विश्वास की एक छलांग…

 

जब पटरी ज़िन्दगी की आग में पिघलती है, तब अरमानों का कारवां फिसलता है;

कंधे झुक जाते हैं, मन ढल जाते हैं दीयों की तरह, बिखर जाता है सपनों का फूल.

इस आकस्मिक सफर में,  अगर कुछ बातें तुमने मौत से भी कर ली,

तोह कौन जाने तुम कहीं फिर से रास्ते पर आ जाओ?

शुक्रगुज़ार रहो हमेशा, इस देन के लिए,

जो सन्सार से हमने पायी है, अमानत की तरह.

हौंसले पाने की जो हिम्मत रखते हैं, वह गिरने से डरते नहीं.

सांस लेते रहो. सपने देखते रहो. जब आँखें खुलें तब छलांग लगा देना, बस! और क्या?

~ सिद्धार्थ पाठक । १६ अप्रैल २०१४

Twenty Eight Pictures

Twenty eight years of battle have made me into a slave, a “victim”, a disabled survivor, a struggling parasite, and over the last year, to my attempts at attaining balance, a bohemian freethinker. Through these years I have ashamed myself, fallen down and begged my way out of some days in life, only to get by, get up again, and fall back down in pieces on other days of life, and even though twenty eight years seems like a long time, for me they went by in twenty eight flashes.

Every year gone by in my life so far, has given me one image, one memory and only one feeling to keep with me, for moving on, or should I say I have always been able to save only any one piece of me. Most of these images are of pain, regret and anguish, and almost all of them in some or the other ways are connected with Love. This isn’t to say that I am hungry for love and that, I am asking for some from you. Nor does it mean I live my life walking alone on the street, talking to myself and staring at other couples. It does not mean I get “dated and dumped” after every few weeks.

It means that I have learned my own ways. I am a loser for love, a complete sucker for romance and love and “love” and all the different things that happen to you when you are in love. I know a lot of people who say they feel the same way as I do. However, this is not about them. This is about me. This is about what love can do to me, and in how many ways I have grown to love that feeling of Love, and let it do so many things to me.

This does not mean I have given up my dignity for love and “fallen” in it repeatedly with every other girl I met after every few weeks.  Well, not always.

There was this once when I even gave up my dignity for love. She took too long to give me a chance. By then my life had turned me around, twisted me and torn me apart. I had begun to become someone else and I thought her love would save me. But it didn’t. By the time she had given me her heart, I had burned out, completely. The rubber was molten away and I was cruising through life on wheels made from the dreams of metal. There was fire everywhere and I had burned all my bridges behind me. It was time for me to leave.

I had just stumbled across a few borders and then it happened to me again. I saw her, and my bags fell out of my hands, I broke a lampshade and tripped over my own foot into my new dorm room. In the beginning I did not know I had fallen so hard. But when I realized, it was so late to turn back – the Sun had set and I found myself in the dark, drowning in common fluid poisons, burying myself in work without breaks for weeks, eating a few biscuits every day and selling my things one by one – moving from a large personal apartment to a one hundred square foot room atop someone else’s terrace at a throw away price, only to buy more of that dreaded fluid poison, that has destroyed everything we know of in time, by way of a slow, agonizing spiritual death followed by the rotting of the walking corpse, until it finally falls apart and disintegrates, only to soon disappear. All we remain are but a memory.

However, something saved me.

My life was shadowed by fears of all kinds of things. My mind was cracking rapidly, and little concrete chips from the vertical edges of my emotional structure were beginning to scoot down to the basement of my soul, in the wind. There was nothing left for me there. The town seemed stranger every day, and on one odd afternoon, I packed my bags and walked out. I left behind all of my belongings, as they were in the room, and closed the door never to go back for them.

All I could manage was to board a cargo train to another city – a journey of three days in a cold, dark chamber through the mountains. I remember, I didn’t think about anything else but all the people I loved and those who loved me and how much warmth and beauty I had once shared with them, and I realized I could never go back to any of them, ever again.

There is something about Love that is “Lost” by virtue, and it can only be found again, in love.

Whether they say I am depressed, perpetually lovelorn or even emotionally manic, it does not make the slightest difference to me. Love has been the only eternal constant of my life. Since the moment I was born, I have either chased love only to find it easily and squander it, or to find it with difficulty and give it so much that I lost everything I ever had, all the way to coming close to finding it forever; only to lose it in a moment, again. One moment; all it takes for a camera to take a picture, and it’s gone, for all eternity. You are left with only one thirst; the thirst for Love.

You think it is not the thirst for love that births into you the lust for money? Isn’t it the deep-set craving for love that drives us to change and morph into different beings, even though we may not be happy doing it? I expect you’ll concur when I say, everything we do, in every single moment of our time, even if it may be something as pure as dreaming; it is something we do to become the next possible superior versions of ourselves – to want more, deserve more and get more. Our time; this time unfortunately, is a time of shallow waters, where sentient beings chase every next breath of life as if it were leaving, while being completely and clinically I might say, unable to understand, that it is breath itself that holds the weight of our soul; our life force and only known medium of existence, in this Universe – our Universe, in the centre of which, believe it or not is Love.

Indeed, we are the children of one Universe – OUR GREAT MOTHER, who brought us to life in the Milky Way so we could be nourished and brought to life on Earth, as instruments of Love, Belonging and Universal Oneness.

Take a look around you. Does THIS picture, fit the former description? I think not.

With the amount of betrayal we endure, induce and succumb to, I believe we’ve been grossly misfired. Our memories are filled with horrors, fears, disappointments, guilt and regrets. Our happiness turns to dust the moment we touch it, and it often remains a secret that dies quickly.

In all of this time we are being dragged through life; or at least that is how it begins to seem – mustn’t we be careful of what we choose to hold on to, while we make this journey? Shouldn’t we learn to harness the good memories so we can ride the thunder better?

If for a moment, SCIENCE in progress of INVENTION can be thought of as a fond memory – a great picture taken every time a world-changing invention was born -for example, Edison posing with his Bulb in a picture – especially taken to be of record, either personal or for documentation in history, or Tesla posing with his Two Phase Induction Motor – for reminiscence. In that case, every improvement in every invention ever conceived, was made based on the previous version, the previous happy memory * [Key words; improvement, happy memory].

I have always been deeply interested in Science and its spiritual application with rational approaches for achieving rational results. I have derived thus –

“At the unexplained, unseen core of science, there is Love.”

I mean, what else can it be? We don’t understand Love and the moment we try to define it, we lose it. Yet, everything about it seems completely rational.

However, keeping the right pictures and doing away with the wrong ones, does feel pretty good, doesn’t it? Especially on a nice warm afternoon, when you realize you are so happy, energetic and excited to go further ahead on this journey of your life, and you grab the reins and say, “Heehaw” – well, that’s what I am talking about.

We must keep pictures in our hearts, of every moment gone by, when we moved on to the next stage of our life-play; captured and framed. Keep the good pictures; forget the bad ones as if they were never even yours.

At least, I have decided to do that for myself. Three days ago, someone I love, woke me up in the morning and held me and gave me a hug – a soft, warm embrace. By the time I opened my eyes and looked at her, I felt more awake than I have ever felt in my whole life.

I went through the next few minutes cuddling up to Marble and Asphalt, brushing my teeth, having a cup of coffee, standing in the balcony and looking at the birds flittering about on the treetops, and then I realized it was my birthday. That is what all of this love and beauty in the morning, was all about; it was about me, my life and all its power and splendor. I thought I saw someone on the pavement right below my stance, walking and waving at me. I could swear I knew that face. It was so vaguely familiar, yet unfamiliar at the same time.

By his expressions I thought, he seems to have recognized me.

Does he know me?          

He stopped waving after a while and realized that I have not recognized him at all. My face bore an expression of blankness I had never felt before. All I could think of was – He looks familiar, maybe…

He was about as tall as me, wearing the colours I stopped wearing a long time ago – deep maroons and grays. He looked like one of those people in college or at work, who are a little too chilled out for their environments. His face was covered with dark foliage. He looked as if he had just come out of prison and had nowhere to live. His eyes were soft and filled with sadness. His smile was one of loss and fears but bright none the less. He was however, a complete stranger to me. Of that, I have no doubts.

Twenty eight pictures I have collected since the beginning of my time, today having found satisfaction, because I am smiling in each and every one of them. The people with me in those pictures are smiling too. Through my time I have also become a survivor, a fighter, a warrior, a gladiator and now, when I have found my reins again, I shall ride as a barbarian, till I find the twenty ninth panorama of my life, with me in the centre of the vision, at the centre of this Universe, at the core of which is Love; at the centre of my Universe, at the core of which, I am a complete stranger to myself.

There it is; the secret. I found it.

 

Siddharth Pathak | 1st – 4th April 2014

 

Sex

~|Her soft, warm and moist finger running down my heaving shoulders and chest, covered in sweat, shining in the dim light of the nightshade; our deep breaths seem to echo, the curtains seem to be feeling awkward and embarrassed, just hanging over the window letting in shafts of the morning Sun.| ~

There it is – a snapshot from one of my fantasies. I am not talking about monsters and dragons – they would feature under the category called “Creatures”. We are all some or the other kind of creature when we are bare-naked. I am talking about the more personal fantasies we cherish. Of course the former fantasies with dragons and mythical flying nymphs can also be personal for a lot of people, but I am in the mood for the latter; Sex.

If you haven’t already felt a sweetly agonal twinge in your breast, then I must warn you.  You have a condition, and you should do something about it. I prescribe Sex. We all fantasize, you should too.  You should also make the fantasies come true. You will gasp and churn in wonder at yourself, all your energy, and at how much good you can do to yourself and someone else. I said “breast” there. That does not mean I intend only to speak to women. This is a dialogue; one that is Reader-Gender Irrespective.  Men have a breast too.

“The breast is the upper ventral region of the torso of a primate, in left and right sides, containing the mammary gland which in a female can secrete milk used to feed infants.

Both men and women develop breasts from the same embryological tissues. However, at puberty, female sex hormones, mainly estrogen, promote breast development which does not occur in men due to the higher amount of testosterone. As a result, women’s breasts become far more prominent than those of men.”- Wikipedia

I mean “Breast” as in – “His breast heaves with deep breaths of satisfaction and attainment…”

It is Poetic.

Sex is poetry, as a matter of fact.

Haven’t you noticed the insatiable urge for rhyming, the surge after surge of verse in words of the strong whispering winds dancing with the storm inside – whirls of anticipation, rolling thunder in the stomach and heart in powerful rhythm, vibrations all over, felt in every joint of your body, every root of hair – everywhere, followed by beads of sweat and calls to the heavens. All of which brings heavy rainfall, which of course happens if the storm is weathered right. Also, did I mention flawless rhyming?

Sex is an adventure. I implore you to look deeper. It is a journey through terrain that can be new every time you rip off the cage of custom and explore all kinds of surfaces, vegetation, reservoirs of ecstasy and remarkable erections available. Some natural forms in fact, are particularly desirable. However, I contest Sex does not care about form; it cares about how much rapture can be taken and shared to make more for everyone. Sex appreciates every form.

In this experience you will see rivers, waterfalls and heavy weather conditions with precipitation often coming to life spontaneously, from various places.

Yes, places. Remember, I said “Terrain”?

One of my favourite such places, is the eyes. My fondest memories come from the days when some of the beautiful women I have been with, had tears in their eyes – kohl running down and all. I do not take that as a sign of how much talent I may have in this area of life. I am in fact, in all honesty, enamoured with the knowledge itself, that my touch can make a woman cry out of joy in discovery. I believe we all have the power of irresistible touch. We just need to train it and temper it for maximum ecstasy and devotion, to attain self-actualization. I suggest an Epicurean approach to this subject. The more you want to love something, the more pleasurable it becomes, especially Sex.

Speaking of Epicurean, I must remind you that –

Epicurus [341–270 BC] was an ancient Greek philosopher as well as the founder of the school of philosophy called Epicureanism. Only a few fragments and letters of Epicurus’s three hundred written works remain. Much of what is known about Epicurean philosophy derives from later followers and commentators.

For Epicurus, the purpose of philosophy was to attain the happy, tranquil life, characterized by Ataraxia—peace and freedom from fear—and Aponia—the absence of pain—and by living a self-sufficient life surrounded by friends. He taught that pleasure and pain are the measures of what is good and evil; death is the end of both body and soul and should therefore not be feared; the gods neither reward nor punish humans; the universe is infinite and eternal; and events in the world are ultimately based on the motions and interactions of atoms moving in empty space.” - Wikipedia

There is lot that can be said about Sex in philosophy. I will try to keep it as concise as possible.

Sex gives way to the birth of death, through life. It is the blooming lotus in the centre of our universe. All there is and can be, has happened and is happening because of this union of sentient beings; where flesh seems to cross the borders of skin, turning them into a rolling Sun of energy – the energy of life.

We die little deaths, when we collide with ambitions and find ourselves as well as each other; in the final moment of fruition, of a new fire of lust, or love, or maybe even life. In French they say, La Petite Mort for “Orgasm” – it means “The Little Death”.

However, if I had to draw an analogy, I would choose the one of Prometheus.

“In Greek mythology, Prometheus is a Titan, a culture hero, and a trickster figure who is credited with the creation of man from clay, and who defies the gods and gives fire to humanity…” – Wikipedia

That fire is Sex.

It was only a privilege for the Gods to relish but Prometheus gave it to us, and was cast out for betrayal. Truly, it is the betrayal of all other pains by the sweetest one. He gave us the taste of this fire – bestowed it upon us, as if kneading the doughy clay of human flesh in the choicest of herbs.

They say Sex in the kitchen is great. I agree with them. With all the fingers and palms involved, clutching and kneading, and holding things, and holding on to things, the recipe is sure to turn out “Umm savoureux” – perfect textures, perfect blending, taste that lingers with just the right amount of cooking.

In the beauty of Sex, you will find the vestige of Imperfection; the immaculate thread that holds all of us together, and protects us by keeping that fire alive, one which is most important for life – the basic fire of life itself – Sex.

I don’t know if it’s me, or if it is psychological, but I strongly feel, think and believe the word “SEX” itself, sounds like Sex. Think about it, “S” brings in the sizzle, “E” brings in the Enigma and “X” holds the intersection in place. In fact if you say “Sex” many times in succession, at whatever speed you feel comfortable, it even sounds like a sizzle. As if there were flames somewhere but no smoke – and the most desirable feast of life is turning behind the walls; one that satiates and in-satiates at once; is the seamless unification of pleasure and pain, both equally sweet.

[Enter Snapshot]

They lay there in bed, after making love for nearly three hours. She was exhausted and close to him with her head on his heaving, sweating chest, beneath which clearly, a strong heart had just awakened from a long slumber.

She said: How long has it been…? (Softly looking up at him and sitting)

He was quiet. All that could be heard in the room was the sound of him breathing heavily, still a sigh beneath his breath, in his throat; a beating heart beating so hard it could almost be heard outside. He stayed still; breathing.

(Pause)

He said: I don’t know, five or six years maybe… (Eyes gazing into the ceiling, lost in quiet space)

She didn’t expect that. She was a little startled, and then overcome with love for him; with moist eyes, she said…

Come here…

He: I am here.

Look at me…

With this, she pulled him over to her and held his head to her breast, lying back, soft and comfortable, and warm and tender. She whispered into his ear and said…

Now you have me. We will make up for lost time… (Followed with an innocent “Teehee”)

-

That’s a cut! Splendid job guys, very well done.

Let’s pack up here and unpack somewhere else.

Because we all must get tainted in the poetry of flesh –

[Next Scene]

Action

-

Roll Credits

Siddharth Pathak | 28th March 2014

 

 

 

 

 

 

The cupboard of my flesh

My dearest,

I don’t know where to begin, and I have not written this letter to you with a definitive intent. It is a conversation, and I think I may have just found the thread.

Well, my head has found the light…

Many years ago, when I had endured a loving beating by my mother, when I had broken her favourite vase; knocked it off the table with a sharp thud into its leg with my tricycle, somehow, the light had fallen out of my head. I can’t seem to remember just where I had dropped it, and I had run out of the house into the balcony, in the Sunday morning sunlight, and my eyes had flowed out of me, golden drops of my innocence, glistening, falling, sliding, dripping down to my chin and disappearing in between my fingers.

I remember I had forgotten all the tenderness of her love, in those ten minutes in the hot Sun. It felt like my little skin had turned opaque to the rays of luminous. I heard her call out to me, longingly from the kitchen after a few moments, and her voice went past me like I wasn’t even there. My heart was still, for so long, it seemed like forever, till I felt her arms come from behind me and lift me up like a doll, my arms hung by the sides as if I had died. She held my head to her soft shoulder and let me bury my face in her hair. It smelled of her sweet smelling shampoo, and all the cooking she was in the middle of. I loved that smell. One of my favourite things to do was to smell things. I loved smelling shoe polish, foods, spices, oils, ointments, creams, medicines, syrups, cigarettes, shampoos, toothpaste, and the like.

She sat down on the floor, holding me still in her lap, and wiped my eyes, letting out tears of her own with her softest smile. I could see she was hiding something behind her, with her left hand. My eyes looked into hers questioningly, and soon I had begun to mischievously try and take it away. Eventually, she gave it to me.

It was a book. It smelled like sweet wood, and the scent filled up my small lungs, it felt heady, and I couldn’t take my eyes off it. I kept staring at it for a long time, while still sitting in her arms. The pages inside, felt fragile and had this nice warm yellow colour to them. It instantly became my favourite colour. On some pages a corner was missing, on some, the edge was withering; hardbound in thick sheets, but old and becoming frail. The cover said, WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE By Maurice Sendak.

She said, “This is what you should be playing with if you want to be fast and strong.”

Minutes later I found myself alone in the room, sitting in a corner beside the cupboard, drowning in the sea of the book. I became all things, and above all things I became still, like I was the cupboard itself or part of it. I began to fill my new found shelves with words, poems and stories, and books; more books and more.

Every day, I would either be a rare animal of some sort, or the bird with the largest wingspan, or an ancient rock monolith, or the rivers, or a hill or a storm, or an asteroid tumbling through the vastness of outer space, or an old tree. Always searching for the light, I lost when I was a child, till many years later. As time passed, I wanted to be many things; even today, I wish to be many things alive and inanimate.

Recently, on an otherwise uneventful morning, I woke up in a beaker, fluid and bubbling chaotic; I had lost all form. The Sun dried up the darkness of dawn and I was in a Petri dish, amorphous and unmoving, but my colours were changing, from violet to a cerulean blue, to an orange to a strong yellow to a deep but radiant red; spontaneously, I was going through a chemical reaction. My heart was beating in agonal heaves and my skin was covered in dewy precipitate, my eyes were closed. My whole body was vibrating, like an earthquake yet I was unstirring. Beeping about in my mind; was a radio station of memories, and thoughts, changing stations with feelings.

I opened my eyes to what seemed like an announcement and reached for the cellular phone buzzing under my pillow. I saw my mother’s name flicker on the screen and my earthquake quickly came to a halt, and my world became still, in a haze; curtains dancing in slow motion, a dove in flight, moved from the wardrobe to the light of the open window.

When I blinked, I was on my little bed, in my blue pajamas, rubbing my eyes reaching out for her early in the winter morning; I had to get ready for school. I spoke to her unknowingly, in the smallest voice I could have made at my age, and she wished me a good morning, and said she thought of me for no apparent reason, and that a reason was not necessary, and that she loved me.

Several minutes later, I climbed off my bed and sat on the floor, reaching under it to pull out a chest. When I opened it, my hands knew where to find what I was looking for, and my fingers trembled as I held firmly but gently, the book that had started it all. I leaned against the wardrobe and began reading.

I was gone. I fell into the sea of the book again. At once, I became all things I always wanted to be, all things alive and inanimate and above in the shining Sunday Sun, my head found the light I have been looking for, for so many years. It feels like, I have traveled the entire Universe around and come back to my mother’s arms, to collect the tears she had given me, and her gift; the gift of books, and then I was shining.

~

I want to show you my light and illuminate your heart with it, for therein lies the warmth I seek. That little rock inside of you needs to melt and I have made up my mind about making you lose it to me. Lose your heart to me.

I want to spend a lifetime leaned into you, and you leaning into me, and when the time is right, we will shine together, as one and I will have become the most beautiful of all things, I will have become you. Let us do this.

This is all I ask of you.

Yours   

-
Siddharth Pathak | 30th October 2013

Don’t let go

It is one touch away,

This end which is near;

The distance of a star will seep in,

From in between our fingers,

And tie itself to the centers of our palms;

And no matter how far we drift away,

I will always know where you are,

By the far reaching threads of your starlight,

Radiant, shimmering…

 

But this universe will congeal,

As we get sucked into the void,

Precipitating debris will fly into,

Shreds coming apart in shadows;

Invisible in swirls effortless,

We are turning over and unto,

Inviolable in our spirits weightless,

The core of our storm will grow,

Erupting from within us,

And the darkness of time will seep in,

Like an uncontrollable spiral from in between us,

Tearing us apart by centuries in an instant,

In one forgotten fraction of our absence; in the orbit of one touch…

 

I will die before I breathe out,

Before I exhale my last vapour of sentience,

I beseech you to look into my eyes,

Know the promise I am making,

Look no-where else now,

Watch the Sun rising there in,

Eclipse, it’s time,

Don’t let go!

 

Siddharth Pathak | 19th October 2013

The chair

Bent at the corners,

And splintered at the edges,

Scraped in places,

And folded against the wall,

My chair of flesh is leaning,

Empty, tired and cold,

Every joint is creaking,

And my legs are growing old…

 

I wait for days on end,

For someone to undo me,

Open me up gently,

And rest upon me a while;

Head laid back in quietude,

And feet up on my hassock,

Bringing me back to frame,

With one sinewy knock…

 

I have felt my whole life,

The weight of your heart,

Heavy and heaving,

Quiet and dreaming,

Still, unmoving,

Broken and falling apart,

In the lumps of your body,

Beating from the start…

 

I can tell stories,

To the lonely stopping by;

Tales of how to be forgotten,

And how to slowly die,

But I don’t have a voice,

All I can do is try,

Some sit and listen,

Others mostly cry,

At my rasping despair,

Wondering what to change,

How to move this rock inside?

Maybe it is the curtains,

Maybe it’s the air?

That’s strange!

I answered with my silence,

What do I know,

I am a chair,

But you seem to have clean-forgot,

That  once,  I too was made in a pair…

 

Siddharth Pathak | 7th October, 2013

Losing sight…

How else can radiance be described?

If not in the way your eyes do,

Does laughter find a warmer echo?

The way it does in your voice, anywhere else?

 

And I still remember,

The first time I undressed you,

In the corners of my mind;

Instead of skin, you were naked light,

A glowing bright,

Since then, I think I’m losing sight,

Going blind,

A little more, everyday…

 

Like the lightning,

You have imprinted yourself,

Upon my iris,

And my reflection,

Has now become you;

All of my feelings,

Have morphed into your sighs,

And these days, I sink under water,

A little more,

Every time I breathe, again…

 

Submerged, unmoving and still,

Here I am,

Cloaking myself in your night,

And here, I will fall asleep too,

Into this dream of you;

Don’t leave yet,

Take hold of me now,

Before I collapse, before I let go,

I must confess, I’m falling apart,

I think I’m losing sight, anew…

 

Siddharth Pathak | 5th October, 2013

The Cloud-gate

When my eyes opened again, there was a graying, churning at play,

Upturned oceans yawned above, in an abyss,

That now fell into a screaming overhead,

Wistful fallen leaves, becoming little whirlpools on the ground,

Vagabond dust rising in wishful waves;

Like specters under a dark sky, appearing and disappearing, at will…

 

Many a wing flitter, little hurricanes in transpiring,

Supplicants singing to the song, about to pour upon,

Butterflies braving the gale, and the little birds soaring in circles,

Around oscillating tree top towers; inverted, vertical pendulums,

Suspended in reverse, swaying in chime to the earth-moving…

 

It begins with a shrieking cry,

The horizon erupts into a heave,

Doves scatter, feathers aflutter, from one far end to the other,

Herons glide searching for safer waters,

And beyond everything, black kites descend,

In swirls of violent animus, scouring the darkened sky,

Wings of ebony spread apart, taken by the coursing tempest;

Taken to a coliseum caving in at the seams, aloft in the changing sea,

Where a cloud-gate slowly falls apart, in the curvature of my eye…

 

Shafts of golden ablaze, emanate,

Pouring into this chasm, of vicious and savage tornado,

As the Sun, the ultimate alchemist, of all alchemists,

Peeps into this sphere, in one long, quiet gaze,

Raining down upon this moss laden valley,

Sending infant calves a-scamper, cottontails helter-skelter

Engoldening my vision, in spectral haze…

 

Like the crack of dawn, lightning sears in through the cries,

Burning up the fall, a storm makes its way into being,

Howling winds lift the eagles higher, a chariot of thunder rolling into surge,

Glimmering drops of amber rain traipse in cascading waterfalls,

Glistening moon-drops pitter-patter in ripples,

And as tenderly as it all began, slowly the fire begins to shy away,

Thunderhead falling back unto its own and the golden cloud-gate collapses,

Swallowing my spirit in whole, while it lasted, made effervescent in liquid sunshine,

Leaving me dissolved and my embodiment soaked, in pure, everlasting light…

 

Siddharth Pathak | 11th September, 2013

Tepid Heart Lonely

It is 4:00 a.m. and I can listen to the morning slowly waking up to the cold blue stillness, lying spread apart, unevenly upon the flesh of this city. Outside my window, I can see the highway, glistening in streaks of reds, oranges and lost yellows; the highway that stayed up with me, all night.

In the distance, across the lights, I can hear the muffled cries of a man, calling out to you, calling out your name, howling with the wind, followed by the hum like lingering of trailer sirens.

My forehead pressed into the glass, my eyes stare at the dark sky beyond, sleeping upon a bed of quiet purple-orange halo; moving slowly to the tepid, dewy translucence of my window, and I see your face, in my reflection.

The colour of your skin paints itself upon me like twilight, the mist left about by my breath, exhales your lips in place, and I can’t remember how many dawns I have counted, in search of you.

I don’t know if I ever stopped looking for you. I have managed to save some of you though, over the years, inside me. I can always find you there. And now, I have found you again.

I am still and numb, feeling quiet and heavy, standing here, staring at your face, in mine, and I don’t know what to say. I never seem to run out of the memories. They keep making their way into my iris, and I begin to look for you everywhere inside this room. I have never run out of reasons to remember you. As long as I know I have more, there is always another night to give. I never run out of cigarettes either. I never run out of you.

On some nights, I write poems about your tresses, in hope that my words will somehow find their way. But I am sitting here alone, in between the walls of these pages, afraid to let you go, afraid to touch you again.

It begins to rain. I can see you standing outside my window. It is time for me to exit the light and fall into bed. Amidst my sheets, I snuggle up to you and close my eyes against yours; breathe in your warmth, and feel you.

Tonight, I will force a dream into, and fall across to the other side in the comatose of your scent, where I lie in your arms and sleep. Here I will stay till daybreak and then emerge from my cocoon of blankets, and this rubble of pillows. I will write about you.

On some days I find you in the Sun, on some, in the moon. My eyes fall down with the horizon, by dark, everyday. Twisted, misplaced and contorted I die here, entangled in this last strand of you, every night.

Believe me, I cannot escape you. I have tried.

 

Siddharth Pathak | 3rd July 2013

The Sweating Sky…

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Palms spread open,
Dipped into the pools of grey above,
Ripples coursing through her veins, birthing only;
A shimmer in her eye…

There is a thunder in her chest, swelling high,
Lightning in her throat, a tempestuous cry,
Breasts heaving as she breathes,
Diaphanous desires, throbbing, bleeding dry,
A thirst to be quenched, a quiet sigh,
Her soul simmering beneath a desperate lie,
Placid iris, still and shy,
Stained and hued in amber rye;
Shades of the storm passing by…

Surrender becoming, oncoming rain,
The beyond caves in, her skin collapsing,
Under the credence of gossamer drops;
Liquid sunshine trails weightless, falling,
Silent waterfalls glissading, calling,
With every drop, her spirit forging,
By beads of fire, smeared across her flesh;
Consuming, embodying, purifying…

Quiescence unknown, at unperturbed equanimity on her own,
Dissolving into a vertical ocean, she comes up for air,
In one moment of tranquility and abandon,
Crumbling into the never, arms spread wide, her feet untied;
She is reborn, lips parted under the sweating sky…

Siddharth Pathak | 27th June 2013