Strangers They Were; Strangers they will be

On an unknown rocky rough path, lay a boulder at a side. The debilitating sun gleamed off its dark hard skin, hardened with torments of time. The mighty boulder stood so, firm and invulnerable, yet unworthy for an instance of genuine attention or a word of admiration. Often wanderers of the path, ridiculed it with an epithet, “The worthless phlegmatic burden.” As one of them carved on this rock, their favourite byname for it, with pride it took the mockery and crowned itself with the ludicrous sobriquet. Never it uttered a sigh of grief, and never it wiped off when they spat at it.

The sun can be merciless, and so can be life. A stranger who was passing by the rock, weakened by the sun, athirst was her soul, she craved for a drop of appeasement. The life-force stolen off her by the bandits of treachery and her smile taken away; there she was, left despaired and restless. She sat on the very boulder that never tasted thankfulness. The rock comforted her, on which she decided to spend some time. Blessed she was with time in abundance; for her, the path led nowhere, she floated rudderlessly as the remains of a wrecked ship. 

The rock never pronounced a syllable of wretchedness; the intrusion, it welcomed with an amiable warmth of its hard dermis. Anon, the garment of darkness with fine art of celestial bodies, draped the twilight; it was night. The cold wind even more cruel than the scorching heat of the day. But, the boulder kept the woman warm with its retained heat from the noon.

The rock bosomed the woman and while she laid on it in peace, the rock exhibited an incredible deed. Its heart from deep within the tough shell, hummed a mollifying lullaby, listening to which the woman let a smile take its place on her lips, and a solitary tear drop trickled down from her eye. The rock didn't let this priceless pearl stolen away by the wind; it opened its pores to let the drop of tear permeate into its heart. 

As the night progressed, while still in sleep she recited her tale of melancholy, and she scratched on the rock, her pain and agony. Pertaining to its imbecilic nature, the rock imprudently bought possession of the hurt, carved into its surface. Night soon passed while she slumbered like a child in the protection of the boulder. The therapeutic hum alleviated her suffering, and she was once again full with vigour. She, once again, had purpose and the path eagerly awaiting her to be walked upon. The rock, it seemed, had whispered the secrets of being merry and bestowed upon her the gift of equanimity, while she was asleep. 

Exhilarated and ready she was to continue her journey.  She looked ahead and saw that it was a long way to go. She dusted off the dirt of her shoes on the rock, and spat on it. Disdainfully she walked away without looking back, and the rock gawked in hope for a sign of gratitude. And, as her image misted away in the distance, it spoke with a gaping heart,

“As strangers they come, and yet strangers they are,
Never will I mourn again for my imbecilic heart, 
Nay will the world change, and never will I,
As a sanctuary here I lay, until I turn to dust and die.
And when you leave, which at last you will, 
Do look back to thank, as you walk down this hill,
But for now, restrain me not, wind, and let it swell,
May this be the last drop of tear that pours out of my well.”

In the journey of life, you would encounter “rocks,” that comfort you and ease you off your pain. They never care if you're a stranger or a friend, they just help. When you leave, please do look back to thank them, for it doesn't cost you a penny to do so, but for them, it's priceless.

Have a beautiful day ahead.

Copyright (c) 2014 Shine Jayakumar

Ode Of The Desert

One-two one-two, march of the brute soldiers,

Smite and kicks, “Out of my way, peasant!”

“Hail to our king, Dominicus, the Omnipresent”

Trumpeters roar, eulogizing faux hegemony

Lascivious indulgence, he was the agent of polygyny;

“At dawn of the seventh day, we bring down Theophilus”

Summoned he, the messenger, “Come hither, Ignoramus”

Coarse heedless dysphemism, “...pardon, my lord, it's Nicostratus”

Ah, matters least...thou must traverse past the valley of the dead

This word shalt make their souls shiver in dread”

“So be it my lord, I must leave now before it is dark”

With water and a dagger, on his white horse he embarks;

Cruel desert, and the soulless sand,

but inhumane was the message in hand

At a distance he witnesses a witchery unseen

Silhouette of a woman approaches, her eyes sea green

“What thou, owner of such beautiful face, seekest in this desert?”

Nicostratus, I comether to guide thee out of here

I sense a lost soul, and thy heart brimming with fear

Thou carry words of terror, inscribed on papyrus

Thy king, a blasphemous fool, together with Cyrus

They foresee victory in ravaging the just

Dominicus will fall, his weapon only good as rust

Thou must warn Theophilus, and there shalt thou seek refuge

With winds will I blind, and drown the evil with terrible deluge

Woman, how dost thou knowest so well about the future?

Thou knowest the King better, that inveterate suitor

Nicostratus, I know for my winds taste man's deeds from his breath

And surely can my sands tell, the living salt in thy sweat

Woman, grateful I am, what must I call thee?

So relieved I am, free from the King's decree

Nicostratus, I have no face, no form, no name

My existence sees no worth for fame

I dwell and rule, the earth and above

I author mortal emotions, of hate and love

Thou shalt never see this form, never in this realm

But, surely will thou see me, reigning my helm

My purpose fulfilled, I must bid thee farewell

I am nature herself, and in nature in dwell

Turned into sand she dissipated in the wind

Nicostratus, now destined to protect, as a paladin

The kind nature appeared as a balm to his hurt

And, so goes the legend, the ode of the desert

Copyright (c) 2014 Shine Jayakumar

My Chalice Never Brims

I am the one who was born with a chalice, moulded with immaterial silver. The chalice that cannot be delineated with a consummate artist’s imagination, for it is amorphous. I barely knew the significance of it; as a child, I was accustomed to innocent ignorance. Soon I was conditioned to incrementally and constantly fill this unfathomable chalice.

First came moral values and social constructs, and I pleasurably invited them, and poured them into my chalice. Though, this was not the inaugural addition; these were the first ones I remember. I looked at the inner bottom of the chalice to find some congenital attributes that were inherited. Miraculous it seemed, the chalice grew in size as I poured in more. This peculiar amalgamation of intellectual liquid in the chalice, sometimes seemed frivolous to me. Some of this uncanny liquid evaporated with time, and some supplanted with modernistic hot fluid and nonsensical newfangled believes, but some were a delight to my taste-buds.

I overheard a passer-by talk about a waterfall, “I have heard that it has mystical powers." 

My next expedition in search for the mystical waterfall - in my wagon I was on the path that led to the waterfall. I discovered the whereabouts of the waterfall, the perpetual one. Jubilance filled my heart, and I seized this moment and poured this feeling into my chalice. 

I touched the clear water of the waterfall and the mere touch projected in front of my eyes, torrent of obscure quick moving images. It was its benevolent act to show me the infinite possibilities. Evidently, this was its mystical secret. The locals called it, 'books,' and I filled my chalice with some of this water for it tasted sweeter than ever. 

I could fill my stomach, but never my chalice with this water. The villagers warned me of something, but I acted oblivious and disdainfully disregarded their suggestion. I was inebriated with the water's enthralling property, yet it was gratifying; it appeared so, if not for real.

I savoured each sip from the chalice; anon, it was befouled with vicious drops of avarice. I wilfully drank of this soporific mixture, and succumbed to its effects. I was now, the host to this parasitic supervisor whom I had no power over. Greed overpowered me and never could I fully perceive the water. This was what the villagers warned me about. But, it was too late as it disseminated itself to every nerve and every muscle. Its subliminal suggestions wickedly manoeuvred my thoughts; a belief was sowed deep in me - greed was crucial for my survival. 

Into my chalice, I poured more, but never was I able to fill it fully; never it brimmed with satisfaction. More were my wants and the wants were more with time, and more the chalice grew, vigorously.

With pride I let the chalice ride with me; the size of the chalice, and its silvery shine of vanity blinded my eyes. Yet, the subdued whisper in my heart never ceased. I was certain that it was the water of waterfall that still remained in my blood, in small quantities. Its query was just – it demanded the cause for my persistent imbecility of carrying this mountainous burden with me. Inexplicable the reasons were; I could never justify the existence of my chalice with venomous covetousness in it. Any thought of defying the 'greed,' was crushed; the greed made every other thought, feeble.

I wanted answers for the existence of this chalice that I was never able to satiate. 

The subdued voice echoed without fail, the answers to questions that troubled me; all it demanded was one instant of attention to the voice. It was verily my battle with greed and the protruding truth was, I never was the warrior who would defeat greed; I had the sword and the shield, but audacity was what I never had. The struggle seemed senseless, for my defeat was written.

The shimmering light of hope continued to furnish that little phlegm required to keep me alive as the sword was piercing through my chest. “All you have to do is empty your chalice,” whispered the voice in me. “What worth was the chalice whilst its bearer takes his last breath?” I let it all go, and I once again succumbed to the effects. But, this time it was not greed, but to life whom I succumbed to. I watched the 'vicious avarice,' pour out and permeate in to the ground. 

I watched greed leaving me and the small quantities of water from the waterfall, invigorating me with its life-force. I, once again, was breathing the air filled with sweet scent of simplicity, and every breath seemed to have nothing more to it but pure 'life.'

I now knew that the chalice was not to be fully filled, for it will never brim. I understood the simplicity of its reason to exist. The chalice was to be used as a carrier to hold the joy and wisdom, momentarily. Never was it moulded to hold its contents forever. And, as I still remember my inner voice whispered to me, “Thou shalt never find thy chalice empty, for it will be filled with wisdom of another. Thou must never indeed, wish to keep thy chalice filled forever, and must pour it out to the one with an empty chalice. Thou must never cease to give, for the more thou pour out, the more thou can receive.”

Copyright (c) 2014 Shine Jayakumar