The idea

The best idea isn’t the one that you bring in existence forcefully.

But the one that hits you,
 hit you once and 
never egress

The one that
 doesn’t let you sleep at night
 and 
wanders in your empty mind

You are forced to write
to liberate your life
otherwise 
you will have nothing
but a mere thought
that once crossed your mind

Ode to women: Maya Angelou (I)

I’ve known some extraordinary women in my life. Known them through books, virtual or everyday life. Women who made me realize the beauty; the beauty of life and womanhood. I like to say that I have each part of these women, yet, they always inspire me to be authentic and original.

My mother, my favorite singer, my best friend, my teachers and favorite writers are my muses. Women who surround me and those who stir me. This is why when I read the verses of Maya Angelou, it feels like encountering a storm. A reality that shakes you up, a calamity that was bound to happen to revive you, to bring you back in existence. She comes to remind me of the value that love holds— love for yourself, trust and power that lies within a fragile body. The power that cannot be found at any other place and must not be given away.

She makes me believe that I don’t need anyone to appreciate me or to make me realize how capable or good I am. It is a lesson girl that you ought to learn by yourself. ‘You alone are enough. You have nothing to prove to anybody,’ she says.

When I feel crushed down by the standards of modern beauty; something that makes all of these pretty young women suffer. Suffer to the extreme point. But here she comes to whisper in the silent, dreary nights saying, ‘I’m not cute or built to fit a model size but I’m phenomenal.’ Waking us again from the dream of lies.

The magic lies in the eyes. She has the power, an absolute power, an inner potential that surpasses the world’s arrogance.

When I think about my first love; he with whom I never shared a word, yet he stays with me until the last breath of consciousness in the night. I feel bruised by my own feebleness, my own decisions, and my own emotions. I saw the enemy that doesn’t stand in front of me but stays inside of me. The greatest foe who can’t be beaten and can’t be a friend.

She appears again from the thick clouds of tangled thoughts. She came to console me; reminding the desires will change and dreams will fade away in the distant memory.

Men walk.
Knowing something.
Going someplace.
But this time, I will simply
Stand and watch.

She learned the lesson with a bitter experience. But she wrote it down to help us choose the right way. Saving us from the rough and tough path.

Not everything we desire is full of roses. Soft and delightful made just for us to walk. We can become blind to reality but only to the extent we want. But ‘life loves the liver of it.’ And you must think of living and learning from it.

Rumination

There are times when the existence seems like a burden. A work unfinished or the person’s mockery wreck the heart as it never should. The sense of individuality increases, up to the point to annihilate the existence of anything else.

Then, we wonder. How? When it all happened? When those childish worries took the form of this mature-ish stress. Where was that turning point? Where are those stupid dreams? Where went that time when you thought that your first crush is going to be your soulmate – the first and the last partner?

Regardless, it happened. Everything changed. And now we are left behind to sort all out. By ourselves. Aren’t we mature enough yet?

Dreaming success and love. A greater future, full of roses. Loved ones beside and financial success at your feet. Isn’t this enough to measure your happiness? Fame and money!

Then we say that the world is cruel. Humanity is drifting away. But don’t we prefer the same?

Residual Thoughts

There are times when humanity seems like a far away thing. The point that we all are human beings, appertaining to the same category of species looks like an illusion. And it never crosses our mind that there are other species, besides us, beyond me, sharing this planet. It is an everyday fact, still, seems like a counter-intuitive thought. Our holy network of the ecosystem is ruining day by day but we don’t care. It doesn’t matter if the insects are going extinct. We don’t care what will be the future of this planet, the future of this humanity and this green graceful nature.

It doesn’t matter as long as there is ME.

Maybe, we are too selfish. Ahimè, this growth! Why are we evolved to the point? How do we reach here? This place where anything beyond ourselves doesn’t matter. Caring for other kinds is a distant consideration but we don’t even care for our fellows. We become the prey of our feelings, irrational feelings, emotions, instincts. Killing and ruin others for power, jealousy, love, obsession, madness, and fun. We are too self-absorbed. Too damned. Such a feeling of distinction, almost irrational, extreme. It seems like that connection to the self is lost. Irretrievably lost in the midst of superficiality.

But, craving for that lost link is immense. I can smell that peace I once felt. That satisfaction, that completeness. This memory is sweet. And powerful. A source to keep me alive.

Gives me strength and hope that someday, maybe someday, I can feel that again.

Quote

Pleasure of reading

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Sleep is good, he said, and books are better- George Martin

“What better occupation, really, than to spend the evening at the fireside with a book, with the wind beating on the windows and the lamp burning bright…Haven’t you ever happened to come across in a book some vague notion that you’ve had, some obscure idea that returns from afar and that seems to express completely your most subtle feelings?” – Gustave Flaubert

 

Image result for book and fireplace pinterest melancholy

“What a miracle it is that out of these small, flat, rigid squares of paper unfolds world after world after world, worlds that sing to you, comfort and quiet or excite you. Books help us understand who we are and how we are to behave. They show us what community and friendship mean; they show us how to live and die.” — Anne Lamott

Untold Story

At the root of all misery is unfulfilled desire- Scott Hahn (Pinterest)

There is a strange weight prowling inside my body. An agonizing suffocation of a feeling that is left untold. It was there for years- shut down in a remote corner of my heart. I tried to kill this cursed feeling, devastate it, murder it but it each time it emerges like an almighty angel.

We are all broken, that’s how the light gets in— Ernest Hemingway

I say it’s my inspiration- my muses, that makes me neurotic and help me down in work. This thought comforts me. But how do I say that this damned state is wretched and heartless- reminding me of the things I never had, the person I never had.

Coming back each night with its misery and sadness

My lifelong efforts haven’t been successful in repressing it as it came back last night and said, ‘Hey it’s you! I’m not only inside you but I’m you!’

Rupy Kaur: The Poet’s Voice

The writer who flourished from the Sikh diaspora and become one of the best known contemporary poets.

‘Milk and honey’, the New York Times best-seller is a first book written and published by Rupy Kaur who is now one of the most popular poets in the world. This writer emerged from the internet world. She is, as per Rolling Stone, the ‘Queen Of The Instapoets’.

It started in 2015 with an Instagram post in which she decided to open up and share a part (struggle) of being a woman. This was unconventional and was censored by Instagram. But Kaur didn’t stop and came to defend herself with the following response.

As a result, Instagram allowed the post to reappear on its platform but this rift brought a lot of attention to Rupy. She has been addressing a theme that, despite being a natural side of femininity, is considered a taboo.

Kaur’s writing often touches the intense themes: love, sex, heartbreak, abuse, trauma, race and gender dynamics.

Her life, as a child of the immigrants, along with her Sikh background influences her writing immensely. Her choice to use the lowercase and periods only is an ode to her mother tongue (Punjabi) and an effort to preserve the equality and symmetry it creates.

She talks about the pain and struggles that Sikhs endured during the 1984 genocide, that pushed his father to flee to Canada as a refugee. The trauma and the assault about which Rupi Kaur writes traces back those women who have been violated and left behind bereft in that period.

Her poetry reflects the lives of those South Asian girls who are expected to be conservative and quiet. Girls who are supposed to be pure and purports the dignity of their families.

Rupi challenges this idea of the tranquil woman and writes about her longings. The love she craves and the mistakes she made. The ache that the lost love induces and the wounds that a strong soul heals.

Poets like her challenge the silences and express their beliefs, thoughts in a way that makes the other forms rather unconvincing.

There are criticisms of course, but I wanted to write this just to appreciate one voice that excites the society to delve deep into the issues that we often ignore.
And pay my regards to another woman who inspires to search our soul with the art of poetry and encourage other people to create their own authentic masterpieces.