday, March 19, 2005
I have seen
“I have seen it all unfold before my very own eyes.”
“And pray, what is it that you have seen unfold?”
“I have seen time unfold, my friend. I have seen the secrets come out from within. I have seen seasons come and go. I have seen him. I have seen her. I have seen their end. I have seen it all.”
“Do you really think you have seen it all?”
“Of course.”
“But there could be so much more to it, that you did not see.”
“Well, there could. But I have seen it all.”
“What if I told you about something that you have not seen?”
“You couldn’t possibly. For everyday that you have seen, I have seen a year. What could you have seen that I have not?”
“I have seen time become timeless, my friend. I have seen secrets being created. I have seen seasons merge into each other. I have seen him through her eyes. I have seen her through his eyes. I have seen that what you think is their end, is only the beginning. I have not seen it all, but I have seen.”
“And pray, what is it that you have seen unfold?”
“I have seen time unfold, my friend. I have seen the secrets come out from within. I have seen seasons come and go. I have seen him. I have seen her. I have seen their end. I have seen it all.”
“Do you really think you have seen it all?”
“Of course.”
“But there could be so much more to it, that you did not see.”
“Well, there could. But I have seen it all.”
“What if I told you about something that you have not seen?”
“You couldn’t possibly. For everyday that you have seen, I have seen a year. What could you have seen that I have not?”
“I have seen time become timeless, my friend. I have seen secrets being created. I have seen seasons merge into each other. I have seen him through her eyes. I have seen her through his eyes. I have seen that what you think is their end, is only the beginning. I have not seen it all, but I have seen.”
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Two times
The digital clock in front of me reads - 5:55
The one on the other wall reads - 22:22
The one on the other wall reads - 22:22
Two different times
In the same place
One living in the present
The other in the past
Or perhaps
The future?
Time passes
Through
Time zones
Sometimes taking us ahead
Sometimes leaving us behind
But always on time?
The minutes
Turn into hours
The hours
Turn into minutes
Which is which
In these two times?
The digital clock in front of me reads - 5:55
The one on the other wall reads - 22:22
The one on the other wall reads - 22:22
Monday, March 14, 2005
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
The list of life
Death did not come quickly enough.
It came swiftly, but not quickly enough.
He had been anticipating it for sometime. He had been thinking about it. Toying with the idea of dying. He remembered that he had once read a book called ‘The Art Of Dying’. When he picked it up from the book store, he had thought to himself, “Why would anyone write a book like this?”. And then something inside told him that it might be interesting. It might have something in it that he might want to read. To him death was a mystery and this book intrigued him. So he picked it up. And started reading it at night. After dinner. After everyone else in the house was asleep. Even death seemed to be asleep. And he read it through the night. Twice.
Then he knew he was going to die. Soon.
And he was prepared for it. He was mentally ready for it, for the book had shown him the way, the light that he needed to see. He knew when he was going to die and how. And he knew it would happen quickly.
So he lived every Friday night as if there was no tomorrow. Because he was going to die on a Saturday. He was not going to wake up from his sleep. He was going to die in his sleep. Dreaming dreams, and floating away. Because that was just the way that he wanted it to happen. And it was just the way it was destined for it to happen.
And every Friday he did things that he would never do otherwise. That he never dreamed of doing. He wanted to see life for everything that he wanted out of it. So every Friday night he lived his dreams. Some were simple and he could do it spontaneously, but some had to be planned over a period of time. So he made a list. A list of all the things that he wanted to do before he died. There were 52 in all. And another 10 in case death took its time. This was the list of life. The list that he needed to complete before he completed his life.
The list lay by his bedside table on the morning before he died. Neatly, one by one, every thing on it had been crossed out. Some of them twice.
See, death did come quickly, but not swiftly enough. So he had a second chance, he could go back and do some of his favourite things again. But he wanted to do one thing the night before he died. And he kept trying to time it correctly. But even though you knew, you couldn’t be too sure about death.
The night before he died something told him that he had overstayed his welcome. That it was time. That the time was coming. So he did what he wanted to do the most. And came back home. And crossed that item off his list for the second time. And went to sleep.
But the next morning he woke up. And wondered whether he had died. But he had not. Death had not come when it was supposed to. And he looked around and saw everything fading away. Slowly. In slow motion.
And he knew that death had come. It had not come quickly enough but it had come swiftly.
And ‘The Art Of Dying’ lay by his bedside, completed for the second time since he read it twice that night. And it was discovered beside him, almost new, like his death.
But under the book, was a complete manuscript and it began with the last line of the book, “I can now reply: I rewrote your last manuscript, the one that was lost, from memory.”
The line “I can now reply: I rewrote your last manuscript, the one that was lost, from memory.” has been used from Githa Hariharan’s ‘The Art Of Dying’.
It came swiftly, but not quickly enough.
He had been anticipating it for sometime. He had been thinking about it. Toying with the idea of dying. He remembered that he had once read a book called ‘The Art Of Dying’. When he picked it up from the book store, he had thought to himself, “Why would anyone write a book like this?”. And then something inside told him that it might be interesting. It might have something in it that he might want to read. To him death was a mystery and this book intrigued him. So he picked it up. And started reading it at night. After dinner. After everyone else in the house was asleep. Even death seemed to be asleep. And he read it through the night. Twice.
Then he knew he was going to die. Soon.
And he was prepared for it. He was mentally ready for it, for the book had shown him the way, the light that he needed to see. He knew when he was going to die and how. And he knew it would happen quickly.
So he lived every Friday night as if there was no tomorrow. Because he was going to die on a Saturday. He was not going to wake up from his sleep. He was going to die in his sleep. Dreaming dreams, and floating away. Because that was just the way that he wanted it to happen. And it was just the way it was destined for it to happen.
And every Friday he did things that he would never do otherwise. That he never dreamed of doing. He wanted to see life for everything that he wanted out of it. So every Friday night he lived his dreams. Some were simple and he could do it spontaneously, but some had to be planned over a period of time. So he made a list. A list of all the things that he wanted to do before he died. There were 52 in all. And another 10 in case death took its time. This was the list of life. The list that he needed to complete before he completed his life.
The list lay by his bedside table on the morning before he died. Neatly, one by one, every thing on it had been crossed out. Some of them twice.
See, death did come quickly, but not swiftly enough. So he had a second chance, he could go back and do some of his favourite things again. But he wanted to do one thing the night before he died. And he kept trying to time it correctly. But even though you knew, you couldn’t be too sure about death.
The night before he died something told him that he had overstayed his welcome. That it was time. That the time was coming. So he did what he wanted to do the most. And came back home. And crossed that item off his list for the second time. And went to sleep.
But the next morning he woke up. And wondered whether he had died. But he had not. Death had not come when it was supposed to. And he looked around and saw everything fading away. Slowly. In slow motion.
And he knew that death had come. It had not come quickly enough but it had come swiftly.
And ‘The Art Of Dying’ lay by his bedside, completed for the second time since he read it twice that night. And it was discovered beside him, almost new, like his death.
But under the book, was a complete manuscript and it began with the last line of the book, “I can now reply: I rewrote your last manuscript, the one that was lost, from memory.”
The line “I can now reply: I rewrote your last manuscript, the one that was lost, from memory.” has been used from Githa Hariharan’s ‘The Art Of Dying’.
Monday, March 07, 2005
Incomplete rain
There is nothing like the smell of red earth and the pouring rain.
It is raining right now. It started off as a small disturbing sound outside my window. Then like the traffic passing you by. And then beating down on the earth, on tin, on windows. And then slowing down to a drizzle. Slowly. Softly. But still there. Droplets trickling down the window pane alternated by fat drops falling from the ledge above. One at a time. Purposefully. The tree swaying to the early morning rain. The rain mingled with the dawn.
But there is no smell of the red earth with this pouring rain.
This rain is not complete.
It is raining right now. It started off as a small disturbing sound outside my window. Then like the traffic passing you by. And then beating down on the earth, on tin, on windows. And then slowing down to a drizzle. Slowly. Softly. But still there. Droplets trickling down the window pane alternated by fat drops falling from the ledge above. One at a time. Purposefully. The tree swaying to the early morning rain. The rain mingled with the dawn.
But there is no smell of the red earth with this pouring rain.
This rain is not complete.
Saturday, March 05, 2005
It’s not that simple
“I just can’t get into my mind what I should write about now.”
“Write about how things change when somebody comes into your life.”
“It is not that simple.”
“Of course, it is.”
“What makes you think it is so simple?”
“You write about change all the time.”
“That does not mean that this is going to be simple.”
“Why not? You write about change, you write about it all the time. This is something that is happening currently. So why can’t you write about it.”
Silence follows.
“Write about how things change when somebody comes into your life.”
“It is not that simple.”
“Of course, it is.”
“What makes you think it is so simple?”
“You write about change all the time.”
“That does not mean that this is going to be simple.”
“Why not? You write about change, you write about it all the time. This is something that is happening currently. So why can’t you write about it.”
Silence follows.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
To be continued ...
Because
Nothing is
Ever complete
Because
The past is
Here to stay
Because
An ending is
A disguised beginning
Because
Everything is
Not what it seems
Because
The present is
To be continued
Because
A new day is
Dawning today
Nothing is
Ever complete
Because
The past is
Here to stay
Because
An ending is
A disguised beginning
Because
Everything is
Not what it seems
Because
The present is
To be continued
Because
A new day is
Dawning today
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
