Freedom

There was a small cage with enough space for only two birds. We will name the birds Joy and Sorrow. Sorrow loved to fly. He would open his wings and ride the thermals to reach a lone peak. From there he would look upon the vales below and ponder upon his loneliness.
Joy had met with an accident. She couldn’t fly without apprehension. She was too scared. In that small cage she would wait all day while Sorrow would roam around the world. Then one fine day, Sorrow decided to build a nest in the cage. Building a nest in the mountains would have been too risky for Joy. Then slowly Sorrow taught Joy the art of flying, waiting in his cage while she flew around with confidence. Joy made new friends, met old ones and loved the wild world so much that one day she forgot to return home. Sorrow became worried. Spreading his mighty wings he searched far and wide for his companion.
The morning was dizzy and the sun’s rays woke up a groggy Sorrow. He had fallen asleep on a lonely outcrop of a cliff. Tired he returned home to find Joy with her friends, frolicking outside their cage. Folding his wings carefully, he tiptoed towards them and snatched a bit of their conversation. Joy was complaining about him, of how small his cage was and that she was tired of spending her days in the damn contraption. She was complaining about Sorrow’s mood swings and how she had to compromise on a lot of things to keep him happy.
Noiselessly Sorrow felt something break inside him. He turned around and spread his wings again. The flapping sound subsided as Sorrow flew out of sight carrying with him the remains of a broken heart.
The night was stormy and thunder rattled the thin rods of the cage. With his head buried in his fluffy chest Sorrow slept. The sound of the rain outside startled his dreams and he woke up with a start. The cage was locked from inside. Joy had moved to the free mountains with a friend of hers.
Suddenly, Sorrow heard the sound of wings through the rain. He watched with love soaked eyes as his friend alighted in front of the cage. Joy tried to open the cage. Realizing it locked from inside she urged him to unlock it. Sorrow turned away as tears welled up in his eyes. He had thrown away the key. He had given Joy the thing that she needed most-Freedom.
At the same time a question cropped up in my mind. Will Joy ever be free?

Emptiness

In this way and that I have tried to save old pail

Since the bamboo strip was weakening and about to break

Until at last the bottom fell out.

No more water in the pail!

No more moon in the water!

There I was, hunched over office desk,

Mind an unruffled pool.

A thunderbolt!

My middle eyeShot wide,

revealing - my ordinary self.

Finally out of reach -

No bondage, no dependency.

How calm the ocean,

Towering the void.

Et tu brute

I have loved and loved with my whole heart. My talks of being apprehensive couldn't stop the chemicals in my head to create that heady concoction of emotions.

I had been asked to change and I happily relented, because I always did. But like I always, I realized that the same people who wanted me to change would not give up that one inch of ground on which they stand so precariously for that last sense of freedom.

And like always I cribbed and ranted only to find that I have become the proverbial worm in the apple.

Then why should I let my heart beat with passion, why should I be worried about the present if the future is so warped in strokes of grey?

I don't understand what they tell me. I just know that I have loved. But this lesson has been the last nail in the coffin. And even the body in it will change over time.

As an afterthought. If people can change after death, its ok if they change before it.

The Blind Spot

I consider myself to be a liberal. A person who is pro-change. Liberal is defined as "tolerant of the ideas and behavior of others; broad-minded".

And this is where I start asking questions about how liberal I am. Is it that I am so liberal, that any ideas that do not support my liberal view becomes unbearable to me. Isn't it that then I am just becoming another person in the
other camp?

When I look around I dont see ourselves as much different from the liliputs in Gulliver's Travels, who fought over something as trivial as how to break an egg. We fight over race, color, money, religion, sexuality....

And we never learn.

Why do we fight over how someone else looks or makes love if we are happy
with ourselves. All causes of fighting are because of a sense of insecurity
in us that forces us to prove to ourselves and others that we are strong.

Why do we think that the whites, blacks, browns or yellows are superior to
one another?

Why do we think that it is important to read the Bible, the Quran, the Gita?

Why do we think its natural for a man to love a woman only?

Why do we think that if we are allowed to flaunt our WMDs, should someone
else have to hide it?

Why do we believe that a certain part of the world is ours only and everyone
else who wants to be there is an illegal immigrant?

What makes us feel that our language is superior?

What makes us feel that our deeds are being kept note of and we will be
treated accordingly later?

Why do we think that we deserve better when there are others dying even
before they can ask that question?

Why do we think that it is better to bring a child into a world where it
will never be loved, than to kill it even before it can feel its death?

Why do we think that a girl-child is a burden?

Why do we think that a gun is going to keep us safe?

Why do we act as liliputs when we could be giants?


Rudresh Ghosh

You destroyed my garden

Fluorescent lighting everywhere. Feels like white hell. Veins in my eyes pulsate with red exhaustion. Arteries are all dried up, like fish lain out on the sand to dry. Feels nice to know the world around is so happy. People are going about their daily chores with a sincere determination.

Telephones in the head keep waking me up. Sleep is a flicker of lightning. There is a secret garden that I tend to with caring hands. But flowers don't bloom anymore. The butterflies have died. Their delicate wings torn to shreds. They lie in blood; hoping someone would pick them up. But they hope in vain.

I have searched for that elusive horizon. But when Friedman wrote that the world is flat, he killed the horizon. I don't dream anymore for a virgin horizon. The dreams too, are dead. I am waiting for my turn. And I don't hope in vain.