Grappling with Life

Cast into a life sans choice,

Into a world of vibrant sights and sounds,

Of infinite detail and endless wonder,

I lie, astonished, as I grapple with reality,

I look down to find limbs that move,

A critter that remembers and somehow, learns too,

Surrounded by others who seem to look the same, 

But bothered least by how they came to be,

Puzzled at how they're unfazed by it all, 

I stare in surprise while I join their line, 

And as I prepare to choose to start, 

I see that some time's already gone past, 

And so I drape my clothes and polish my shoes,

As I pack my lunch and head to leave,

I wonder if, perhaps they're right, the way they see,

For they do indeed, seem to know it all,

And before I find words to speak,

And grasp, slowly, the ways of the world,

I'm taught to act, to struggle and to achieve,

To compete with others but make friends still,

That I must strive to have that one thing I don't, 

No matter what all I had to lose on the way, 

Encouraged to learn from those that have it, 

Praying no heed to all that they possess not,

Threatened by a clock that ticks sans mercy,

I run after goals of degrees and jobs,

Enticed by a promise of peace later,

In exchange for my time and strength,

And before I know it, I'm caught in a loop,

Of putting out fires and ticking off lists,

To clear off tasks and things I should do,

So that, one day, I can live for myself,

To return to a peace I could've always embraced,

For it's walked by my side all these years,

Always present but not making any fuss,

Nor receiving from me, the slightest look,

A peace where I could finally wonder,

And ask the question, that I've cast for later,

Questions that were prudent but are now a burden,

For I was always told that other things matter more,

But as I skim through days, I wonder, 

If I'm the only one that carries the burden of these questions, 

Dragging through life, but troubled by doubt,

As pointless fears and duties steal my attention away,

As I live through time, I look around to see,

Results of my actions, both tangible and not,

Even lives, created by desire planted in my soul,

That I protect, driven by instinct that I claim as choice,

Focus gets pulled asunder by objects even more,

While I fight on to return to an imagined centre,

Looking back to gather memories of accomplishment,

That I can weave a story around and then learn to take pride in,

And as I live on, dragging my doubts along,

I wonder, as I pen my song,

If perhaps no response can truly answer,

Perhaps holier than the answer are the questions themselves,

And so, I record these beats of my heart,

For those who connect, to nod along, 

Penning down each turn that my heart takes, 

Upon a map of thought that turns to art, 

For this is perhaps the holiest I can do,

To offer to life that birthed my soul,

As the devout would lift a handful of water, 

To offer it back into the river itself.

A Goodbye to Tejaskumar Bharsakale

Bound on a journey headed to the South of this land,

He received signs of an impending bond,

Forged both by links of close friendships,

And also the impending signing of sheets,

Fortune hit as he got one and not the other,

Leading to nexuses that only got stronger,

Through knots cast by food and work,

And by his inimitable ability to cook,

Memories grew as days flew by,

Caught in pictures that he took on the fly,

Through strolls after lunch and at Shiva's hill,

And of tales of home and of a cousin's betrothal,

And before he knew, change ushered in,

A change that'd benefit his kith and kin,

And so, a year ahead of his promised stay,

He began his return, his journey away.

A Writer's Angst

"We all play roles. I do too. And our roles demand us to do certain things. I have to do them too. I just try to loosen that a bit and not let these compulsions of my role define the entirety of who I am" - Words

"I reluctantly take credit because I was the first to hear from within, to come in contact with and to note down these words that wrote themselves" - The Poet

I watch, with a sideglance, at the words,
That I found, so proudly, I could manipulate,
Flexing them like balls of clay, teasing them about,
With fingers that could keep up with thoughts,
Slowing them down though, to beautify articulation,

I wonder, as I add a kick to a line,
My vanity silencing the voice of doubt,
If this is truly an attempt to capture wisps of my soul,
Or perhaps just a tool, to capture others',

While my wonderful readers read with love,
Nodding, to affirm with their heads and soul,
That I'd put into words what they too felt,
Appreciating subtlety that's captured in ink,

Spelt out exactly as they knew, within,
As if there's a smooth link between their heart and my digits,
I still wonder, as I'd smile at praise,
If my works would be purer if untainted by grammar and style,

Do I claim the praise of Language Herself,
When in truth, I'm just a channel for her flow,
Perhaps the best I can do is work with the ways of the world,
Honest only until the ceiling hits my head,

I talk and I write, to connect and to document,
Little breadcrumbs like Hansel, to retrace the roadless path to my soul,
And write some more, in exhaustion, to lessen the burden,
Of thoughts and feelings that haunt my head,

Do I love them, these words that I note with such fervour?
Or do I ask to bury them to never dig up again?
For, after all do I not seek to be rid,
Of thoughts and feelings I'd picked up on the way,

Thoughts that I've held, so long and hard,
That they've scarred the fingers that now hold my pen,
That when I seek to put them down on a sheet,
I cannot but mix a piece of my soul,

Thoughts solidified over years, over decades,
That I've forgotten, were only collected, not created,
That they shall leave behind a deep imprint on my hands,
That I wish to be free from having to remember,

Yes, I did seek some relief indeed,
But not entirely from feelings that I felt with love,
I sought merely to record so I didn't have to carry,
And to make space in me so I could revisit these in peace,

And once I start writing, I become free half way through,
With more to say but no energy to write,
And as my soul begs to empty itself, my hand wishes to stop,
For there's no fuel left to make it move

Oh who knew I'd need such pain to write,
That my soul had to boil for words to spill out?

With one hand stabbing my heart while the other wrote,

So it was blood, not ink that filled my pen,

Who knew, that there's a path between the heart and words,

That, to pump words through this mapless path,

One most spend a part of one's might,

Trampling other thoughts on the way,

And when there isn't more to fill my pen,
That a thought would suffocate on it's way to my nib,
Desperate, I attempt to keep a dying thought alive,
I stab it before it ripens full,

To note an idea that's still a child,
I desecrate its supple, rosy skin,
Sinning, heartless beyond any way I can atone,
And i nail it to my sheets, thin and weak,

Stabbing the bliss of the present moment,
In a frenzied attempt to not let it pass,
I stain my pages that can never be washed,
Only to find that I've strangled more thoughts,

Oh I see I should let these grow full,
And let them flow to make it count,
And as I pause to record this thought,
I kill another as I note it down,

Oh I thought I was a saviour, a harmless chronicler,
Of those that're felt by man within,
Assigning names to those subtle twitches,
That're nameless yet deeper than language can ever see,

And now, as I look upon my bloody mess,
I see I'm a helpless surgeon,
Trying to do the best he can,
Doing my best with what I have,

I protect these thoughts without reading another,
Lest that destroys what's already within,
I try, with all my might to save what's with me,
But failing, at times, for I'm only a man,

Unable to stop, I try still,
Recording more by failing still,
While expressing, each word a tiny coffin of a moment,
For each one is always of a foregone instant.