Thursday, May 29, 2014

Rainbow in Dubai

“The problem with Dubai is that
there are no rainbows,” I sighed.
“Then create your own,
I know you can,” she replied.
She gave me an insight
which was in my blind-spot.
I went looking for my rainbow
in Dubai - so humid and hot.

There are riches galore,
opulence knows no bound.
Burj is the crowning jewel
of luxury so unbound.
Built with labourers’ sweat
of colour a bright RED
In their exploitation,
the EARTH has bled.

I notice fragile relations,
and good scope for affair.
Where skin rules the roost
in fragrant touristy air.
In discos and in bars,
glamour shines ORANGE.
The WATER of life flows
in ways so strange.

The city has ambition
that is so palpable,
that it burns in its FIRE
anyone incapable.
With blazing passion,
it has built sky scrapers,
with all odds pulverized,
as smouldering YELLOW embers.

The city is blossoming
and in search of its heart.
Looking for its identity
through people and their art.
The desert city with hot WIND,
is trying hard to be GREEN.
An oasis of modernity
that wants to be seen.

Its actions speak
more than any word.
Focused on peace amidst
violent neighbouring herd.
Invites them all
like a lustrous glue,
with the attractions in its SPACE,
not a moment feels BLUE.

But then there are pockets
that I saw with my eyes,
that are so different
that it logic defies.
There are seekers,
in such wondrous flow,
they give me INSIGHT
and paint me INDIGO.

And then there are
CROWNing masters too,
found only if
your heart is true.
They help you rise and
get you out of closet.
Put you on the path and
bathe you in light VIOLET.

As I ended my search
of Dubai’s rainbow,
I felt blissful as
I found much more.
The colours of the rainbow match
those of chakras along my spine.
Why crib for a rainbow outside?
I found my very own within.

This is an esoteric poem which requires the below table to explain the significance of capitalized letters.

Chakra English Name
Chakra Sanskrit Name
Associated Element or property
Associated Colour
Solar Plexus
Third Eye
Intuitive Intelligence

Thursday, May 15, 2014

Rose and Coconut

Once there was a rose and a coconut.
The rose was a rose,
the coconut was a coconut.
And life was good.

The rose gave flowers and its fragrance,
the coconut bore fruits and its water,
the rose was short and coconut grew tall,
and life was bliss.

One day the rose noticed the coconut
and took fancy to its height,
it then wanted to be tall,
and life was desire.

Slowly the rose evolved into something taller,
the flower became a hard fruit
and the rose lost its fragrance,
and desire was materialized.

The rose was neither tall enough
to be called a coconut,
nor fragrant enough to be a rose,
and the rose was now a Roconut.

The Roconut was now unhappy.
It was neither here nor there.
It prayed to be restored,
and life was remembrance.

Gradually, the fruit became softer
and the divine fragrance returned.
The rose was now short and in acceptance.
And life was good. 

Sunday, May 11, 2014

Happy Mother's Day

My mother doesn’t surf internet. She will never know that people all over the world go berserk with tweets and wonderful messages on Facebook eulogizing their mothers one moment and then taking them for granted for the rest of the year. She probably doesn’t even know nor does she care that there is a special day in a year reserved for mothers around the world.

The last time I told her, she responded with a question, “So what happens on Mother’s Day?” I told her that this is the day when the whole world recognizes the contribution of mothers around the world. It is a way by which the world has decided to pay back the mothers. She twitched her brows in part appreciation part confusion, hugged me and went about her chore. Even if I tell her today, she will probably forget the concept tomorrow. The bottom-line is that, to her and to a vast majority of mothers around the world, the concept doesn’t matter, nor does it make a difference.

The larger question is “Who is the mother here? “

Is the interpretation of ‘Mother’ to be restricted to our biological mother? Is it the mother who became ecstatic when we kicked her from within the womb? The mother who we continued kicking while suckling, the mother who we quite literally continue kicking when we grow up, the lady who cares enough to prepare the dinner whether we eat or not and just don’t care to apologize if we don’t or thank her for her efforts, the lady who groomed us when we couldn’t do anything ourselves, the lady whose only strength and weakness is us, who would not, cannot ditch us even if we keep taking her for granted like door of the house, the house that she turns into a home.

Or does ‘Mother’ represent the goddesses from various mythologies? Or is it the Mother Earth that nurtures us all, absorbs all our infringements and still goes about giving and caring for us. Is it the mother that we shamelessly plunder to meet our godforsaken ambitions which know no end?

Or does ‘Mother’ mean the space that holds the Earth in place? Or is it the ‘Cosmic Womb’ from which came the universe just as we came from our mother’s womb? Is it the nothing that gave birth to everything?

If we go by the philosophy that there is a male and a female in all of us, then all of us are potential mothers. In Spiritually Evolved Societies, everyone is a mother – the whole society - because everyone cares and shares. The responsibility of parenting is not limited to the biological parents. The whole community grieves if one of them sleeps hungry. The whole village strives to love and recover the hurt of one.

The problem is that we have restricted and localized our idea of ‘Mother’ to that one individual. A mother is not just who bore us and breast-fed us; a father who caresses us after office while we are asleep is a mother, a neighbour who shares the sweet dish she made is a mother, a person who gives up his seat in a bus for an elderly person is a mother, a teenage son becomes a mother when he lies to his ailing mother that he had dinner at friend’s place, a friend who eggs you on when you’re down is a mother, a wife who takes leave from office to take care of her sick husband is a mother, a giver of alms is a mother to a beggar, someone who says no to plastic is a mother to environment, people who care for street animals are mothers to nature, a stranger who hugs you for no reason is a mother too.

We don’t have to bear and rear a child to become a mother; we become a mother the moment we love and care selflessly for that is what a mother does best. This is not to undermine the absolutely wonderful biological privilege of carrying another life within you that only the female gender can experience.

Let us celebrate this mother’s day with this new conscious understanding. It is mother’s day for you if and when: you made a difference to someone, you lied prostrate on the ground thanking the Earth, hugged a tree in gratitude, caressed a flower without plucking it, removed a stone from the road or filled a pothole, just spread your arms around feeling the air, thanked everything that holds you in place, just smiled – as if you know a secret – the secret that is love and the love outpours as tears of joy for all that is.

Every day is a mother’s day and every moment a potential mother’s moment if we operate from love. Let us pat our backs for all such moments that have brought out the mothers in us.

Happy Mother’s Day!   

Thursday, May 08, 2014

Elements and me

I placed my feet on the ground
with so much love
that the earth felt kissed.

I made so much love to the sky
with my eyes
that it climaxed with thunder.

I caressed the wind
with such tenderness
that it brought me heavenly fragrance.

I drank water
with such gratitude
that it quenched my thirst of lifetimes.

I felt the flame
with such warmth
that it kindled the fire within.

This poem came to me during a meditation session with Dr. Pradeep Ullal. Thank you Pradeep for taking me to the realm of these wondrous lines. 

Thursday, May 01, 2014

The essence is untouched

A sketcher cannot sketch light. He just shades the darker portions of an image. What is untouched is perceived as light.

A writer cannot describe the essence within. He can describe the periphery and leave the rest in silence. What is unwritten is the essence.