You do not know how you got here,
You do not even know where to go,
This life seems on a distant horizon
And you wonder how this distance seems so.
You wave and perhaps smile to the whole world passing by on a boat,
But only to know that you are all but a castaway on the shore.
There is nothing that you need here, and yet there you are
Yearning for nothing other than this hollowness to go.
It’s amusing to realise that you are always alone,
Weather fate favours you and you drift shore
Or the strike of storm takes it all away from you and
You remain in a whirlpool, never to let go.
A saint was now hearing a voice. He never in all his life of sainthood ever expected to hear this .A voice whispering along with the traffic buzzing around him. It would have been queer if revelations like this happened to him on dramatic setting of the world with thunder storms and lighting accompanying such revelations .He wondered why such grand settings evaded him. It amused him to think of himself as a saint .No saint worth his stereotypical money would be caught dead in Gucci loafers and Armani suit, sipping filter coffee ,while he ordered a plate of dosa in a crowded Malabar restaurant .The singular voice chanting a strange poem still whispered, now a little above the restaurant’s noises, a little above the whirring of the giant fan (which he often fondly called “the air bender”) .He ignored this voice for a while, just like one would be ignoring the buzzing of a fly before you would get irritated with it, enough to swat it away. But then this voice just whispered, in an insistent little monotone. Whispered the same words what he had felt all along in his life but never dared to put it down into permanent etchings of words. The voice has a life of its own he thought. It had loneliness and desperation pouring life into the voice, like a faint whiff of salt that clung to the sea.
He had never heard a voice such as before, but then again every saint had his moments. Maybe this was his magnum opus moment. He waited for the voice to fill his ears again; all the while he finished his last meal of the day. When ignoring it worked no more , He mulled over the voice, while trying to converse with it. The voice never answered back, but he never expected it to answer his questions in the first place. He walked over to the sea, with his shoes in his hand and said to himself “how lonely must god be”. “He created it to banish this lonliness ,then He travelled across the world to unearth the secrets of beyond. His knowledge of the word is known across the world. And yet even He saw everything with a tint of grey.and yet he closed his eyes to be lonlely once again” .He wished he could tell god about a lovely place called solitude that he used to know. He wanted to invite him over there, but he didn’t want to sound like a madman. Instead he chose to write in the sand, hoping that when he walked away , the air would perhaps deliver his message to the voice or perhaps the sea wash its hands off this responsibility with the sweep of the tide.
He walked away from his little invitation, shoes and jacket in hand .An utter unknown peace engulfed him and moved within him, as he left knowing that sometimes god was as lonely as he was.the words finally were etched in the grains of time, as he turned and moved away.
There is no ego here,
There is no sense of time,
Perceptions are muddled,
Visions are defined.
When you move away from there, where would you go?
To the high shallows or the gallows below?
Nobody wants anybody here,
To breathe the same air,
Since there is a need to blend,
Without the need for another lair.
The dusk settled over the sand, as did the dawn. The mundane routine of the world, with its seasons and deaths changed nothing .The Sea did not gobble up these words, nor did the air, the remained there for another eternity, almost like waiting for somebody else to read it and find solace.