Poetry

My road. And mine alone.

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This is a village being a village. It has done me no wrong.

People are being people of all kinds and shapes and forms.

The mid-afternoon sun is being the sun, not an upstart.

Each one, a character in a story, playing its part.

Seeing them as villains and heros

is the naive mind assigning roles

To what is simply an Is-ness.

They are being them. They can’t be the other lot because they are not.

They have no will, no thought.

The stories that my mind makes up do. Yet, I hold them to be so so true.

I am learning they are not.

Gotta just walk.

I am the cause. I am the cause. I am the cause.

To know that the gaze of the Universe is me.

To be held within the fold of Here and Now of Divinity.

That’s all.

I wonder if that’s the journey.

To find me exactly where I started.

Completely new.

Like this only.

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I guess only in India we are talking like this sometimes. But you are understanding. So, it’s okay. If the weather is not kind right now, it will change. We will pass through time. We’ve got to have patience, like the trees. No kind of weather is lasting for ever. The autumn ten years ago, I thought would stretch past eternity. I was wrong. How little I knew. It changed many times, inside and out. I wonder how many other things I was wrong about.

A blushing Sunset

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Coral, peach, rose, bubblegum, flamingo, ballet-slipper, salmon, rouge, punch – all shades of pink.

Does every possible colour in the sky have a name? What is the lingering sunlight called? Are these names absolute or are they mere approximations? Do they do justice? Do we need to name every colour or can we leave some alone? Is there a colour of love? Wonder what its name is.