Healing The Heart

Healing The Heart

I am really tired: tired of the way life has to be dragged on. I sometimes wonder whether it was a really bad day, a really bad hour, a really bad time I was born to feel like this. Maybe the planets, the constellations were misaligned exactly at the hour I was born. I really wonder at the mysterious forces that have not worked for me, ever, the way that would have made me feel otherwise.

What would I do to change? Hhhmmmmm....!

I ponder upon various outlets from this impasse. I don't really like to live here: I would love to quit. Let all things be as they choose to be: I would really love to hit the road!!!

I calculate. How much would it take for me get a bicycle and travel inland? To places? To people? Never staying at one place, always on the move... To feel the pulse of life, to feel the beat, the rhythm, the music that I have lost far behind... If I were to die on the road, it would just be fine. I would have to anyway, somewhere. And if I lived, and if my mind were to change somehow, return back to where I sprouted out from?

Hhhmmmmm.....!! It wouldn't be simple, it wouldn't be easy. A year's journey would mean six months going one way and six months getting back, if I survived the ordeal, the quest of life, that is. And I calculate, that one year's journey would, could, cost anywhere between 10 thousand to 12 thousand... The visa fees, the return expenses, the roadblocks, the detours... the breakdowns and the unexpected... A lot of discouragements along. Yet I aim for the lower figure, of course, and still...

Are there no encouragements?
Of course there are, sure. But it depends on humanity.
It is quite strange to know there are hundreds of different people but only two types of humanity. Those who have cannot offer much and those who don't are simply unable to. It is poverty deep inside the soul, not a physical one, that determines who is who. Yes, I need to go searching in the most unlikely of places to find a good one that really matters. Here is an analogy: if I go into a bank I cannot find any money, for that I need to go to the street. I need to go to the poorest hut to find the richest of people that really matter. And that is what I intend to do. But... 

But... That still would be an unimaginable sum of money; an awful lot... in US dollars.

Haven't counted even a quarter of that sum in my life, carried far far less, ever, seen only a fraction.

How old am I? Well, I have pretty much passed the mid point of my life, I guess.

But the wound needs to be healed, the broken pieces need to be glued back together... The tears need to be stitched and sewn, fixed in some way. The heart has to be brought back to look like a heart, to feel like one. 

Stupid fellow! It's the bike that needs to be bought first, and the gear...!!

Forget it. Not possible.

What then?

Why not share the pieces if I can't find the whole?

Why not feel the heart of humanity if I can't feel my own?

Why not be human?

Why not beat the drum if I can't play the music?

As long as I can. As far as I can afford to. What I have, if I have.  The basic is there: some rice, some lentils, a few spoonfuls of tea, about a cup of sugar, about the same amount of salt, pepper, turmeric, ginger, garlic... a bed, a room, a stove, about a quarter of a cylinder full of gas, a few pots and pans, some plates... a few books, even. The PET bottle that originally contained a familiar cold-drink is empty: sorry, no cooking oil. Most often, there is not enough water except for drinking and it isn't significant how often I take a bath: basically I can go days more, even a week or two, than usual. Does it matter if I smell a little? No...! We all do, and if I can find a spray or deodorant then it can do the trick and save the uneasy feeling.  Somedays I go hungry. But if you can adjust, you can probably find almost anything...

Interested? Come then, and be a part of me, my life. Give some (don't be ashamed, it's a choice, not a compulsion), take some (feel free), we can get along, I suppose. We laugh if we can, if we can't we cry. As long as you are human, as long as I am human...  

May be you know how to stitch broken pieces, how to glue them back together, how to sew... Probably I can fix my heart in your company, if you don't mind.

My couch is available on humanitarian grounds.

What do you say?

(This photo, by George Hodan and sourced from publicdomainpictures, reflects the difficult-to-understand yet universal human symbolism signifying submission, help and forgiveness... No religious bias intended except that of humanity. http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=54433&picture=praying-hands )

The Mirage of Happiness

The Mirage of Happiness

[Preface 

It is indeed very difficult, almost impossible, to come back from the dead and it has taken a rather long time. Just a few days back someone had suggested, "You need to 'hook things out', you know... if you can't get it with straight fingers."

"Never learnt to bend (my) fingers like the politicians. Now at this stage in life when my hairs are greying over....," I told him. He giggled but then suddenly I brightened up. "You know sometimes I feel like I'm being lured to the end of the line. One day the Big Angler, instead of finding the bait gone, shall surely hook me up like a minnow or a carp. That'll be the only hooking up I'll experience now, I think," I added.

He burst out to his seams with laughter.

] 

...

Enchained, paralyzed, restricted, caged... I live at the end of a blind alley, if I live at all.

Do I cry over it? 

I do. What else is left there to do except lament over things and events that could have taken a far better turn and might have made heaven possible but instead chose not to.

Is there independence? 

No way! The Bird of Freedom is enchained.

Is there hope? 

A tiny flickering of light is still visible far, far away. That's all.

How do I live then? 

Moment to moment just as I die with every beat of my heart. I don't kill myself outright. I feel like I need to suffer what others can't.

Why? 

I don't know. I just feel it in my head, feel it deep inside.

How can I continue like this? 

There are dozens of ways I cannot continue along. What remains in the end is the only possibility, no? The wind can flatten me down to the ground, crush me. But it won't break the chain, carry me off. And so I remain... where I have been chained.

I oftentimes pull the hairs out of my head, bite hard and swallow harder. It's unfortunate that I haven't gone insane so far but that would have been better I suppose. And yet to preserve my sanity I keep thinking about the possibilities: what would I do if I had all the things that you have? All the opportunities, the doors as well as the windows?

And perhaps that makes me who I am.

Do I not worry? 

I certainly do. If humanity were not to worry about things that could go wrong, then progress would have been impossible and everything would have gone backwards in time. Neither mistakes could have been avoided, nor disasters averted.

There are regrets, sure. When limitations confine you, there are fewer options to pick up, possibilities get reduced. Oftentimes one just has to face it all and suffer hopelessly. But perhaps that is what it is that makes a man(kind). No ego, no pride... Just a humble being with profound realizations that there are many things that cannot ever be changed, many events that cannot ever be undone, changed or chosen.

And these are integral parts of life. And that is one good thing that has to be lived, dull or colourful. As it comes. The question is not what comes but how one faces it. Yes there are certainly ways to stand and face the tribulations like a man(kind).

So, even if it be just glasses of water, let's clink them and celebrate. At least for a moment, at least for the time being, and as long as we're together. 

Cheers!

[The passage or passages presented above are taken from a book by the author. The emoticon has been taken from google search and I hold no copyrights to it: it belongs to the original creator and/or copyright holder who I do not know. It has been used here for purely literary/educational purposes. When claimed, credits shall be duly given/made to the rightful owner.]

Rumi: The Eternal Wisdom

What do you think will happen?
and 
Say, 'I am You'

The word, or the name Rumi in Arabic, literally translates into 'Roman' as Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Balkhī lived at his time in what used to be Anatolia, subject to and part of the great Byzantine Empire. The word Mevlâna often attached as part to his name means "having to do with the master". He was a poet, a philosopher, and a Sufi mystic.

There is no question of a doubt that Rumi belonged, and still belongs, to the whole of humanity, and not to any religion, faith or nationality, as he himself wrote. It is indeed the greatest of all feelings, a much elated and divine one, to take the privilege to announce in words that one does not belong to any known boundaries marked by humanity itself. It is also the very heightened knowledge of one's understanding, one that touches to the very core of humanity's existence, the very essence of one's being, as part of humanity itself, in the first place.

Here is an example, from the book Rumi, Fountain of Fire, by Nader Khalili.

Ghazal: 838 

What Do You Think Will Happen?

If you can't go to sleep,

my dear soul,

for tonight,

what do you think will happen?

If you pass your night

and merge it with dawn

for the sake of heart,

what do you think will happen?

If the entire world

is covered with the blossoms

you have labored to plant,

what do you think will happen?

If the elixir of life

that has been hidden in the dark

fills the deserts and towns,

what do you think will happen?

If because of

your generosity and love

a few humans find their lives,

what do you think will happen?

If you pour an entire jar

filled with joyous wine

on the heads of those already drunk,

what do you think will happen?

Go my friend

bestow your love

even on your enemies...

If you touch their hearts

what do you think will happen?

Obviously, there are two different levels from where the answers might come to these questions. On the lower level, if all of those things were to happen, nothing special or noteworthy will come out as a result. Nothing will happen. Time will move on; Life will continue. But on a higher level, everything will happen all at once; the transformations will be immense and extraordinary, beautiful and divine. I become humble, I flood my surroundings with all the love until I empty my heart, until I weep, both body and soul, until I melt, until I become the ocean... There will be both longing and belonging, both earthly and divine, both humane and godly... AND THERE WILL NOT ONLY BE ME WHO WILL MOULT AND CHANGE; SOMEONE ELSE OR MANY OTHERS WILL ALSO UNDERGO SIMILAR TRANSFORMATIONS.

[As an explanation, if i were to be sleepless for one night, then i might be playing ten thousand ideas inside my head; i might be writing a beautiful poem; a humane story; or sharing the night with someone under the stars... the possibilities are endless... And there is not only one question in this poem, there are many... of immense meaning and importance. There is an IMMENSITY in its implications.]

Truly, these questions are for the seeker at heart: the address made to the soul is a divine address made to the seeker, to the whole of humanity itself. These are the questions one must ask, to oneself, and then also be the wanderer in search of the answers, and find them.

[I want to know how God created this world. I am not interested in this or that phenomenon, in the spectrum of this or that element. I want to know His thoughts; the rest are details. -Albert Einstein]

To compose and to write what can be no other than the greatest of all truths, I believe one needs to have gone through an enormous metamorphosis in life itself; one that has foreseen the greatest of upheavals. One has to rise above reason, above belief, above logic, and cross all physical barriers to see and sense things that are eternal. 

I love one of Rumi's poems beyond all others, not because I love poetry and compose one or two at times but because of the enormity of the truth it carries across humanity's ages. Perhaps it possesses the ability to touch my heart also because of its eternal wisdom, or because I have had some great upheavals in my own life, I do not know. Whatever the reason I find myself in this poem, I am perhaps attempting to be a fool by looking at it from a perspective I should not have ever dared to envision... It would be a folly to look at something eternal that way, but so be it with this Rumi's poem titled "Say, 'I am you'."

I am dust particles in sunlight,

I am the round sun.

(What are each of us essentially? Chemicals, compounds, molecules, atoms, elements? Dust... just as the sun is made of... from the smallest, the particle of dust, to the largest, the star as the sun...)

To the bits of dust I say, 'Stay'.
To the sun, 'Keep moving'.

(I, even though dust in essence, wish to live longer, hence stay longer; wish to have more, wish to possess the best, the most... but what do I wish for the sun, the only source of energy to all life-forces on earth? To keep moving, to go away... Yet, what else can I do for it? It has to move on, it is treading along a cosmic path I can only wonder at...)

I am the morning mist,
and the breath of evening.

I am the wind at the top of a grove,
and the surf on the cliff.

(I am human imagination... I am the air laden with freedom... I love to wander... I love to explore, to play, to be aloft of things at times... but I am also life itself...)

Mast, rudder, helmsman, and keel,
I am also the coral reef they founder on. 

I am a tree with a trained parrot in its branches.

Silence, thought, and voice.

The musical air coming through a flute,
a spark of stone, a flickering in metal.

Both candle and the moths crazy around it.
Rose, and the nightingale lost in the fragrance.

I am all orders of being, the circling galaxy,
the evolutionary intelligence, 

the lift,
and the falling away.

What is, and what isn't...
..............

Rumi: Page on Wikipedia

Rumi's poems belong to humanity and are not copyright protected to a great extent except, perhaps, some translations.

One can find many books on Rumi at http://www.allbooksfind.net/book-shelf-r/rumi-books-free-download/ 

Books on Sufism and books by Rumi can be found here as well:
http://www.thesufi.com/sufi_ebooks/

Rumi's poems in translation can also be read here:
http://blissbat.net/rambles/rumi.html

My Favourite "Rumi" on YouTube

1. Poem of the Atoms

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GaNGDrKKasA

2. Say I am You

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QqVBGv2hpQ4

Do a "google" search on Rumi, for more.

(All text except the poem by the author; with partial opinions and analysis in brackets. 'What Do You Think Will Happen' translated from Persian by Nader Khalili. 'Say I Am You' translated--or rather, transliterated--by Coleman Barks. The end of the poem has been omitted here where Rumi asks the reader to tell him he is Rumi, or to see Rumi within himself while introducing [while giving an introduction]. Image copyright of their respective owners, if any. Videos of Rumi's poems on this blog are linked and are not mine.)

Desperation

...
'S*** you, man!' he expressed his feelings.
'No need to,' I told him, 'I already have been.'
'F***!' he swore.
 ...

A long time ago, a boy stood on a chair, looped his vest on to the bamboo rafter of the ceiling in his room, and tied it around his neck. Then he kicked the chair and hung there for a brief second. The sweat-eaten cotton of his vest gave way and he fell hard on the floor below, narrowly escaping the edges of the fallen wooden chair.

But he got a rather painful bum that made him weep without opening his mouth. When he got through it after a while, he cursed rather bitterly. There was no rope he could use.

The pain lasted the following couple of days.

Then a day came when he drank out of a toilet cistern. 'Shit!' he cursed after letting his stomach cool down a bit. He had no money to buy water in the concrete jungle, and there was no friend.

The next day, he had no money to pay for the books even though the exams were just around the corner. He could not prepare himself to have them taken. He said quit. Then he cursed again.

Then the next day, he went to mix concrete with a shovel. The landlord made him dig a big seven feet deep hole in the ground after the work hours were already over. No extra payments. He got drenched in the end, and when he got out of the hell-hole his legs felt shaky, and his back ached. He cursed himself this time, and did not say a word.

After that, he got a series of electric shocks so much so that he now could sense it in his fingers even though it was not there. He got thrown from a standing drum while chipping the walls and fitting wires, catching one of his fingers between the metal rim and his own weight. The finger went numb that evening. Then it swelled like a sausage. The hand felt like fire the next morning. Then he got a fever that evening, and needed to swallow the bitter-tasting paracetamol tablets.

It did not stop!

The nail turned blue, still feeling like a red hot ember and then after about three days the pain subsided a little. Then the nail went dead.

'Damn! He cursed just the same.

The nail took three months to fall off like a dead leaf in winter.

Then the devil came; once, twice, many times over. And there was no money to buy the medicine that could have lead it to another path. He nearly went mad.

It was just about the time when one of his friends committed suicide, hanging by a shoe-lace from a window railing.

'F***!' He cursed that evening.

But it stopped by itself, appearing only once or twice a year; but when it came it came with blood all the same. Bright red streaks that hurt, and the sight of it frightened him a lot.

Then one day, it felt like it was too much. He had read a book before, but this time it meant for real. He swallowed ten tablets with water, there being no money to buy a drink that would have made it easier.

That evening his head started to buzz like a hive of bees. His ears went crazy like hell, buzzing things all the time into his head.

Night buzzed, and the sleep buzzed. Morning buzzed, afternoon buzzed, and the evening buzzed, too. His heart pounded and slowed a little, but did not stop. 'Shit!' He cursed from time to time, in his hazy sleeps as well as his foggy mornings and afternoons.

The buzzing took away hunger and he did not feel like eating a thing. It continued for more than a week. And then it left only a horrible experience behind.

 'Shit! Shit!' He continued cursing.

The buzzing would just as appear and disappear from time to time over the rest of his life. And he would keep cursing.

...

'I don't believe you,' he said.

'You don't need to,' I told him. 'What happened, just happened.'

'Damn!' he retorted his disbelief again in the end.

 

Midnight's Allegory

[This blog-post is completely personal and has been taken from my own experience. It does not in any way indicate to any relationship with any person, living or dead, except that it is completely an allegory used to express my own personal experiences. Friends from my ever-growing circle have also appreciated my poetic compositions rather sincerely and I have been unable to refrain from giving them a taste from a completely different corner of my heart. Part of an on-going work of poetic expressions/compositions, I hope I shall be able to bring this piece together with others out in a book-like format, probably on amazon/kindle as it is my only platform/option of choice. Yes, heartache has been a rather genuine and wonderful fertilizer for creative outlets in my life's experience. My support for all of you stands in that wild river of bitterness you have experienced. See, whether mine is in confluence...]

***   ***   ***

Talk about bliss, a burden you have always felt like.

O wild weed, of life, what pleasure are you?

Thrice I had hung on the edge; thrice you shied away.

O friend among friends, what measure are you?

A Guest of Love, you can’t be shunned away; you can’t be sold!

O dark net of miracles, what treasure are you?

Felt like fire from hell, you have, felt like a poisoned arrow.

Far, far deep you have cut; what razor are you?

Of joy you haven’t carved a line: so blank a book, what eraser are you?

The meadow that might have been isn’t any green today; what grazer are you?

No turning back, no running away! What game of chance, what wager are you?

*** *** ***

You can read another allegory, of beauty and of love this time, at
http://fallencorner.blogspot.com/2013/07/dandelion-my-first-book.html

 ***   ***   ***

[This composition was actually done during the midnight hours of the 9th of October, 2013. I could not sleep that night. There was a visit from the Devil for the second time in the last 3 months, and I just remained tossing and turning in my bed. It was too much to bear. I sketched these lines and the morning I got out of bed, I was drenched in sweat as if I had taken a shower! It really felt painful, and horrible... As this is a part of my life's experiences, the work is copyright protected. Midnight's Allegory is actually a series of on-going compositions by the author. © 2013, Subarna Prasad Acharya. Reviews need to be accompanied by references to the author.]

A Look Inside Daughter of a Watermill

[brief analysis of a portion together with an excerpt] 

I found out that I had eaten the forbidden but it cannot be undone now. I am growing older day by day and the events, the occurrences, about and around me foretell that I do not have much to live. Not that I am that old though, or am suffering from a disease or malady of the general sense, but perhaps because having eaten the forbidden. And that may be the worst one can ever suffer; far more and far worse than a life-threatening disease... Ask why, the culture in which I was born and brought up does not believe otherwise.

Because of that one act, the forbidden has assimilated into my system, inside out, outside in. Part of me now, and my tale, I have dedicated a poem to the whole thing in repentance and for forgiveness, with a firm belief that perhaps I would be spared all the torments sooner or even, as an option of kindness, my sufferings would get lessened. But it still continues.

Read More Here

I am unable to get a proper sleep, my days are being haunted. I am finding myself dead every night, every snippet of sleep stealing into me. I am leaning more and more towards the divine and raise the inner arms of my soul in supplication for mercy, and for forgiveness. Perhaps a little merit I garner from the process would make me deserving to ask for a little reduction when the final verdict is delivered to me….. (Note: The pronoun "I" used here is not indicative of person, but rather it signifies a character. It is used to describe the experiences of the character concerned. The story in concern may not necessarily be in first-person narrative.)

***   ***   ***

Sabitri noticed him paying the boy as she walked along the pavement carrying morning meal for him. As the boy darted across the street, he turned, noticed her, and smiled. She felt awkward: he was her husband of years. Why should he smile at her, at this age, as if he was a young man and she a teenager? No doubt, he’s changed again after that eclipse over his brow. ‘(You’ve) Come smiling. What so strange has happened today?’ He flattered her with an unbelievable smile. Yes, unbelievable, of the man muted only yesterday.

‘You know, I saw an insect moult today,’ she replied, ‘and saw it shed a skin.’

‘Is that a good enough reason to smile along? Well, perhaps it is. After all it’s living its life, and life’s a rather precious thing. Don’t mind.’ He sat down on the small mat, his shoes taken off at some distance, towards his back. ‘So you’ve seen an insect moult, aye?’

‘I also noticed a seedling,’ she added, not answering his question of surprise or that of curiosity if that was one. Her husband sometimes asked too many questions like an innocent child as if he knew nothing. And she liked him more for that. He was learned also, and possibly wise too, but not with cunning as was natural to most men. He was her artless husband and she sometimes loved to play with his simplicity even if she hardly knew to read or write her own name.

‘What seedling?’ he asked, startled. ‘I mean, in this cold of winter?’

‘Probably an orange pip has germinated, or a lime seed, in the flower pot. It’s so small, it’s difficult to know which one it is.’

‘It’s orange. I know it’s orange. I’d thrown all the seeds from an orange into that pot last time. Which pot was it?’

How can he be so sure it’s orange. Sabitri questioned to herself. The pots are moved from this side to that side, placed and replaced and exchanged. It all depends upon his moods, the full moon, the no moon... ‘It’s on this side of the doorway—’

‘Which side?’ he quickly asked.

‘This side, ké, this side. The one in which there was aloe before.’

‘Leave it, leave it. Maybe it’s lime, or orange...’ his cheerfulness vanished now that he could not be sure and certain, but it returned once again. ‘So you saw a seedling on the pot? Hhhmmmmm!’ The aloe had already been re-potted in another because the previous pot had looked rather small for its size and now there were few empty pots as well. Empty of any specific plant, that is, and anything could germinate and grow in them. But neither orange nor lime. The pot would be too small for either of them when they grew. Had they germinated in open soil, they would keep growing, produce branches, flower, and fruit. A gift of heaven... Aye, wait! Adhikari had a flash. He hurriedly finished eating and left the empty box for his wife to take back home. ‘Beginning to feel a bit hungry these afternoons,’ he reminded her.

‘In winter it’s always so; one feels more hungry because of the cold.’ She reminded him of  the fact.

‘Could you make some rotis and prepare potatoes? Something like the sort?’ he asked.

Sabitri sensed he was up at something again, nodded in affirmation, and left with the empty lunchbox. He couldn’t be dating a damsel at this grey age of his, could he?

Read More Here

Were it a mango... he continued thinking, a banana or a papaya seedling. Anyway, a seed has germinated, sprouted out, pierced the earth and emerged itself into the air, the sky, the light of the heavens. It doesn’t matter what plant or tree it gives rise to, or has the potential. Were it in soil—not in the pot, that is—it would grow, spread branches, produce buds, flower, fruit. And it would cast a shade. Adhikari quickly grabbed a sheet and scribbled lines in it. After finishing, he went through the lines again and again in amazement and chuckled gleefully. Some came so smooth and so easily while others turned you into a different man altogether before they were readable. In ten minutes, for example, this seed-germination-life poem was finished without much effort. In comparison, the buffalo poem had taken three days completely, and disturbed his nights’ sleeps as well. Ah, poetry; poetry! He went through the lines again and satisfied, folded it and shoved it into his pocket; there were now two in it. Adhikari smiled within himself, his gladness visible on his face that has appeared to be brighter. He knew well that there was no end, no finis, to a composition or a creativity of words; the revisions through time could become endless but for the time being two had been done well and they could be filed or trans-written onto his third poetry note-book and read from time to time, to feast himself, to relax his eyes and mind, and for possible improvements. The loose pages and sheets of paper that were now in his pocket could, after they were copied over with dates, then be burnt or shredded, disposed of one way or the other. Adhikari brightened up and became cheerful; he was happy now, at least for the time being.

***   ***   ***

Read More in my next blog.    

Download an excerpt from my goodreads profile page.

Get your copy from amazon 

take a look inside

(This material, as always, is provided free on the internet. But as always, it is copyrighted.)