From Love

Life does  get fairly hard on the person when the artist, the art and the muse are the same, vis a vis  the person’s entity itself, though each of these manifested in its own time. Or the co-existence of the guinea pig, the experiment and the scientist, all in one. Or maybe even the mother, her womb and the embryo embedded in various patterns, within the same sense of Self. Thus the threads and stitches may be different, but the fabric weaves itself into a uniformity of Oneness.

I was looking for Love for years, when I realized that it is actually the outward-in journey that could connect me, with that core that also lays contained in layers of me; and that the process could only be inward-out in its motion. 

It feels constricting, when one takes into account a consideration of one’s life-span as an extension, spread over the years of your life, of your conception period spent in your mother’s womb.  Perhaps you should snap out of your self-casted spell and stop limiting your entire existence to dependence on an incident that happened in the farthest past; and (another) good thing about the past is that you keep moving, further away from the more painful points of it, with time.

What is the driving force behind a selfless act of giving and that too, giving of oneself? It is none other than love.

I do not expect of you to return the sentiment when I share my inherent Love being, with you. You are human: you might forget, you might consume it after converting it into destructive Fear energy. But yes, I DO expect from Karma to retrieve to me, the fruits of my sacred worship! And I know Karma won’t disappoint me. And when Love becomes the fuel of the journey, derived from an ethereal flow from the infinite God reservoir into a oneness with the human core, fear reduces to a mere negligent hurdle in the quest of/for Life.

If you assume the glass handed to you by a stranger to quench your thirst, to be filled with poison, and instead choose to dehydrate your Self of thirst, it gets unbelievably tough to survive, let alone live. If otherwise, you listen to your heart, which tells you the glass is filled with a potion of Love and that your assumption merely arises from scars of the futile past, that would be much wiser. The stranger here is Life, which undeniably is strangely attractive in its nature; the quest being for the truth, which always lies in Love, and your (beloved?) ‘Fear’ being the hindering force to you, to reach out for Love.

On the other hand, if you drink the potion, then your drunkenness knows no bounds of possibility! The intoxication is such that it makes you believe, and believe so much as to deem the Self worthy and capable of all roles, be it the painter, the canvas, or the painted. This belief holds an immense capacity to pull you out of your hiding, the very hiding that keeps you from your revelation of Self. This belief in its own is an outright nullification of your Fear. 

A Poem for my Beloved Sister


Once born, the chain’s holding us to Fate,

Reasons for which, get to barely be told;

At times is achieved, though slightly late,

What we had deemed improbable to unfold.


Delude to your fullest, O Humblest Human Fear!

Delude the best surviving, of the Human soil:

To a sailing boat, when the shore is most near,

You strike with all might, to defeat the dragging toil.


And strike you must, in your urge to fake:

We saw the shore, but a mirage, no more!…

Till again the boat a-sailing, weary of mistake,

And strike you will, closest to the shore!


The sailor, though struck, but averse to yield

To a hopeless dream, a budding nightmare.

The warrior’s best home is the battlefield,

As Victory to the stubborn, that insists on staying there.