On Rafi

Man is destined to be consumed - by flames or by worms. There is no escape, even in the safe lockers of pyramids. Ironically enough, these mummies don't remind us of immortality. On the contrary, they show that even high-and-mighty are brought down to dust by the ticking clock. 

You too have been claimed by the ticking clock, and consumed by worms. However, thanks to that magic wand of science, a part of you is alive and singing. Like the pyramids, your work, which is love made audible*, will last. What makes you immortal is not a clever trick of alchemy but a touch of divinity, for you were gifted, you were blessed. And blessed are those who can feel you in their heart, who can witness your gift. 

No matter what the experts make us believe, more often than not the best works of art don't put you in discomfort. For me, the best works of art lift you, hold you, embrace you, and comfort you. That's what your voice did to many of us, Md Rafi. You gave us comfort in countless nights of loneliness and longing. You still do. And you will, forever. 

And so you'll live, forever.

*"Work is love made visible". - Khalil Gibran

"The purpose of life is to find your gift. The meaning of life is to give it away". - Picasso

On God, again

I believe in a God that doesn't exist.

However, what I believe doesn't matter. Whether God exists or not doesn't matter. What exists in this fleeting world? Does dream exist? What else exists if not God? Let's not forget that Truth depends neither on faith nor on experience. I wonder if we need to revise our definitions.

To me, whether earth revolves around the sun or vice versa doesn't matter. I don't mind a flat earth either. And I am not afraid of Darwin. Facts are relatively unimportant, and uninteresting. What interests me is human condition, that and that only. 

I am not going to drag a thought that belongs to the most sublime of poetry into dead prose. I am not going to sully the ineffable. That would be blasphemy. All that I want to do is to document this gnawing thought that God could be seen as an invention that comes handy to satisfy those needs that cannot be satisfied otherwise. Or it is a blanket term to include everything that is inspiring, moving and sobering, in life or art.

A man in pain doesn't argue with a painkiller; he just uses it, disregarding everything that might be absurd about it. The idea of God has been consoling and therapeutic to the unloved lot, and they would rather be excused by those who peddle their own brand of opium to masses.

One might denigrate devotion (Bhakti) but it's a higher form of love - may be one-sided but by no means unrequited. If "higher form of experience" offends someone's democratic temper, then I am willing to get down to terms like "other worldly" in connection to what I am talking about. And this other worldly feeling is far less fickle, though singularly consuming, and infinitely layered. Creator or created, both or none, to each his own. There is something for everyone. And that's why it's appeal has been everlasting, universal, and immune to science.

I sense that this rope I am feeling in my hands might turn into a tail of a colossal creature I have never laid my eyes on. May be I am blind, or may be it's dark inside. Khusro says that matters like these must not be said, for those who say
 don't know and those who know don't discuss. That pretty much wraps it up for me, for now.

God

Beauty, is it really necessary
To the larger scheme of things?

Why does this godless creation
Of Big Bang
Of Natural Selection
Need to be awe-inspiring?

Economies could have survived
Nights without moonstruck romance
Evenings less melancholy
And a sky less heavenly

Beauty, is it merely incidental
In this amoral indifferent cosmos?

What are our feelings made of
Particles, or waves?
What is the pH value of
Right and wrong?

Sitting under a great tree
Hearing a little bird sing
I wondered
Have I been wrong all along?

Home

Home
Is not where you are from
Home
Is belonging; being understood

Home
Is where you are not a stranger
Home
Is womb

And birth
Is eviction
Ousted, we are born
Homeless

Thereafter we wander
All through our lives
Across wilderness
Seeking home

In eyes, smiles, or words
In market, in numbers
Or in oblivion
Often in vain

Life is
A longing
A message
Without address

Love is
Homecoming
Lover is
Home

But embrace is rare
And fleeting
Out in the cold
We live a life homeless

Out of place
Out of time
Out of tune
Like genius, or mere misfit

A noise, an annoyance
Like a foreign language
Restless
In a bed well-made

For no builder builds home
Home is not made by builders
Or governments
Or matrimony

Home
Is serendipity
Is a divine blessing
Or a necessary delusion

That Monsoon

That Monsoon
It poured and poured
Beating against the roof
It banged on the doors

Shut inside the shivering cave
Confined in the darkly hour
Seduced by the buzzing hum
We could only be too far

It felt windy and cold
Only fire could comfort
And so we did embrace
And set the night ablaze

On that flame we made
A great meal of love
Of memories, of secrets
Of everlasting ache

And we let loose on them
The gluttons’ last pair
Taking round after rounds
With no excess to spare

In the stormy solitude
We smoldered like coal
Like two restless ghosts
And each a cursed soul

One against another
Hurting and healing
Failing and failing
Again and again

And it rained and rained
Like never before
Sitting by fire, we burned
And then burned some more

It never rained like that
Ever after then
But rain beating on windows
Sometimes, wakes me again

And the roasted smell of mustard
Fills my poor soul
And that’s how my love
I do remember you

Sitting by a River

Sitting by a river
Or a vast ocean
A tiny little brook
Or a mere fountain

I hear
A soothing harmony
Of crash, lap, and gurgle
Mesmerizing, and soporific

Somnolent, and lost
In my reveries
I wondered
And imagined

Talking to it
And it talked back to me
I looked at it
And it looked back at me

This loony world
Of drunkard moons
Drowning in my eyes
Dragging me within

Into a forest upside down
Where schools of fishes
Chased fireflies
In the luminous enigma

That riddled me, and asked
What, and why was I?
Did the flowing water know
Any more than I?

The flowing water
Spanning time
While lying on its bed
Witnessing

Nights and days
Both versions of Truth
Ends of eternity
Shiva's coif

I was seen, it whispered
Coming before myself
Or going after
Like its waves

Me, a wave
But a wave
Unique
Just like others

Rising out of
And falling into
The great stream
That flows by

Somewhere in the Hills

Somewhere in the hills
Away from signals
Far from alarms
On a late morning

Rested a light sheet of sun
Warm, and lazy,
Sprawled over a velvety meadow
For an unhurried siesta

While the fringes swayed
Dark shadows followed steps
Of lush branches, up above
Dancing besotted in vestal stupor

In playful arms of whistling winds
Loafing around
Lingering moodily
Running after fallen leaves

Or swinging a twig
To startle a bee
And to suck up
The spilt honey

Of flowers by lake
With clouds swimming above
Carrying carts of snow
To lands unknown

Stories
Sad and beautiful
Faint and forgotten
Told by the flowing river

That divine is here
So is heaven
Ever present
Somewhere in the hills