Beside You

Oh how I seek to flee far,
From this world of burden and work,
And sit by your side,
On the cool grass outside,
Feeling your presence near me,
Filled with wordless glee,

Looking not at you, nor the lake ahead,
But at the full moon far above our heads,
Eyes fixed, looking into nothingness,
And ears listening to the song of silence,
Hands beside you but touching naught,
My senses closed, working not,
I perceive a bliss through another medium,
Filling my soul, from top to bottom,

Perhaps it's the presence of a life,
A known life, a one that lies,
Quite near, in the surrounding ether,
A one that's perceived uniquely by just another,
A connection that words can know not,

Unexplained even by the greatest poet,
Known to the one that sits by its side,
Felt by arms that have no form nor shape,

Nay, its a hug, an embrace that's felt,
By souls that choose to not hold back but melt,
Each letting the other's presence in,
Filling all the space it holds deep within,
With the essence of its perception of the one near,
Hosting no doubt, nor fear, being completely clear,

It's a bath together in the stillness of the surround,
Where two souls are together and alone,
Oh such is friendship and such is love that lives,
Seeking not something tangible but seeking still,
To sit beside, hold a hand or lean upon,
On a dark night, sans a watch or phone,
Walking in limitless space, sharing a timeless moment,
Immersed in talk but a talk when quiet,
Sans words but engaged in constant exchange,
Lost in each other but feeling safe,

Such moments, though rare as they should be,
Make up the true being that's me,
Adding priceless gems to the calendar of my life,
Ridding me of the need for strife,
Redeeming bottled up pain and irk,
Which flow as tears, from a melted heart.

9:00pm at A422, H13, IIT Bombay, 16.5.2017. Trivial edits up to 9:21pm.

The Heart

Creatures of startdust they say,
That prowl about land, night and day,
Evolved from animals allegedly lower,
Beings who consider their intelligence flowered,
They capture phenomena and predict acts of Nature,
With physics and math and put them on paper,
But none speaks of this icy mass,
That exists not before it melts,
Its only proof is the water that flows,
As tears trickling down red eyes,
What flows is water, and something did melt,
So it must be ice, says their papery math,
But they grow all emotional, giving it another name,
An experience that isn't but is, they call it the heart, sans shame.

2:05pm 7.1.2017 at room while re-watching Jaatishwar Climax
Trivial edits at 3:08pm on 6.5.2017

Unaware

I live, like I've lived forever,
Like I'll always be here,
Immersed in seeking joy in vain,
Anticipating no pain,

Unaware and oblivious,
I fail to see even the obvious,
Jumping upon the smallest chance,
To forget my woes,

Oh do I fail to see the future,
When I shall be tossed about by nature,
My whole reality being crushed,
By the pitiless, dark jaws of death?

A few seconds' pondering at Cafe Mondegar at 11:55pm on 2.4.2017 while sitting with the folks

Sandwich Writings

At times I wonder if, over time, a writer truly evolves - writing is an eternal spiral, whose centre is the life of the writer and arms form his imagination - and successful writing boils down to maintaining it as a circle. It is all about keeping it as far from the centre as possible while keeping the radius low enough for it to touch readers' hearts.

I initially prided myself with being able to put myself in imaginary situations and write the woes of someone in that position pretty accurately, and thereby considered myself a vicarious writer. Now I find that when unaware, the distance between my heart and that of my imaginary self diminishes to naught, turning every stroke of my pen into a diary entry that I'd sometimes cringe to read.

My mind, it seems, tricks my pen into writing my own story, my own feelings instead of an imaginary one. If I let my pen wander, and the flow set in, the heart bleeds itself, into the ink that flows from my pen*.

And with writing taking more and more room in my mental space, I find myself suffocating in my attempt to run away from the emotions that my soul secretes, and feel imprisoned within the non existent claustrophobic walls of my mind, formed by my imagined limitations.

Funnily, more often​ than not, my pages are wetted and hence permanently coloured by at least a few drops of the feelings that my soul spits and soaks itself in.

With each writeup is attached an emotion, if not many, a memory, a feeling that I can relate to.

I do not remember words that I spill when in one state, yes, but I remember the feelings that I bury with them - they come back to me when I re-read my work, like a long forgotten dream, turning into spades that dig deeper into the soul of my web pages, finding tiny, peculiar yet familiar rocks of emotions that've hitherto touched the roots of the vegetation which has sprouted over the months I'd left them buried.

Has my blog turned into some encrypted diary? One that makes sense in one plane to my readers, why, even to myself - and on another to a select few, and perhaps on a third one to just me?

Those who claim to know me or who wish to try to decipher this bundle that they call Raam might perhaps add a few more layers to these already multilayered 'sandwich' writeups.

Two dimensional writing on a screen does seem to have gone beyond the paper, perhaps finding more nameless dark levels within the souls of my readers to whom I am ever grateful. Without you my work wouldn't even be ink on paper, it would merely be a little magnetic data stored alongside zillions of bytes, forgotten long before it was written, receiving attention from Google's dead computers but heeded not by a single, living, breathing soul. Whether there is life to my writing or not, the fact that you read it honours the words that my spirit generated. And if it does have life, know that a portion of your soul rests in each word I have written, alongside the portion of mine that I sealed with it, when putting it down in writing.

*At times there is the lack of a muse which stimulates a muse hunt, but to be honest, there is no dearth of muses in my life, considering the number of films I watch or the number of times I step outside my room.

An Ode to Sea Waves

I stand upon higher ground, feeling safe,
Beyond the reach of the waves,
But am I ever out of reach
Of these billows that touch the beach?

To some they're perturbations brought by the wind,
Crests and troughs upon a humongous ocean,
But to me, it's a fluid that washes my soul,
Coming and going but consuming me whole,

For my soul is touched by these waves that soar,
Reaching heights over the sea, just to lick the shore,
Showing their might and then slowing down,
Teaching us all to hold to our calm,

They do this in earnest, day and night,
Each time trying harder than the last,
Putting on a tranquil, musical dance,
Sending me off into a silent trance,

Lash the waves upon the sea coast,
Wetting grains of sand before they dry up,
Moistening the wood of tied boats,
And caressing the feet of those who stand close,

I stand upon the sands, wielding my pen,
Writing down words that flow from within,
And as I do, I stop to see,
That the sea without is also within me,

That over time, the water's conditioned my being,
Into seeking bliss only from a lake or sea,
That I can never sit in peace near a river,
Like saltwater creatures, in fresh water,

I stop to think if something's wrong,
If I'd gone mad to reject the flow of the stream,
For once and for all, and then I see,
That the flowing river too, bows to the mighty sea,

I stand there, drinking it all in,
But am I not a fool to think that I can?
I think I'm a great man observing it all,
But when it gobbles me I see its size in full,
Water that eats me up alive,
Why the whole world with space for more.

Written on/before 1.4.2017, major edits made on 13.4.2017

After Sunset

I missed that last peep,
I could've had at you,
My sky is still lit,
But you've gone away,
You seem so far,
Though it's only for a day,

Oh dear sun,
Are you the source of my joy?
For when you leave,
All I find is glum,
A reminder of the time,
That has lapsed and gone,

Of the hours,
That could've meant more,
And of the hoofs of death,
Coming closer,

I love to watch you set,
And the dark night too is pleasant,
But not the dusk before,
For I see an orphaned sky,
Whose lustre fades by the minute,
Getting duller in shade,
Up until the stars arrive,

You are duty bound, yes,
But there are hearts involved too,
And so I pray,
Go as you wish,
But please come back soon.

Written on 25.2.2017 6:47pm at C504, H13, IIT Bombay

The Corpse

Wrapped in cloth,
Unaware and taut,
The once person lies,
As a log seating flies,
Rigid and cold,
Expressionless and old,
Kidding life, soul, function,
Name, why, even pronoun,

It lies there, motionless and bound,
Awaiting decay or cremation,
Not responding, yes,
Its so called vitals a mess,
Some organs functioning,
While others not working,
And we dig them out,
With not slightest guilt,

What if the soul is still stuck in the body?
Unable to find another to embody?
What if the corpse responds not,
But still feels pain and things hot?
We discard them for their movement's stopped,
And our meters show numbers we know to count,

What if they need something we can give?
A little help of a special kind?
I know my path is headed that way,
And my feet tremble as time pushes me ahead,
I'm terrified to walk down that road,
But haven't there been billions who've gone before?

As a writer I've felt that there are fleeting moments when someone else writes through my pen. I cannot take credit for this poem. I'm forced to put my name down as the poet but I know for a fact that I've been merely a device for these words to flow through.

Written at 26.2.2017 at 3:37am on phone, when in bed at C504, H13, IIT Bombay.