Monthly Archives: August 2014

The Kalyug Ramble

Disease. War. Depression. Misery. Death.

The story of the world today chronicles around this paradigm. Be it the Gaza conflict or the bitter news of someone close afflicted by cancer, there’s not a sliver of hope anywhere. The worst part is only the most innocent seem to be given the worst. Is it the brilliant girl’s fault that she lost the love of her life in a society that reeks of ostracizing against widows? Perhaps it was the blind boy’s karma that got to him when his mother got terminal cancer. I am tired of sympathizing with people and sympathizing with myself. Do I become a masochist, inflicting pain upon myself so I may not feel selfish for singularly feeling happy when misery floats around depreciating hope? It feels strangely hypocritical writing about love and joy and anything not connected to pain when there is so much of it around for inspiration. I am leaning too much towards idealism, maybe? I think I don’t really know anything right now. I refuse to delve myself too much into religion, and yet find myself wanting to accuse Him, falteringly because of fear on one hand, of unfairly doling out misery in haphazard proportions to those that least deserve it. Perhaps it is true, the concept of the “absentee landlord” but somewhere my conservative upbringing refuses to believe it, for it it is in my blood that when all is lost, a force helps you. One interpretation of this force is God, but to me the interpretation is forever hope.

Maybe the Indian scriptures are right after all. We are now in the Kali Yuga, in a world chronicling despair. Maybe all this is in the mostly ambiguous plans that the unknown force has laid out for us. Still, it is this submission of life into the hands of some indomitable force, this helplessness that irks. If man were not supposed to take his destiny into his own hands, he should not have been bestowed with the ability to think. But this train of though makes me shudderingly think of all those young girls of four being raped by insane pedophiles, when they clearly do not know enough to think. How are they to save themselves then, how are they to take their fates on their own hand. Worse, how about the cases of female infanticide where hypothetical iron ladies are crumbled to dust before flesh forms? So, yes humans can think, but to think you need to develop, and to develop you need to live. I wonder if it is terrorists we go to begging for our lives, abandoning the moral compass, the government, abandoning dignity, or God, abandoning/ in the quest for hope.

Call me weak. Some part of me says that if I were Atlas, I would abandon the earth. Why do humans have emotions at all? If we did not know extreme happiness we would not mind sadness, if we did not feel hope we would not mind despair and if we did not feel , we would exist, which is more that what a lot of people are doing right now. In the wide depressing ocean of grief then, do the droplets of joy fading into nothingness count? I don’t know. Furthermore, I might sound selfish in saying I don’t want to find out. I just want to live without the hundred voices around me screaming despondently and the one voice inside me asking if it should shout too, just to match the ones outside. Soon, osmosis should start acting up, and the voices outside will start seeping in.

Sigh. Hot pasta awaits. I will be joyous in the tiny ways I can until guilt seeps in again.



Sonnet XVII- Pablo Neruda

And whenever my heart should in agony pine

and need to explain incessant craving of thine

love- I turn to find you in the master of soul

Neruda- your letters bind the broken heart whole.

Sonnet XVII

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Pablo Neruda

Writer’s Block

Hooded man lurks stealthily with blood stained knife

The Cheshire cat keeps close to the baker’s wife

The jeweled crown is stolen from the safe

And the guarded mafia is suddenly unsafe

The dead land’s engulfed with crop circles strange

And a tryst with death is too close to abate

But man rises from rubble to riches

And saints led across fire become witches

He’s noticed her, but no, perhaps?

She’s lost in a maze, and needs life’s maps.

Odysseys started but stopped midway

Are words in my mind, are words in my mind.