Sacrifice...

There was a bid,
In that celebrated auction,
With just one buyer,
Only one precious,
Only one artist,
He sold his masterpiece, his soul.
And attained,
The halo of light.
They call it sacrifice, do you?

"Illusions" by Richard Bach

Tonight at 1 a.m, I asked this book a question as i always do when I don't really know what should I do, rather what is right, and the reply that I got was:

Every person,

all the events of your life

are there because you have

drawn them there.

What you choose

to do with them is

up to you.

this story of ours

band aankho me chupi
sadiyon purani
anjaan kuch
kuch jani pehchani
waqt se pehle, waqt ke baad
teri meri likhi har kahani
fir usi satah ki zubaani
ban kar aayegi wahi nayi kahani

na bharam koi
na faasle hamare beech
na oonchaiyon ke ta-le simte hue
raaz ki zubaani
na saharon ki zarurat
na mit-te bharoson ki chah
na manzil tak jaati
koi dagar purani

jo dekha, suna, jana
har pal kiya mehsus
wo chand lamhe khusi ke
sahej lena tum
aur
dena use
jo aaye tumhare paas
aur mange ye kahani

yahi toh hai bus
choti si, nazuk si
andekhi, fir bhi jani pehchani
teri aur meri, ye ankahi kahani

this is dee. written by her as only a comment on my post 'sawaal'. it was too beautiful to be kept there.

it is her message, "jo dekha, suna, jana, har pal kiya mehsus, wo chand lamhe khusi ke, sahej lena tum aur dena use, jo aaye tumhare paas aur mange ye kahani" (what was seen, heard, imbibed and felt every moment, those few moments of joy, gather them close and give to the one who comes and asks for these) that is the spirit of my writing.

yes, sometimes i do feel what this story of us will be like. its a journey that has only begun. where will the gods lead us? and whether anybody will remember us after we are gone. will you?

- adi.

the thread that binds

It is around a holy tree,
She revolved her belief,
It stands a sacred symbol,
Surrounded by four pillars of gold,
Small engravings of wisdom,
Being chanted out,
In a language long forgotten,
Surviving only as a dead whisper,
A whisper loud enough to wield power,
To keep her enslaved;
Surrounded by red and yellow flags,
The amber incense filling the senses with a fragrance that helps,
To create a trance that culminates into,
A numb ecstasy;
A trance of oaths, pledges,
Offerings and devotion;
Endless heads with her bowing down,
Millions of souls revolving around,
The tree oozing out divine faith,
Her faith, their faith;
Taken from within and given away,
Sold by the proxy Gods,
As sacred threads; that
Are tied back on the stems, on the branches
Where it stays and will stay
For her, for them,
The manifested faith, faith she searches for,
Faith she will always search for,
Till it is hers.

A few evenings ago the two of us, unknowningly, were writing the same thing, differently ofcourse, but similar also. And it turned out into a little story of faith and wonder. Here's the other thought.

Main
Dheer Gambhir, Dharti putra
Khada akela
Devalaya ke prangan mein
Yugon yugon se
Maun sanwad mein
Pooch raha
dhyeya apna
Vayu-varun
Akash-arun se
Ya dhoondh raha tha
Antim-agni alingan mein

Tum
Shakti putri
Gatimay, chapal
Prashant, atal
Baandh gayin
Chahun aur mere
Aastha ki
dori kushal

Aur main
Ashaay peepal
Ban utha
Kalpvriksh sabal

Shikwa...

Khaak hote in anjaan lamho ka kya kije,
Tujhse na ho baat, fir lafzon ka kya kije;

Beparwah shor-o-gul ke beech hai khoti,
Is kambhakt beimaan zubaan ka kya kije;

Khwab dekhkar taameer bhi kar lete hum inhe,
Is adhkhuli adhjagi aankh ka kya kije;

Deewangi ki koi had dhoti to paar karte,
Is besabab beadab raftaar ka kya kije;

Khuda se maangte gar khuda hume nawaazta tujh se,
Is be mauke ramzaan me azaan ka kya kije;

Baith-te har us mehfil me jahan zikr ho tera,
Is bad-mizaaz bad-dimaag jahaan ka kya kije;

Fursat hoti to har ik lafz sajate tere naam se duniya k liye,
Badzaat is waqt ki guhaar ka kya kije;

Sailaab hota to karte thaamne ki koshish hum koi,
Palak se jude is there tufaan ka kya kije;

Junoon hai ki zalzala le aaye jahan bhar ki khushi,
Jo khud hi se dare hum, aise jazbaat ka kya kije.

Arjuna's conscience

Line by line the mortal pearls
Are grinded to dust,
While safely kept in the closet.
And when adorned,
By the saints frail,
Shine like the rusted nails.

They are not my creations,
Mere reflections,
On the assorted suspensions.
Disintegrating by and by,
Leaving behind vulnerable voids.

And here I am, their curator,
Trying to preserve,
With potions and paints,
Keep them alive,
Until I faint;
An alarm I am, with them I stay,
Lest the devil take them away,
Take me away…

While fighting this fierce battle, I pray,
O! Krishna guide me.
Against myself this battle is mine,
Suspended in truth, suspended in time.

Eyes have forgotten the tears,
Awry smiles in mind somewhere,
Beyond lies my battlefield,
O! Krishna come to my shield
Let me not forsake myself
Long before I cease to be.

Or so it seems...

Standing in front of a pool of water,
Gazing at the depth increased manifold,
The consciousness searching for my origin,
The eyes feasting on the clarity yet untold,
I loved the ugly reflection inside,
I liked my universe smiling back at me,
The same scum, the similar marshes,
The sultry, simmering, summer swamps
The hungry bog with its doomed tentacles,
Spreading the plague; through irresistible clamps,
I was merely looking at an artificial pit,
With a mirror base,
That produced the oceanic mirage,
Recreating the depth,
Rewriting the history,
Refashioning my past;
Entranced I stood,
Bound to the now beautified ugliness,
By a conscious surrender of the search,
I felt tired and weary,
Or so it seemed…