The Coming of the Ship

   So, on the 2^nd day of the year, down with a bad cough and cold, I confine myself to my bed.  A balmy northern breeze, unexpectedly warmer, is caressing my face. And a warmer sun is playing hide and seek with my feet. Through the leafy branches of a tree, I can see tufts of gloomy clouds trying to cover up a lazy sun. Just like empty thoughts jostling for space in my mind.

                It feels nice. Nice for finding some time for yourself and not getting bogged down by the monotonous monochrome maladies of life. Often I have wondered about all the efforts we put in our daily lives. To what does it round-up to? Another year passes by and getting older by another year. But are we getting any wiser? It’s incommodious as too many antagonistic thoughts queue up the thinking wagon. Pages of a national geographic magazine adds fuels to the thought fire and my heart clings to its deepest proclivity.  

                Someone somewhere starts playing a mouth organ. These kind of tunes can make you nostalgic instantly and for a moment you stop and turn back to glance at the road you tread. A montage of memories fill up your thoughts. What you dig up from these reminiscences is not under your control. But just like the tune of the mouth organ, let it fill your soul. Life is not always about doing things the right way. If you always try to measure up things and fret about them, it is actually that very moment when life passes by and you fail to notice it.

                Random, chaotic thoughts embezzle my senses and I seem to drift away into a faraway land where one’s life is like a utopian dream. But sometimes, such a feeling of a chaotic mind helps. One must spend time alone for introspection. It is the time when your soul opens up and you begin to comprehend the essence of your life and how it should be. You begin to recognize yourself. It is the time when you allow the mind to meet the heart and you begin to unravel your yearnings. 

For a moment the sun hides behind the clouds and I come back to my senses. Now the sun, through the leaves, creates crisscrossing shadows on my face. Somehow it reflects the state of my mind. I remember a fragment from the chapter ‘The Coming of the Ship’, in the book ‘The Prophet’ by Kahlil Gibran:

“A voice cannot carry the tongue and the lips that give it wings. Alone must it seek the ether.

And alone and without his nest shall the eagle fly across the sun”.

Letters to Anita : The Letter 5

The principles of love are not defined by doctrines of wisdom. It is an untamed force that knows no prodigy. It is but a simple flowing river, fed by rivulets of hope, which empties itself into the ocean of desire. Its path may be strewn with numerous obstacles, but it still goes on. And when it cannot meet the ocean, it floods the plains of wisdom and kills itself. Ocean unfed by the river, starves to death. It then vanishes into thin air and does not return again. Then on some fine day, maybe in a faraway land, clouds gather at the abuttal of heart and mind. And it rains again into the parched earth of desire.

Anita,

Stop writing these letters to me. You are just hurting yourself. I know you love me very much. But I love someone else more. She is not perfect, but perfect enough to reach my heart.

You sent me a leaf, probably from that tree where we once sat and spend hours talking. You were always a very good friend of mine and I hid nothing from you. I will always love you as a friend. Because that’s what you are. Where is my long lost cherished friend?

Some nights, you walk down to my home and put the letters in my letter box. You take great care in writing those. I know you try to instill love in my heart. But you don’t have to. It is already filled with the sweet love of friendship that I have always cherished. I will keep this letter in the box for you to read. I hope you will understand. 

Yours only true friend.

She wept under the tree which once shaded her from the harshness of life. But now the tree seemed like a grotesque monster ready to devour her with dark boughs. It seemed peaceful now. It will be just like the old times. A river was flowing through her heart and it has flooded the plains of her wisdom.

The principles of love are not defined by doctrines of wisdom.

Letters to Anita : Letter 5

            A sudden searing pain jabbed at his back electrocuting his spine. He wanted to scream his lungs out but sound seemed to do the lacking. He tried to reach his hand to something at his back but the coldness of the steel sliced his flesh as he tried to. Someone was watching him. He tried to look but his eyelids were too heavy to open. Somehow blood has filled his mouth or was he hallucinating? His legs gave away and he slipped into a muddy ditch in front of him. He tried to pick himself up but it seemed his legs were chained to heavy iron balls. Suddenly he realized what the ditch was for and coldness ran through his body. A cloudy rainy dusk will bring the night soon. Calmness begins to envelope him and there is no pain anymore. He just wants to sleep now. As he slipped into his sleep a dark figure appeared over the ditch. He couldn’t make out who it was. Behind it the tree seemed like a grotesque monster ready to devour him with dark boughs. Or was it the figure. The monster started reading from a piece of paper. Was it his letter? It was barely audible to him. He did not care anymore. He closed his eyes and he loved the darkness. There was something very reliving about it.

Letters to Anita : Letter 4

           Rain lapped at the cheeks but the shadowy figure continued to brisk down the street.  The sharp-edged moon is long gone and dreams can wait for a while. Puddles danced in sinewy strides. Tucked under the arm was a semblance of hope.

            A single street light fought the darkness in lynching rain as winds whistled in pain. A silhouette began to appear.  The other end of the street couldn’t be seen at all. An old tune hummed between the lips. Razor like blades were cutting through the body. Wobbly legs carried the dark figure. At the catacomb of its mind, thoughts were running wild. In its heart was a strange desire. As always. But the reality is far from wishes of a whimsical mind.

            As the figure reached the end of the street, a ghost like house stood in front of it. Tucked arm revealed a trembling hand with an envelope. A little red letter box creaked in dismay. Red paint was peeling off its body. But this time it was not a quick delivery. For a moment the eyes were transfixed on a neatly sealed envelope inside the box. It was for the deliverer.  It quickly picked up the envelope and replaced it with its own.  

            A single street light fought the darkness in lynching rain as winds whistled in pain. A silhouette began to disappear.  Too many thoughts crossed its mind. Somewhere there was a hope. The creaking letter box woken up a pair of soggy eyes. It peered through the sheet of rain and saw the figure. It was nothing unusual. It does not even bark herald anymore.