The great fountain, and the ‘chatak pakshi’

I thought love was too much to ask for. Life tells me it may not be
found and yet it is the only thing to ask for. The magnetic north, the
We are bennu birds, birds-to-be with the grain of life and eternity in our beaks,
birds waiting open-mouthed for eternities for that single drop from the stars,
defined by thirst and poetry.

Of origins and ends

“As a [person’s] desire is, so is his destiny. For as his desire is, so is his will; as his will is, so is his deed; and as his deed is, so are its consequences, good or bad.” So say the Upanishads. And Descartes came along a lot later to say again, “I think, therefore I am,” and now for the next millennium or so written records will pay attention to this truism. So much of the charm of human history is in our forgetting and rediscovering ourselves and our philosophies and their inspirations. Hide and seek. Ends and origins.


Searching for Peace

If I feel the void I must remember I am a reed; out of my space comes
my music.That which I cannot see need not be absent, for life is a
double-edged sword–perfect in heft and balance, seeking the hand of
the soul-master, bearing the known and unknown on its edge. The thin
red line is the one I walk today. Some day it shall be the lighted


Pain. One needs pain to write and live and see. I crave and fear it.
Perhaps this is the soil of the literature I read. I wanted to know. As
far back as I can remember I have sought wisdom above all. Little did I
dream of the terrible price. They told me I should write. I knew the
price in tears and, fearing to pay it, said that I do not seek to be
known. That it is not given to each and all to be heard. "Main pal do
pal ka shayar hoon"…etc. I prayed not to live. Yet I prayed to be a
small spreading laurel tree. The gods, being bountiful, gave me an
ocean of life and an ocean to give. Now I pray that something be born
beyond these contained shores.

Bits of a summer afternoon

And so it turns, day after day, season after season; the diurnal within the annual and the seasons of the heart within it, in a slight
syncopation of emotion and action, in endurance and agony.
The story of each hour, the tales that go untold.
Here I remain, a bent wordsmith who thinks she may write one day, in search of a muse and Mt. Helicon all at once. Poor midget, who doesn’t know that the price of wisdom is sight, and the price of the mead of poetry is love.