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 |   As the first blog entry got exhausted. My second book |
| Evolution of Love Part 2 |
It's 8.30am The maid has not arrived. The breakfast is not ready, And I have tiffins to fill. The laundry heap increases, The groceries need refill. The elder one has homework, The younger one's still sleeping. There's no bread in the fridge, The milk just spills over. I have a conference today, My shirt needs ironing. There's a workshop in the school, I don't know how to manage. My mother in law is here, To ask medicines for backache. A call from the bathroom “I’ve forgotten the towel ” The cat mews, the birds chirp, The plants need watering. The phone beeps To remind me of a case (procedure). The receptionist calls, Full appointments overall. My shoulders aches, I have noone to tell. My eyes are heavy, With last night's on call. I don't remember the last time, I had been to the parlor. My nails are brittle, My hair needs a color. My clothes have lost the sheen, I need a wardrobe makeover. But before that I've to pick up, The toys that are scattered. I think it was last year, When I spoke to my sister. Can't recollect the moment, When I chatted with my mother. I'm no feminist, I'm no atheist, I know not what I'm, More than a housekeeper, a mother and a doctor. I may be an orator, A painter, an artist, A singer, a poetess, A traveller, a cyclist, A writer, a musician, A craftsman, philanthropist. The last time I tried, To find out my ability, My child scored badly, And you know what followed exactly. So next time she got a gold medal, They praised her father's genes, I remembered my trophies, Which no one had seen. I know not what my daughter, Will do after growing up. But I'm sure these responsibilities Will never stop to follow her. Marriages are made in heaven, Love is a fairly tale. I'm sure every working woman, Has a different story to tell. So, whenever you look, At a house that's tidy, A child who is happy, Intelligent and healthy, Remember, it's the woman behind, Who sacrificed her sleep, her degrees, her passion, her ambitions and needs. Give her a pat, a word of praise, a ear to listen, *_a helping hand_* It's always a woman, who makes the house a home. But it's everyone's duty, To make her feel at home. |
For a fleeting moment, amidst a blaze of lights, you seem to be whirled around the stellar system, separate from the body. A delirious moment of bliss. A moment you would like to recreate and replicate, but can’t. It is not time for erasure. The body will heal in due course. I am not sure about the beating the mind has taken, I think for the better. Had a role in the rat race was temporarily read passed into oblivion, buried in journal archives |
| Do you think a leaf that falls to the ground is afraid of death? Do you think a bird lives in fear of dying? It meets death when death comes; but it is not concerned about death, it is much too occupied with living, with catching insects, building a nest, singing a song, flying for the very joy of flying. Have you ever watched birds soaring high up in the air without a beat of their wings, being carried along by the wind? How endlessly they seem to enjoy themselves! They are not concerned about death. If death comes, it is all right, they are finished. There is no concern about what is going to happen; they are living from moment to moment, are they not? It is we human beings who are always concerned about death - because we are not living. That is the trouble: we are dying, we are not living. The old people are near the grave, and the young ones are not far behind. You see, there is this preoccupation with death because we are afraid to lose the known, the things that we have gathered. We are afraid to lose a wife or husband, a child or a friend; we are afraid to lose what we have learnt, accumulated. If we could carry over all the things that we have gathered - our friends our possessions, our virtues, our character - then we would not be afraid of death, would we? That is why we invent theories about death and the hereafter. But the fact is that death is an ending, and most of us are unwilling to face this fact. We don't want to leave the known; so it is our clinging to the known that creates fear in us, not the unknown. The unknown cannot be perceived by the known. But the mind, being made up of the known, says, "I am going to end", and therefore it is frightened. Now, if you can live from moment to moment and not be concerned about the future, if you can live without the thought of tomorrow - which does not mean the superficiality of merely being occupied with today; if, being aware of the whole process of the known, you can, relinquish the known, let it go completely, then you will find that an astonishing thing takes place. Try it for a day - put aside everything you know, forget it, and just see what happens. Don't carry over your worries from day to day, from hour to hour, from moment to moment; let them all go, and you will see that out of this freedom there comes an extraordinary life that includes both living and dying. Death is only the ending of something, and in that very ending there is a renewing. So messenger of Death is an appropriate word for We are the things that other fear. |
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Thanks for sharing.
