Tryst with Myself

A spell of contentment often gets me carried away to a unique distant island. I am no more at the mercy of my contemporaries and lay my hands off at whatever I feel like. This simple freedom from the clutches of the self developed emotions, whose reins I have voluntarily chosen to give in their hands, is my aphrodisiac. And I romanticize with myself.

I let all the tides overpower me with their vehement force, yet I keep craving for more. They challenge me and I keep getting subdued. They bring the water beneath my feet, take the sand along with them, and shake my foundation. In this bout of amazement, I keep trying to assess the strength of this ocean, thinking if something as silent as this can be so mighty and so deafening.

Spreading my both arms I stroll on the shores. And when I find myself whistling, I test all the vocal chords by singing a few classical songs. For, these songs are mine, I am singing them, I am giving soul to them and above all I am the audience. The encore is deafening. But the birds in my head keep flying. They do not sit on one tree. The more they love one, the more beautiful becomes others.

So, I let myself take a pause and sit down. My hands have not laid themselves on anything from a long time. And the bird leaves the old tree. I take out my charcoal pencil and a white sheet. Looking around, I find everything complicated with intricate details. But there is this, a small stone lying nearby. Is it beautiful? A vehement no. I go close to it and observe. This little fellow seems to be coming from that mountain which I was about to sketch. I was in awe of it and this is a highly unimportant part. Honoring it will be a dishonor to me. But can I honor the mighty mountain? Let me then deal with my equal. And on the barren landscape, the pencil starts making contours of it depicting its mountain like and stone like features.

The more I break myself free, more the self gets sublimated. I want to go back to the real world, which in reality is virtual. I take out a book of Dr. Rushdie and get myself drowned in his ancestral problems and issues. For, I am dreaming a dream of somebody who is a bigger dreamer than I am. There is a thread that connects his characters and objects and he keeps pulling one or the other part only to leave some as happy while others sad. And I aspire to get this control in my own play of characters and objects, with me also playing a role though the one who is observing them all sharing some of their agonies and pleasure.

The bird wishes to hop to some other tree. And indeed this is the most beautiful tree it has ever seen. Once again a white sheet is taken out, but along with a pen. This time, there is nothing in this world that holds my attention. I blind myself, hold my own hand and look for the shafts of light. There are some but not enough to dazzle me. I get tripped, gather my courage and then stand again to search. Suddenly there is a flash in the sky. The light blinds me completely and I find my pen starting its’ hours long journey. My characters dance in the praise of feeling this eternal pleasure, objects create symphonies and rhythms never heard before and in this bliss, I dive never to come to the surface and only to go in the eternal search of the bottom of this ocean of emotions.

I don’t want to come to your world. Amen.