When does Love de-links from Pain? (Part-II)

So, the question to be answered was about, love’s capacity to store enough for the future?

Can love store enough for the future?

The air that breezes through a rose garden, through which a butterfly flutters, and leaves rustle.

Now re-read- The “fragrance” that the wind brought in through the slit of the window pane, or the sight of the “rhythmic pulse” of the butterfly’s wing, and the “cacophony of the autumn” leaves that sounded like music to my ears?

These specifics, is what love brings to our life.

But does love guarantees a safe store for these perceptions about the everyday life?

Will love rattle my head like a piggy bank, when I will run broke of “happiness and beauty”?

From my experience, yes it will. It will crackle and giggle sitting at the edge of the ceiling of the sky, and ask me to put a ladder and go hug it.

I might be willing, but who knows where the ladder is? For instance, I get lucky to have a mother who guides me through the obsolete store room of her memory lane, and hands me a key to unlock a ladder to the sky, which is rare but fortunate, then I might retrofit a sky-high ladder from the balcony perching through my head to the skyline where love and its beautifully gowned illusion fairy sits with a piggy bank in her hand.

Before I know, I will begin to climb her skirt, clinging onto one frill at a time, hooking my overgrown nails into the corners of her sleeves.

With each step, trying to get closer and clench what is rightfully mine.

I see “love”, distant, cold and misted by the wigs of her hair. This illusion deludes me to keep getting closer, as she holds between her teeth, the hard-earned memories of love.

Who knows in what currency are the love memories stored? I very well remember saving all the transaction bills, accounting earns me bread after all. But demonetization spares none. Perhaps, those bills hold no promise anymore. Because one day, a bizarre headed, loud spoken orator, obsessed with the idea of enshrining his name in history, devalued everything that I had ever earned. Called it “Black”.

Black? Yes. It was never accounted and deposited at the signature of the cashier. It was stolen. Stolen from the fists of the miser, who gives a lover only for lure and lust and not for guarantee or trust. So, making the most of what we get, we stole those hushes and lullabies sung to us in bed by our mothers, and the feather like touch of the lips, on the corner of the eye. We cherry picked the moments when we smiled without reason, and fought without logic and stored them as smiles and frowns, inverted curves formed out of the same lip-line.

I continue to clench, fret, demand and seek. I make my path through this cashless economy. Where there is no real transaction. Love is deposited in the social media accounts or in the gift vouchers of an e-commerce website. Love is highly dependent on the “miles” on my travel card, so that I can make a quick visit to see the face of a person, I have long forgotten in my daily schedule. Love is transacted in exchange of the sense of “entitlement”, in a world that makes ongoing attempts to rob you off, of your possession. Right from the land you possess, to the freedom of expressing your thoughts. The world it seems can rob me off my religion, faith and belief, as the media distorts everything that is served to be in the breakfast news. By dinner, I have lost appetite, probably it is better I start eating less in the face of unemployment.

What does it take to differentiate pain from love? I do not believe, I would be able to answer it till the time, pain, as faiz ahmed faiz wrote, would not be greater than the pain of love.

When this pain, the one that reflects in the status-quo of poverty, denial, defiance and daily violence, will surmount and become unbearable, if at that pinnacle of pain my love for you will continue to pain me, like it does on the lonely nights in a claustrophobic hostel room.

Then, my love, I will hence say, love could hold its place, in a masochists’ heart.

A heart filled with the pains of the world, if it will thump to buy the air tickets that I cannot afford, just to say, “Happy birthday to you”, I would credit this “love card” with all the deposits of my faith and de-link it from the experience of pain.

Kanksshi

-From the land of Mystical Hiraeth

When does Love de-links from Pain?

Part-I

I wasn’t aware as to why I was running towards you with a broken phone in my hand.

The glass pierced through my palm, and I didn’t feel any bit of pain. But the realization of it happening, that, that hurt me. The inflicted pain didn’t matter, but the occurrence of a pain inflicting moment forced me to think hard. What does it take to differentiate pain from love?

As expected, before arriving at the answer, I have to address a series of questions that will talk to each other.

What turns a happiness-seeking human into a masochist? If love demands pain to be felt, then what does pain demand? And if it demands nothing, then why does pain drains so much out of my fulfilled soul? What does love do, with the “demands of feeling”? How does it use those handful of emotions? Or does it not use them at all? After all, love should not “use” to deplete but generate? However, if generation could happen without fuel, would it still be generation? Or would it be miracle?

Imagine, “producing things out of the thin air”.

“Thin air” is a metaphor, in my view, of the molecules far apart, they lack the acknowledgment of the others, and just lie at the periphery of each other’s fields. Hence, they do not collaborate, coordinate or co-work yet, co-exist. If such atoms and molecules are enabled to attract each other, they come together to form vapours and gases and other materials, toxic or metal. Although, when something is made out of thin air, it means it was an eclectic marvel that the peripheries merged into each other by fooling the field of the individual atom, and by the dawn, they found each one merged into another. It is interesting how love might just be a product of thin air.

So, is love a miracle? Or it works on recycle, reuse and renew? Investing and losing, while the bull and the bear comes time and again leading love to invest in the future and account for the losses in the past? What about present then? Who cares for it, if love fails to! Because pain holds a grip in the present, and secures itself in every passing minute, becoming our past and future at the same time!

The next question is, what can love store? Can it store enough?

To be continued…

-From the Land of Mystical Queries

-Kanksshi

Do Not Enter in My Shoes!

If I were to tell you, that I don’t really care about what people think of me, what will you
think of me then?
And you would pop the question : “then why does it matter what I think”?
I ponder exactly the same.
I have this peculiar urge to communicate and have people see, exactly how I feel. I want them to see the constellations exactly from where I stand. And every time, I offer them my seat, I don’t realize I move to a new seat, a new angle, and then I want them to shift with me. It is not hard to learn from this argument, that at one place, can only be one.
Maybe I feel alienated and alone in feeling how I feel, in perceiving what I perceive. I feel alone in my theories.
Unlike Marx. He got whole goddamn community to read, what he fathomed and observed. Although in his journey of observations, he was alone and singled out and in solitude. He spent time in observing, instead convincing.
I once read somewhere, an artist demands not be be understood, but leverages people’s own reflections through his art. What people see in art, read in literature, witness in theater, and live in life, is a reflection of their ability to expand and explode, or inability.
So all these writers, attempting to tell you how they feel, and trying to connect a cord with how you felt, are simply looking for somebody to drown along with. They are afraid of sinking alone. Wishing to be retold, with every like, re-tweet, comment on their pieces of scribble story, that we are all together in being alone.
I hence, want to tell you how “I” feel.

Not to ask, if you agree with me or not.

I do not wish to have you stand in my shoe.

Let there be difference. If you change your shoes, you might transport yourself physically from yours, and slip into mine, unfortunately you will keep comparing it to the comfort and liking for your own.

We all need to know, what not to say, to a person in grief. See, it is basic, the only shoe you have known is yours. Then inviting you to come and stand in mine, is an invitation to offer you comparison. It is snarling, that such invitation is all about rendering you more judgmental than before. As you will leave your shoes, but you can’t leave your feet behind. Your thresholds, your idea of dealing with situations, your coping and defending mechanisms, your idea of trust, skepticism, tolerance or misbehavior, you bring them along with you. So my shoe, will have a new owner, with different capabilities than my own, and you will treat my shoe in a new manner.

So, it is only the shoe that changes, not your art of positioning your feet. Darling, this is called bringing in perspective. Kindly, parcel it for me from outside, and not meddle with my shoe through your actions. It is my shoe, and it will only require to be mended by me.

You could tell me how to wear it better, or how to tie my lace from what you know through years of doing it yourself. But, do not try to take away my shoe for experimenting.
Hence, don’t try to understand me by becoming me. Because you are not me. Be more tolerant, and just like how we accept without seeing, that there are many more than 3 Dimensions to our world, and an alternate universe, but we still happily co-exist, let us co-exist. I will show you my wounds, let you see the 4th dimension of my 3D body, see it with awe or anger, query about it and learn me like a data point. I think I am better than just data, perhaps for now, just assume I am not.
It is important for me to know, what you think about me; not giving damn about anyone else’s thought, is because I want to know how you feel in your universe, and I wish to know my tolerance towards yours.
I want to test, if I will snap at your revelations. I remember once, I were told, you do not know what is to long for a home, what is hiraeth, when I recited to you my blog stories.
I am willing to explore your inability to feel love, and yet sink into your arms in the night, to feel the warmth of your effortless love.
It is mesmerizing to receipt the touch of lingering fingers on my cheek and neck, love oozes out of it. It is awe inspiring to acknowledge that your heart doesn’t feels a thing, but your lips quiver to kiss me. The hands slide past the consciousness of your unknowing and find the right spots on my back and Breast. I am amazed to know more about your desires, that you think were buried in the ground of your hill top school.
I yearn to scoop out the knowledge or the absence of it, that you posses of you, and then
experiment with the truth of your conscience.
And all this, for? For Us. Precisely me. Because, I believe, and I have faith, through another human, just as big as me, or bigger probably, I have greater chances of exploding out of my body, and find light at the end of the tunnel. This tunnel has no medium to travel. I pocket myself in your universe, to get across, you can pocket in me if you aspire. My journey is a long one, and I am using my body, and yours to get across. Because this is all I have.
And I have chosen you.
You can choose to get down this flight right now if you are afraid of this tiring journey.
I warn like a pilot; we expect turbulence.
And I don’t care what others think, because my choice is undeterred. I have my prototype ready. I need pores in your brain, and openness of your heart, and assurance that we won’t exchange shoes, but only perspectives.

Kanksshi

From the Land of Mystica

How long?

Just as it lasts

Like an ember breathing it’s last breath

In future, it won’t light

In past, it wasn’t born

In present it burns, like this is it’s first and probably the last time,

Through the nostrils it takes in all the oxygen to burn in the crucible of time

 

Just as it lasts

The bubble out of the mouth and gills of a fish

Not Scared to burst out laughing as you crack a joke through it

Unaware of the vast ocean right outside its boundaries—-Where blue whales, octopus and a deep diver, swim— playing with a billion others like itself,

In present, it floats, light and sturdy, like this is its first and probably the last time,

Over the skins of plants and fauna.

Lets light past through it, glowing its boundaries.

Just as it lasts

The wave, angry and ferocious, like a child out of the womb of a mother

Crying while refusing to open his eyes, in the denial of the shore

Carrying tornadoes in its lap, and a lump of star fish in the palms

Unconscious, just like you, of death at the feet of a lover

Unknown of the fiery stir, called out by a boy who came to curse the ocean for taking away his father

Forever,

Indifferent, yes like you, to “forever”

Waves do not stop coming to the land, to wipe away the last traces of tears shed on the sand.

Just as it lasts

The funny moon plays a piano through the instrument of night, placed in the arms of the universe

Keys painted with the white of your face, and the black of your mole

Tiptoeing through my window, hangs like a hole in a black craft sheet

Reminding me of my art class, where I pasted white origami over colorful drawing board

Awed by god’s forgetfulness to fill in color!

Unconcerned with what the sun did to be gold?

The moon hides, and reappears, losses in despair and revives in beauty.

Just as it lasts

We will.

Kanksshi

– From the Land of Mystica

 

Quiet!

The ink of my mind has been chronically drying. Lately, in years for the first time, I have come to know what is to be quiet. Not the usual quiet. The unusually weird and thrilling kind of a quiet. Particles of stillness lumber around the room. I can see light breaking through them. Splintering into minuscules of individual suns. Suns, floating around in the room, sticking themselves to the walls and the curtain, settling on the eye lid of this lover that sleeps next to me.

I do not see his body. I cannot touch upon his hairless skin or the bush of his hair. I see only the parts, on which these million suns, like dew, roll.

Experiencing Silence in parts, interwoven with his love for mountains and my love for breaking.

For today I see eyelids. As sun sets on the west of our intoxicated horizon, and rises from the east of our yearnings. I see the the eyelids that engulf the blazing crimson at the dusk, when we soaked ourselves in a watering hole, and the eyelids that unleash the overwhelming desire, compassion and togetherness into a light breaking dawn, where we wake up to part.

His eyelids flutter too much, quietly. In the midst of the sleep, they lose the count of the time and frequency of the flinches, shutter-bugging without any stimuli. Seems like they mime to themselves, and talk. Talk in the language so quiet, that it seems nearly ignorant of my presence outside them. Perhaps they have taken a picture of me and pasted it on the retina, and then they mop my image clean with few drops of tears that have built a perennial canal of dreams and thoughts.

I am happy to be cleaned out. Wiped off. I fall short of words and I stop talking to find his stoic eyes, enduring me like any other pain, luring me. It opens to acknowledge my presence and in split seconds slams me out, fearful of my intense magnetic stare.

At that slamming, I am fevered and I shiver, outside. Just as I was marching in, into his eyes, an inch at a time, a bit at a go, he closed midway. Now my half hangs outside, and half holds within. I flutter like a butterfly, half a wing hooked between a closed door, trying to pull itself away. Careful! The wings are brittle. Might torn apart. He snarls and sucks me in through his eyelids. Leaving me quieter. From passionately twitching to be left into the arms of the breaking silence of the dawn to giving in, to be pinned down, between the tiniest pair of eye rims.

Immediately, a stillness of surrender seeps inside me. Subservience is beauty at the behest of a genuine cluster of emotions, maybe devoid of love, however stacked with the pointlessly painful care and admiration.

Tranquility comes with unreasonable quiet, and I speak too much in the daylight. I ponder flower to flower, suck the nectar, and mound it in my hive. At night, in his encompassing embrace I bathe us in the honey dew. Honey drops emulating the million suns, that were created on my quest to calm.

I grow quieter. Quieter within and without. With him, or without.

-Kanksshi, From the land of Mystica

Bleed!

A Bronze Typewriter from a Vintage Collection at KalaGhoda Art Festival 2017, Mumbai. Clicked- Kanksshi Agarwal Date- February 9th 2017

Bleed while you are alive.
As Dead are not hydrated with the blood in their veins
Or moisture in their eyes
They devour the myths of glistened skin, a rose-berry smelling neckline, a hardened muscular bone, or a creased bow tie.
Succinctly, dead lack the patience to remain flowing
They just Drop. Drop in the fire or in a corpse and become ashes. Solid, grey, powdered fine particles, atoms close together, unlike blood which streams.

So, Bleed.

Bleed words and versify while your fingers can touch the marvels of the sand dunes resting over a bridge between a promiscuous lover’s infidelity and a poly-amorous lover’s scintillating capacity to brim love to all without loving you any less.
Bleed, while you can be hurt and hope to heal.
Bleed while you have a muse who doesn’t wants to return home. As her home is a war torne piece of meat.
Bleed while politicians saddle your aspirations and crumple your dreams like a pendulum in the thin air.
Bleed while religions are belligerent, and arouse a sword.
Bleed, while you are agitated and you have read the constitution of the land to demand for your rights.
Bleed, while philosophy is not abstract but analytical, and mathematics emanates from it.
Bleed, while there is a reasonable war to fight and love to lose.
Bleed, till they bathe in the river of your presence and chastise the worms which gobbled the papers of your typewriter.
Bleed, till they stop bleeding in the name of God.

-Kanksshi

From the Land of Mystica

He is.

He is.

He is a harsh struggle,

and when he comes to me his hands tied and

eyes shut his body trembling in fear and embarrassment I,

the unchanging universe embrace him with his infidelities.

The salts and smells of other women the teeth marks and the blood stains on his limbs

come calling my name and then

He, slowly in his nervous laughter drowns in sleep with his head on my lap.

I, the universe

He, the earth

insignificant

yet

Marvelously astonishing

He is a small planet, fighting wars to survive one day at a time

And as he gazes at me

The other eyes, that are entrenched on every pore of my body

Look at him, and binds him to me

Through the threads of a widow’s yarn

His breasts filled with water. It ruffles at the wink of my flirtatious moons,

those tears of a hungry cub come brimming out of his eyes,

he is a fighter with moist sights

He succumbs every night

As he let my kisses be planted on the ceiling of his abode

My pecks appear as the stars on his sky

He, the earth.

I, the universe

His voice cannot be heard, escape his body

My benevolence cannot be touched, escape my entirety

He is the drunkard High on the idea of life

I am the grape, the brewery, the Oktoberfest, and the drunkard himself

I, the universe!

that contains him

He, the earth!

weaving little universe of his own.

~From the Land of Mystical Hiraeth-  The mystery of the cosmos.

Kanksshi Agarwal

The Mating Chaos.

In all disorders there is a secret chaos.

We understand this world very differently.

I see it as an expanse of possibilities, you as a point blank packet of facts and binaries.

I see it as an abstract, picturesque canvas, painted with a thousand colours, left in my backyard this morning, for my wild interpretation.
You see it as an object, fixed with limits of zero to infinity (mind here, I claim, that you call it an infinite limit of integration, darling it is still a limit), coloured with a thousand colours demarcating a hundred areas, left in your laboratory last night, for you to use it or discard it, do not think twice.

I see the stars, playing with the star dust in their mouths and pockets, messed up with light in the curls of their hair, clouds hanging as the chiming earrings, and pointed edges in their pants, some distance embedded in their arms, which extend them far away from my reach.
And I watch, that the stars twinkle, like the biological beating of my heart, twinkle on and off with a pause of a split second, just like the empty splits between the two knocks within my heart.
You see them as galaxies, infinite, without a starry shape, devoid of any protruding corners or edges, without acknowledging the distance between you and them, as they appear close to your pupil through the lense of a telescope. You do not see them twinkle, you say, it’s the light that refracts through the frozen layers of the past. Past that is acting like an atmosphere, which creates the illusion of star’s charming sprinkle. You believe, they just emit a continuous monotonous light, and for you such is the nature of the stardust too.  Perhaps the dust comes to earth only when the star breaks lose, and drives back home to you,in that moment you can see it’s scattered filthy dust. Otherwise it seems clean to you. Holding up a romantic nose to contain itself within the expanse it chose to create.

I see people, as the misconceived experiment of a creator who wished to mystify the treasures in the game he designed, deliberately creating people with differences and similarities, of hierarchy and misogyny, of psyche and empathy, of lust and leeching, of love and preaching, of desires and hatred, of passion and dare, of emotions and cold, of satisfaction and solitude, of greed and power, many of them, in different proportions, within different orders.
People are bound to be different and foolish, they are here to only become objects of a predecided move, subject to alteration but not obliteration. Well crafted into the instruments of fun, the sadistic creator had designed them, expecting them to act smart.
He preluded, during such an act of smartness people will make a fool of themselves, and in the act of foolishness find excuses of subjectivity. The major excuse they lay out pertains to being a human being.

I let them be, because they are heavily marred by the characteristic of such a life. I do not wish to burden them with my weighted judgment of morality and wisdom. I would rather be their earthly manipulator, who plays them, without having to trust them. But trick them into their own realisation, without having to curse them.

You see people, as a means to an end. Not as an end in themselves. They are your parasites, guinea pigs, or catalyst in your equation. They are the poisons, that require anti venom of your powerful words, as if you would resurrect their dead morals, their sleeping wisdom, their uncertain flaws, their masked salvation. Your curse and swear would melt the effigies of their superficial cognitive, and make them positivist. You curse people, as it is, and expect them to bear with your insult and in return adore you. You do not consider them as alive as yourself. Believing that the air you breathe remains different from the air they exhale. For you they don’t exist at all, if they do, they are degenerates and unfortunates.
You secretly celebrate them, as the embodiment of your own emotions.
I see ideologies as threats.
You see ideologies as weapons.

I see wilderness as a mosaic of mysteries, waiting to be explored, but not in entirety. You see wilderness as the road less travelled.

I build realities in my dreams.
You build dreams to make them come alive.

I bridge the creaks.
You bridge the carpet’s fine separations.

I seek the bigger picture.You seek the finest details.

I worry about the unsaid trails. You worry about their existence.

I talk, cut open my emotional vertebrae, let you have a look at the dried up marrow and mucus, for only to stitch it back, and feel the stream of marrow and mucus vigorously brimming again.
You talk, open up your vertebrae, hinder my vision with a blindfold, take my finger and dip it in your mucus, make me feel the depth,but before I touch its bed, you zip it close, and tell me how I soaked some of your fluid into the cells of my skin.

How I saved you, of the horrendousity of “life” brimming from your bones.

You save me, from the insecurities of not knowing what circles inside your intestine. You let me know, what a man must.
I let you see, what a man cannot.

I see order as the next big chaos.
You consider order as the next big philosophy.
Chaos for me is a ladder, not everyone can climb, not everyone can even find. For you perhaps, it is a pit.
My chaos is an escape route from your chaos.

Let them make love now and belong in each other. Similar to how we have been within each other all this while, just like the ying – yang.

Let our chaos weld together. Let our chaos mate.

Kanksshi Agarwal
– From the land of mystical hiraeth

A Road to Imprisonment!

The mindless secrets.
They sprout out of my mouth, like the seedling bursts from the core of the earth, unable to tolerate the heat of the lava anymore, that was incinerating the mirthful drops of bubbles that tried to give the seedling a life of its own.
It was so dead. It only reeked of the possibility of life, that the farmer thought would benefit his fortune.

The embryonic seedling, before being born had thoughts, which didn’t matter. Had a crazy plan, which didn’t matter either. It had hopes, which were too heavenly to be real, I wonder as to how it didn’t have a brain to be rational?
The “seedlings” are the metaphors of the  mindless, lifeless, powerless and arrogant “secrets”.
The washes of memories and the paint and varnishes that do not exist at all. They are well unaware of their   incoherence with the truths of reality, however they love to fake that they  know it at all. Knowledge makes you powerful, but the questionable stance of ‘knowing-it-all’ regime, usually leads to unprecedented wars.
Nothing can exist before it comes out of the womb. Of the earth, or from the womb of my secret box.

However, the delusion of the power to be born someday, gropes the seedling and forces a masquerade over its dead face.

No eyes. With no questions

No ears. With no apprehension.

No nose. With no air to breathe.

No lips. With no lingering tastes of kisses and smoke.

No chin. No chimples.

No cheeks. No dimples.

A dead chunk of possibilities. With an invisible crown of power and pride, that deluded the “secret” to make a history.

Secrets do not know, they do not exist for the world outside.
It’s the fire within the pounding heart, the few droplets of mouth watering lip locks, his lovers’ sunlight of multiple lies, the darkness of swollen his eyes.
That. That. That.
That gives life to the secrets. The thoughts.

To come out and breathe free.
The mindless secrets –
Become the reason of your imprisonment to another soul.

– From the land of mystica

Kanksshi Agarwal

#secrets #thoughts #poetryinmotion💙🌿 #writer #poet#artists

सपने, बारिश में घुले हुए!

खुद से जीतने की होड़ में, मैंने खुद से ही पीछा छुड़ाया
इस धुंधले , दर्द से सने, अंधेरों से घिरे रास्तों में,
अपना सपना कहीं गिराया
प्यास ढूंढते बादलों को , हथेली भर शबाब परोसी
उसने कहा : क्यों खेलते हो ईमान से मेरे, मोहब्बत ने ही तोह नमी खाली कर दी है मेरी!
फिर उठाया मैने. रूठे हुए किसान का आंसू बंजर ज़मीन से,
सपना उस बूँद को बना कर, संजो लिया बादल ने अपने दामन में
अब वही सपना

मेरा और उसका

हर रात बरसता है

उसकी छत पर!

–कांक्षी