Posted in Artists, Originals, Reflections

my impossible dreams | heera a poetry for your soul | highway a story for your soul

I want to find my dream boat.

And start sailing the oceans immediately.

I want to find what I want to do with my life.

And then start living the rest of my life.

It is getting difficult each passing day to not live that life anymore.

Having glimpsed it. Having tasted it. Having imagined it. And imagining that it was possible.

 Is all making it too difficult for me to just stand.

Just stand and watch my whole life pass by me.

After ending the call with my best friend of years, I was very happy. I felt strong because of her strength. I felt protected by her ferociousness. I felt beautiful because she had begun to accept herself and her own beauty.

But it did not last long. I was soon contemplating.

And I realised I was actually happy for her. I was happy for her life. Which is a wonderful thing, I am sure. I am selflessly, truly and from the bottom of my heart, happy for her.

But then I think about myself. And I think if I feel those things for my own life? Do I?

I do not.

At this phase in my life, I feel bound and suffocated. I have an urge to work hard. But I am not sure what to work hard for. I have some strengths and also some weaknesses. But the boxes, people around me are choosing to fit me into, seem too demeaning to me.

The limited choice of careers for the package I was born with, is very depressing and disheartening. It almost makes me want to give in. Either to their plans for me. Or give up the whole of them. 

It makes me want to run away. Leave their secure world, that they began preparing for me even before I was born. To just leave it all. And tell them those three magical words, I am going. 

And then just leave. On my own trail. On my own journey. Trying out my hand at my impossible dreams.

This is the song I always remember when I have this pang to just leave. To take the leap out. The necessary leap when fear is taking over me and my mind.

It borrows lines from an old poet from my lands. Kabir, who was famous for his wise couplets, revealing so much in such few words. Just like a diamond puts on display so many colours in its limited proportions. Revealing to us the beauty of all of light.

Heera soi sarahiye

Sahe ghanan ki chot

Kapat korangi manwa

Parkhat nikla khot

Let there be praise for only the diamond that has bore the pain of being cut and shaped

A belying deceitful heart more often than not reveals its truth on closer examination

Heera tahan na kholiye

Jahan kunjudaon ki haat

Sahaj gaanthi bandhi ke

Lage apni baat

Don’t put the diamond on display in the savages’ market

Have it safely tied up in your heart and wait for the right time to reveal it

Heera para bazaar

Raha char laptaye

Kethi murakh pache mohe

Liya paarakhi koye uthaye

LIke a diamond dropped amidst a fish market I lay wrapped in dust of the world

So many fools (with easily deceived eye) walked past me while the one with the wise eye carried me home

I fear becoming like that fallen diamond after I leave.

Extremely valuable but lying in dust. Was kept protected for long. Safe and secure from the world and its ways. When the time came for the knots to open and the diamond to come out on display, it was opened in the wrong market. It was opened in a market that only sold vegetables and fishes.

Where everything sold was instantly consumed. Bought. Cut. Cooked. Chewed. Flushed. Repeat. Tends to infinity.

What is a diamond to a man dying of hunger? He cannot eat a diamond. At best he can sell it away. And buy food with that money.

But that is not what a diamond is carved for! That is not the best a diamond can be treated like? Is there any worth, any value of that diamond lying in the dusty market road? Is there any hope of being cleared up to be seen for what it is worth?

Only the One with the wisest eye can. Only the One with an intuitive sight for beauty, can. Is the One really, truly, undoubtedly impossible to find?


Posted in Originals, Reflections

Three Kinds of Love – Solid, Liquid & Vapour

When he first kissed me, a needle pierced in my belly.

It never aches in a physical place, like the skin or the stomach. It is a suspended pain, somewhere in the ether of my insides. Like an entity, that is beyond the capture of my physical body, is feeling that love. A dimension above. In another dimension altogether.

A needle like thing was piercing me, in that dimension. I was able to feel that dimension because of his kiss.

I told him I had been kissed before. And they were quite passionate. Much more than his. What I meant was they were very assuring. In that they were full of thrust and force, in the physical body. In their physical use of tongue and lips, powerful and persuasive. Just the way they competed in real world. With persuasion and power to tell me of their superior love.

But when he kissed me, I felt a needle piercing me. A prick leading to a drop of blood. And then some more blood and some more pain. In a completely different realm because the blood came out as words and paintings and rhythms. Never as blood itself.

In the earlier kisses, the pain was distributed only to the place their tongues and lips touched me. Leaving bruises and sometimes even real blood. But this was an internal bleeding, and internal bruising. This was all over my body. I could feel the pain diffusing all over my body. The way invisible gases distribute all over in the room. And liquid water remains on the ground bound by gravity. And a solid ice, remains even more limited, bound by the attraction of its own egoistic identity. The attraction force of its own particles.

But his vaporized love was spreading through me like the discreetly released sarin of a chemical attack. And quietly choking at all my egoistic fears and apprehensions. Putting me to a slumber of love, of peace, of faith. In his arms.

In the beginning I mistook the difference between the physically tangible forms of other kisses and other loves. The absence of color and form of your sarin deluded me into thinking there was nothing there. But it was not until I turned to walk away, that it began showing effects. The strangling, the choking, the breathlessness, loss of neuron cells, an intangible gas causing a tangible death. And I knew. It was you.

Am I too late in realizing this? Was my first question after understanding this third form of love. But I guess after a lot of thinking and wondering and calculating and hoping, reality struck me. I was dying after all. Every single day, losing some of my neurons. Dying to the world I knew. Closing my eyes to the illusions without, to open within me a world of alternate truth. Deeper truth. Where the source of all the muddy rivers existed. Where all waters were pure because everything was pure at its source.

So when this death was already happening, might as well let you know that I was dying. And so I did. I pinged you. Called you drunk. Showed you the bruises the water and the ice left on my body. Told you I feared the same from you and so I kept away. Told you I was sorry.

Told you that I had finally learnt the meaning of the word passion. That it rooted itself in the Latin word passion meaning pain. It was first used in the history of English language for describing what Christ felt when he was nailed to the cross. When he adorned a crown of thorns on his head. Bleeding all over. In pain all over.

But he accepted each drop of blood as a symbol of his love, for other humans, his beloved. It was love dripping the color red that day. And such a pain borne for and out of love, was named passion.

It was not the physical aggression or a bruising emotional liquidity of love. It was an omnipresent breathe of vapor that wholly bruised a human inside out. Not in one or two places, but in each bone, muscle, down to each cell.

And I told you that your first kiss had the truest passion I ever knew.


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Posted in Movies, Originals, Reflections

Post-truth of Most Ugly-Duckling Transformations | Princess Diaries

When I was a little girl I saw this movie Princess Diaries and the lead role became my hero. She had undergone a transformation from being an ugly duckling to being a black swan. Being an ugly child of the house, she directly appealed to me, as you can clearly understand from the comparison above.

I wanted to be like her and find my own beauty. I desired for an instant makeover like the one in this picture here. Not unlike a lot of young girls at my age are fascinated by.


But I Was Not Under The Spell of Post-Truth

But there was more to my fascination with this particular story in terms of the transformation the girl undergoes in order to be a beautiful swan. She finds out in the due course of the story that the princess in her was always there. She onyl needed the courage to bring her out. Like when a small larva breaks the cocoon to become a butterfly, the larva is the butterfly. They are the same entities, same psychological and spiritual beings even though their physicalities have transformed.

It takes a while to actually see in these before and after pictures: the same girl, the same pure eyes, the same carefree smile and the same heart of gold. As if shown in the movie in this particular scene when Mia (the girl undergoing the transformation) reads out a letter from her royal father to his royal daughter, asking her to be strong and courageous even in the face of all the fears.

Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear

Post-Truth Check – Ugly Duck Cannot Become Beautiful Duck

Mia’s it was not the regular kind of transformation that girls usually went through, wherein they remained in the same place that they were looked down upon and then post-transformation were given respect by the same people who disrespected her. That would actually count not as an ugly duck to black swan transformation but actually an ugly duck becoming a beautiful duck.

It is really impossible for an ugly duck to ever become a beautiful duck. Because according to the standards of duck beauty she has been deemed ugly. If she is ever to be considered beautiful, that can only be in world that has different standards of beauty. A world where there are swans and where she is welcomed to be who she already is. That is why she is a beautiful swan and not a beautiful duck really. An ugly duck is always going to be an ugly duck.

Truth of Transformation

Her only way of becoming beautiful is to find other swans and be recognised as one among them. As was in the true story of the Ugly Duckling.

The ugly duckling was born to a mother duck as she nested other eggs in her nest. It was the only one bigger than the rest. The ugly duckling was different form the very beginning. The ugly one turned out to be black and different from the pure white ducks. And was continuously ridiculed upon by the rest of the mother duck’s family and community. At a certain age, the mother duck could not take the humiliation of her baby and as a result of herself, so much so that she asked her ugly baby duckling to go away.

This act of leaving the place the ugly duckling called home ever since it learned the definition of the word home, is crucial. It had to go through a long and elaborate journey, filled with all kinds of struggles and hurdles, many of the kind that almost broke its will to live. It almost gave into cold and death. But it hung to slightest hope that it could find, the hope of seeing its dream come true. Of finding beauty in its ugly self.

And then finally one day, it lands amongst the waters of freedom. It floats away into a pool of swans that looked and sung like it. It shared music with these strange creatures of another world. It felt home like it had never felt with anyone in its real home. It was finally, truly home, the way a home is meant to be. It is a beautiful black swan, singing away the music of its soul and contributing into the universal sound – the singular verse of everything.

Still Trapped in the Post-Truth? Watch This Caterpillar Struggle To Become A Butterfly

Warning : You may feel creeped out and uncomfortable watching the video. But that is your proof that Truth is Uncomfortable and unnerving. And that is one of the ways to fight Post Truth. To put it to the test of Discomfort.

Most of the stories that we may have grown up on, or still cling to, deep down  in our dungeons of self-shame, are only clawing at these very insecurities we all nurture. They are not speaking the truth that we will need to go through a painful transformation like that of a butterfly, burst out of our small selves, burst open our tiny cocoons of minds and develop wings that will definitely pierce through our skins for us to be able to become butterflies. A larva is never turned into a flying larva but rather into a butterfly. It aches, hurts, almost dies with pain, is mostly blind to the probably future of becoming a butterfly and most importantly, constantly endangered by death altogether. And when it keeps its focus through all of these stages, does it finally turns into a independent, gorgeous, tender little independent creature we all call a Butterfly. Only then.


And just for the record, Post-Truth is a new age term borne of our generation pregnant with belying politicians willing to twist and turn facts to represent conclusions of their interest. It has led to the following definition of the term Post-truth

” Relating to or denoting circumstances in which objective facts are less influential in shaping public opinion than appeals to emotion and personal belief “

(Taken from Oxford Dictionaries)

Posted in Artists, Reflections

A TED Talk For Your Soul | Music, Identity and Poetry | Jorge Drexler

This is so so so so beautiful!

Thank you thank you thank you in the name of everything beautiful there ever was.

Thank you thank you thank you in the name of everything beautiful that ever died.

Thank you thank you thank you in the name of everything that was worth having this life.

Thank you thank you thank you in the name of everything worthy that was let gone.

Love is a very small word for what I feel right now. This piece of art and this artist, in contemplation of where he comes from, the real root, is unnervingly grounding and sublimely beautiful.

I don’t know you brother or your language, but I know every word you have said because those words have been experienced by me too. I have felt what you felt when you put those words down into poems.

I have felt and forgotten and you have reminded me of them.

Thank you thank you thank you in the name of reminding the beautiful that was forgotten.

Posted in Poetry, Reflections

i began writing to capture

i began writing to capture.

to capture thoughts of other worlds

that showed themselves to me in quietude

to capture emotions wrapped in my skin

trapped between layers of cells released in tears

to capture uncontrollable waters gushing out

from the folds of my bones as experienced eternity

to capture dripping blood that fell uninterrupted

drop by drop, from wounds unseen in my soul

to capture the demon of fear that lurked 

beneath a sheet with a hole in it, abiding its time to attack

to capture everything that the world told me 

was absolutely full of shit and of no use to it

for the world has learnt its ways of moving on

from heartbreaks and bleeding and crushed dreams

it does not need the comfortable quilt of signs and lines

to become words to become emotions to become its tears

it goes on. it moves on. it lives on. 

and i am left behind with a choice

with the world or without the world.


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