Presence

The two had just met a handful of times. In fact, they not always get an opportunity to do so. Errands to run; busy lives being led. While one was battling to find a ground on earth, the other was already established, trying to excel the excellent. While one was boisterous about the changes in life, yet silver-lined with a slight sense of pathos, the other lie low, poised.

They did not want to know what happens to each other when not in contact; content in the house of some wonderful memories of the sweet little nothings they shared. Presence , the driving spirit, feeling fully ensconced in the warmth of each other. Warmth transcended beyond earthly pleasures. Finer nuances of life came alive each day, which would ring a bell, forming the instant connect, an irreplaceable one.Each day is a revelation, fresh like a blooming flower. Beauty within being appreciated with loads of selfies: sights and sounds that merged with an associative fragrance. A cohesion built based on guaranteed trust, freedom, space; not to forget genuinity. Demands nothing whatsoever. The days charioteered only by Presence. Presence sat on the driver’s seat, driving around the desert of joy, stopped by whenever it had to be felt. An all-pervasive one, present throughout the day sans an inkling of distraction. Available only in the right measure, not asphyxiating. Thoughts magnetically drawing each other so close. Close enough, with some space for a hug and cuddle. 
A certain chemistry of wordsmithery and love, an uninhibited zone interlaced with divinity. The aura radiating from deep within, a charismatic expression. The eyes shone beautifully. A heady high, reaching the abyss of serendipity.

The making of a writer:

This could be a much hackneyed subject that almost anyone attempting to put some words in place must have mused or written about; nonetheless I choose to conceptualise through the palms of a writer in the making:

 Whether it is a writer in the making or an already established writer, what are the rudimentary traits for any person to be called a writer? I fully understand the fact that writing in its true verbal sense, does mean a continuous process; but does that necessarily need to be representative of  a writer at all times? What are the changes that a writer undergoes, rather what prompts the writer to pick up the pen as their medium of expression? Is there an obvious metamorphosis that could be traced or does he/she just write out of rote? How does one suavely dabble between prose and poetry? Why is writing poetry considered finding the easy way out, as opposed to its prosaic counterpart?

Writing is a means of catharsis to me and I believe that is how it is for most amateur writers too.  Writing is a purgation of emotions featuring shades of black, white and grey. Feeling plaintively lost amidst the gamut of noted writers and wordsmiths, yet clandestinely nursing the idea of being able to establish myself as a writer, I step into the premises of The British Council, for a 3-hour, creative writing workshop held by Ms.Nadifa Mohamed, a Granta award winning Somali-Brit novelist. Until then I had a blithe disregard about the nature of participants, for I was purely anxious about my plans for the future.  Points that were discussed in the gathering were from a plethora of plots: varying from spectrums like corruption, romance, short stories, fictional and non-fictional writing, et al. Some of the quick notes that I took down were about providing attention to detail, building elasticity with the characters we choose to depict. Quite an eye-opener of sorts this programme was to me, I only wish it was conducted for a longer duration.  I began shredding my ignorance right in that milieu, keeping my eyes and ears wide open for any cues that came my way.

Having attended the workshop, I would not call myself a renewed writing soul yet. The questions that I had in mind still loom large like thick clouds, awaiting a downpour. I hope to find answers to them in the days to come.

Work and Dream

At the outset, work and dream are two terms often used interchangeably. Not always does everyone have a clinical career that encompasses: choosing the right stream of education as well as pursuing a job in the same field  and above all, sustenance. 

Work sometimes could be purely accidental. For instance, I could pick an opportunity that I first take notice of, an unprecedented one. I would certainly be lured by it during its initial days just like a child falling in love with his/her new toy. If the attraction remains for long enough and the job seems rewarding and enhancing, well and good. More often than not, this is exactly the milieu where all of us get caught. The job sucks us up like quicksand and we could be lying there deep within the sands of time, embedded. Wading out of this labyrinthine way consumes a huge chunk of our time in life.

Parellelly, we perhaps are latently nursing our dream; which need not necessarily be the same as the employment we are tethered to. It depends on what we want to make of the dream. While a job could provide monetary satisfaction, dream is the driving force, pumping all the adrenaline in us, to even wake up and embrace each day with positivity. Accomplishing a dream earmarks one in the society, irrespective of what field it is.

Not every one has an illustrious career like Sachin; but just as how he clearly meted out every thing he needed in order to be what he is now, we could shun all debilitating thoughts too ; move on with life without caring a flying fing about anything!  After all, what’s the purpose of going to school or college? What are we taught by parents and teachers back in our educational institutions? Every where, we are educated to do things right, at least in semblance. Whether we want to let the dream serrate in the jaws of time or rise up to the moment and embark in a journey into our dream, it is purely an individual choice. Albeit, what is saddening is, when friends or family end up being cantankerous about our pursuit and whine about not paying attention to them. Bear in mind, these are the very same people who see us through our thick and thin, yet complain. Don’t forget the finer nuances of life, they exhort! Of course, we would not. Finer nuances to us could be lying in the interest of accomplishing what we want in life. Anything that we encounter en route, could be the finest, how are they even to appreciate, when we are the ones who are enjoying the ride? What are we as individuals on planet there for? To resonate what others want out of us or to recognise what we want of ourselves? Without a doubt, the answer shall be the latter.

What does a woman want?

Oh! Alas what does a woman want?

Ponders a fellow woman in angst!

A question that should not haunt,

Incredulous, a fellow woman shan’t be,

Digging her own peril, then she’d be!

An adult human female that she is,

A lesser human, no way she is!

Her want thus would be,

Just what every human wants to be!

Every human has a heart and mind to nurse,

Thoughts and emotions are kept pursed,

Coming across at times as a curse,

Sometimes even as a powerful force!

Features and metabolism she possesses different,

She still is human yet!

Met I have many a woman,

Who first is a human

Only then a woman!

Changes in the chambers of her mind do happen,

Why then is a storm in a teacup conjured up?

Alas she just wants to coexist!

Consist does her mind of human wants,

For no lesser a human she is!

Pity I feel on the women who feel apathetic,

Who keep considering their role is surreal,

Lo and Behold! Ring it must in your head

That you are real and human...

Jocund you must feel

Make an appeal and be dashing...

Admonish thoughts of what a woman in particular wants,

Stay Put: For it’s just what every human wants!

Patience

Patience so near, yet so far you are,

I know not where you are;

Making my heart and mind sour!

Patience, you’ve got me waiting for a decade

Passing through many a facade,

Embellishing Time, with brocades,

Hide you do like a masquerade!

Patience, you make me impatient,

Wriggle and writhe in seeking my passion,

Last you do for a fraction,

Throwing me away in the desert of distraction!

Patience you make me oblivious,

You’re ways of teaching are mysterious,

Sometimes, even obnoxious,

Become then you do, fictitious!

Patience you are a virtue,

Mortal I am, dying to reach you,

Impeach you do against impatience,

Beseech you do, only but for Patience!

Dubiety

Dubiety, what for, you exist?

Misgivings you infest;

Makes me want to detest you...

Staging a protest against you!

Dubiety, don’t you comprehend?

Prod and nag you intend to,

Defend you don’t, let the individual,

Making them want to  pretend!

Dubiety you form a thick cloud:

Wearing a black shroud,

Regard you do with pride,

Invade you do and take one for a ride!

Dubiety, what do you think of yourself?

That You, are more empowered than Myself?

Alas! what’s your rationale?

Do you realise you have no potential?!

Dubiety, let the persons be;

Nursing they perhaps are,

Thoughts and actions that are tarred,

Sometimes even want them charred,

It's all upto them by far,

Perish! Dubiety, don’t have them marred!