Turmoil

A few beautiful words penned by a friend I made in Lahore made me realize how long it had been that I'd felt real turmoil. Scrolling through some of the poems I'd written earlier made me realize that the confusion and frustration that I'd felt then was quite intense, and however I try to rationalize it now, they were an elemental part of me then, and seamlessly entwined with my thoughts as they grew up. I needed that turmoil to know that I was growing. Like a slowly meandering stream, every time I wanted to acknowledge that my mind's waters were not still, I had to do was bend a little and run my hand against the flow. I had to write.

Now, writing is more a hobby than it has ever been. It is more a means to capture joys and sorrows than to feel reconciled with the world. I presume that means I'm growing up. That I have made my peace with the tightropes I walked then and have embraced new ones, more immediate, more in synchrony with reality and easier to negotiate. I don't think there are tightropes now at all. Sometimes it does feel like coming dangerously close to a cliff, but it feels good to know that I am still intimate with the ground... I still know that I have earth on one side to secure me.

I am home now, where thoughts don't often have more than a few words. There is no need for complex thoughts at home. Happiness probably does lie in not letting misgivings take centrestage, and holding on to the things that secure one to reality. Perhaps, in the long run, the peace that comes with being moored is more worthy than the adventure in being adrift on turbulent seas. More so, when freak winds of uncertainty whip the sea into a foam it did not ask for.

I was standing on a beach, with coconut palms banking towards the sea in the mist of raindrops, alone. That picture is fading fast. I am unaccountably surprised that that is a good thing.

Anyway, here is the poem that got me reminiscing... one of the most beautiful pieces I've read in the recent past. Here's to the good-natured maverick who showed me the country I had walked across a border to see. I hope you are well, and I hope you know that the images you showed us of Lahore, through the sights and through glimpses of your own rebellious soul, are my favourite memories from my short trip to your country.


To God.

Dekha tera har rang
Par kyun laga be-rang?
Apnay liye...
Ik tu ne jo banaya tha
Phir kaise kar diya
Mujh ko giraftar-e-zindaan?
Jab tujhey chahiye tha
Sirf apna hi naam-o-nishaan
Phir kyun kar main mitaoon
Apna ujra hua makaan?
Jab nahi hai himmat-e-judai
Phir kyun bheja tha
Mujh ko iss jahan?