The Bodhi Tree

A daughter burned within the womb,

Born beautiful, yet barely alive,

Sits alone, on a tree that stood through the times,

When the fire had taken over my love for the lies.

I, named Amrapali, almost withered like the leaves,

Had to find an aura, an ocean that could heal through its site.

How beautiful, the root to the lotus would sit in tranquillity,

Guiding the likes of me towards the shore,

Through the clear waves from the universe,

Dementing the moulded clay of Karma.

The ocean, without the name,

Would ask us to close our eyes to feel the waves,

Powerful, healing to the core,

Where no name could suffice, but simply adore.

The names still ask if all I do is dream,

They call for Ajatshatru, They sing his deeds,

But how trivial the fire in the names and the place,

As if the hate co existed in the name of love,

Rather a blame from the faith?

Come dear names under the Peepal,

Where the ocean sits to adore the rain.

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8. The Violin Play

“Hey, Alex. I guess I am sick. It is time to wake up.” I could only feel the febrile decay of my strength. My body was warm to its core, the brittle memories from the weird dream added to the problem. ” I had a weird dream. Fever dream, I suppose..”.

“Good Morning, take an off today, Dr Atlas. You think so much.” she came closer to kiss, the touch of her lips was cold. ” It is bad. You should have a break. Stay at home, I will come early as well.” Her voice was comforting, yet my body felt as if it would melt from the shivers through my skin. I took out the medicine and swallowed it with the last sip of water left in the water bottle.

“Yes, I will text them that I cannot come. Have a good day. Make something delicious. I need some positive energy in my mind.” I smiled at her and kissed her for a brief moment. The moment was not enough, but my body was not normal. I smiled again and closed my eyes, afraid of the dream yet searching for the answer of the Vedas. Wisdom could not reach to me eventually, the dream made no sense.


The endless and immortal space, a dream again. A drop of sweat rolled down my face. Another dream with no wisdom of real context of my life.

It was the space this time, completely empty just a sort of a cluster of beautiful colours in front of me. I was not breathing, not moving, not listening, but I was there. Kept at the moment, waiting for something to wake me up. I placed my vision onto the bright colours in front of me, the cluster looked like a coloured river contained by the moment. I close my eyes, trying to wake myself. I was stuck again, sweating with the vision of a giant super nova. A dead star, ironically my mental status at the very moment; a mind incapable of allowing the wisdom of the experience, process through its core.

I helplessly stare at the blend of colours, a golden glow around the deep red and blue blend of its centre. To the little philosophy in my head, it reminded me for the colour of blood revamped with the blue of the sky. Symbolic of danger, life and peace. I was certainly lost. I kept looking till my mind could perceive an image of a women’s face in the dead star. A beautiful face, red on the inside and the blue slowly converted into the black like the rest of the space. A slow descent of the blue into the darkness. A sudden sound gave me chills, it was music. A violin, a sad-single instrument that seemed to be the void around me. The face had darkened on the edges of the colour. The eyes had the blue, rest everything was red. Red to the essence, I did not even try speaking. Waited for the silly dream to send more cues of my sub-conscious head.

The music slowed down with the image of the women blinking her eyes, the movement again went forth to disturb the darkness. Her lips appeared and slowly the space around me began to detonate with a powerful tone to go along with the violin.

Each word is supposed to uplift your existence from the hell,

Each phrase had to pull your essence to the blue,

But you desired the blood! The wars!

You belonged to the skies, But the hour is rather broken to fly,

The words were dead when the red had coloured the race,

Only a few remain in the isolated verse,

You sought wisdom and here you end,

Dying with the meaning of those words as the ornament,

Just keep your soul, listen till inferno,

Sophia from the Republic has died,

They never read Plato in the dim light,

I only exist in this lost cell of thoughts,

Inside the mind of a sick person, inside the blank pages that were lost.

My body was almost gone out in the darkness, absorbed and devoid of my sense to a greater extent. Her face, the face resembled Alex. Sophia, rather a philosophy from the book I am supposed to read.

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4.The Dilemma of Differences

“Do talk to him, the boy. I am sure, you will find the cues you look for the story.” My therapist always had her way of directing me towards more thoughts. “And you have fun at work. Take care.”   I got out of the car and walked towards the classroom, each step towards the building was a powerful recollection of my own identity to myself. The strong red colour and the beautiful architecture of the building was always welcoming. The way to the classroom was filled with morning greetings and smiles from my students, all the young minds I adored. I entered the first class and closed the door. The click of the door was an escape to me, simply a room filled with thoughts. The white board was scribbled with some theories and creative jokes. The 30 benches were occupied, the classic first week.

“Good Morning! Just a single mail? Nobody else likes to write here? Take some more time you guys. You, people, are here for 4 years.” Talking to the classroom was another important intricate activity that defined my own self to me.

“This is going to be marked upon?” A student sitting on the first bench asked.

“Marked? Oh, alright. Yes, every interaction in the classroom is marked in my lectures. But I spare the room of technicalities for the first-year batch. And let talk less about things that appeal differences.” The classic queries were always around a materialistic thing inside the classroom, tried my best to make a distance in philosophy and materialism in my classes.

“That brings us to the topic we shall think about today, differences. Why this topic? I really don’t know, but it is a concern that literature links up widely. Every single text you read will be composed off a difference in the human society. Think about it, tell me the name of any literal work that does not appeal a social difference.”

“Harry Potter, J.K Rowling. The lady never talked about rich and poor, it was always about one thing in the entire world, magic. No levels of identity there?” A girl spoke up. The enthusiasm made me smile. “You Muggle! Or shall we say Mud-blood! Don’t say this to Hermione Granger, alright? Nice attempt and I love the fact that you find fiction unifying.”

“Poems? There are many, I suppose. Wordsworth never talked about differences in Daffodils.” The boy from the back questioned and had a point. It felt great to be challenged by the students.

“You got me here! I shall rephrase, A story including at least two characters. Even a lot of monologues in the romantic era showcased the differences in the country living and the urban side. But the point is that a single thought of the difference in a story can be the whole basis of its origin and why is that so? For what I believe we humans tend to make conflicts out of those differences.” I walked towards the podium and examined the different faces in the classroom.

“Conflict is the major reason that led you out to this place, the reason why you had to leave your native place. Might be economical in the form, or maybe a social outbreak against you? The reason I want to address this to you people is simple, you are the victim of differences and even here in Europe, you guys are studying in the migrant batch. So can anyone tell me what was the first question that the migration department people asked you?”

A unanimous response of the word, “Name” was followed through the classroom.

“Names, the entities purely derived from religion in most parts of the world. There are exceptions of course, for example, my Indian friend names the Greek Goddess, Athena. Yea, I have been around the world to study these differences for my first book. Religion is the formation for every difference and conflict in the world today or you may believe in the Capitalistic perspective, which is alright. So, this element religion, I want to start with this phenomenon that binds you and me to the roots of our culture.” My phone vibrated, I always hated the vibration of the alarm that was set forth for the end of the class.

“E-mails! Come on. That is all for the day, I want you all to ask your parents about the religious perspective and my dear atheist friends, tomorrow’s lecture will be a better one, I promise. You guys can go on to the next class.” I sat on the bench and looked out for Irfan, hoping that he might approach.

The Lost Ink

Have you felt the need to escape, my friend,

Have you ever touched the essence of your breath,

Maybe the hidden tear of the grief,

Maybe the word from the red ink that never preach,

Yes , I know how cries go of with grief,

And the words leave the ink and the need to believe,

This makes me wonder ,

 Are we those souls that left paradise,

Without a hint of what is left behind,

Are we those words that never meant an emotion,

Or is this a rhyme that makes no sense?

Maybe I am writing with the insane ink,

And maybe I am high on those allusions and dreams,

Where I saw the brightness enchant the terms of life,

Where the grief was stuck,

But the tear rolled into the deep sigh,

And again I might have flowed down with it,

And now I miss my grief,

I hope that the grief is looking down,

Oh! I know it is looking down,

On all the tear drop that fell from it,

And soon we will resonate back to the heights,

Unlike words that were never defined,

We will find our solace and escape the prison of the mind,

I did not take opium as my latter,

I am not Coleridge, but an anonymous rhyme,

The one I myself will never be able to recite,

I am that thought that you gave away to the world,

To the mirage of happiness ,

And the plague that  corrupted our sense,

The one sense that deals with the grief,

The one whose union is immortal to our believe,

I am that high enchanted rhyme,

I am lost rather hidden in a crown,

Wear that crown to find me ,

The crown of spirituality,

Find your own crown to find me,

That’s all this rhyme has to speak,

Raise yourself high but not with your deed,

Raise yourself high with your believe,

And find the lost grief.

 

Mira’s Darkness

Held by the symphony of the universe,

She danced to the music of the rain,

But the world, too rational to understand,

Drove a concrete wall to her land,

She blended her love into a rhyme,

For the world to dance in the night,

But how do they fathom darkness as their light,

How do they believe the world doesn’t render their dreams,

She plated the words onto a social plane,

Thinking maybe the souls will rejoice the claims,

And dance to the beats of the illusion that these shadows create,

But nothing was left of her to preach the world,

She went as one to the source of the song,

And the world was left with a blur of her aim,

They danced, but only on the plate she made,

Only her words remained under the literal space,

And here a son writes her account misunderstood by the human race.

The Story Of A Human Being

 

“She had blood, but no nation,

She had love, but not a destination,

She had colours in her life,

She was the Nur of Humanity”

 

She was trapped in a cell, grey walls were the only companion to her thoughts; no memory about her past, just the pain trembling through her nerves to the head where no questions could fall apart. A cell was her knowledge of the universe, somehow a woman in her twenties lost all her vision into an abyss made of four walls. She looked at the gate and gazed to the different colour in hopes, till her eyes lost the sense to behold the vision.

She opened her eyes in the hospital, she heard a lady near her calling out, “Nur?” “Open your eyes Nur”. The woman grabs a sense to a world unknown and he could decipher nothing but the colour of her cloths. She was in a hospital bed, with strings digging into her heart, has she lost it all? She thought, remembering herself, finding her consciousness. She asks out to the people around and the lady replied “My dear daughter, Alllha has blessed us! My dear child, you suffered an accident last month and just regained consciousness. I am so happy to see you, Nur.” She knew her name and the fact about how she cannot retain anything because of injury; she could not find herself within the mist of the situation, but she felt a sense of harmony with presence of the people around her.

Nur found a place in the Khan family as the only daughter and build up a new life, after a few years of regaining the senses of the world, she started teaching in a small school in Pakistan. She was able to educate herself with the new generation and her life was progressing with a normal phase of love and affection for her work.

Her injury remained subtle, but she used to have nightmares having no symbolic representation, she could gain her memories but her positive attitude lead her towards success. She fell in love with a man named Umair, they married and had a baby girl. Nur’s life was running through a simple and sweet approach of time and situation.

One day, Nur and Umair had a vigorous fight over an issue of her working for more hours and not looking after her personal health, the night following to the day bought a tormenting dream.

I remember what was told, shoot the prick in the face, that’s what commander general told me. Ahmed Husain, the man who gave coordinates to the secret Intelligence base in India that reckoned its faith to a terrorist attack. I remember what he said to me, “Neha ! Find the man and shoot the prick in the face”.

The target was aimed, I could sense the feel of accomplishment. I waited for Ahmed to be alone in the room, so that a hit can revenge the vice he initiated to my Nation. My aim was fixed on him, his family went out and the last member that went out was a small girl wearing a pink traditional wear, my heart throbbed for a moment, but I knew the mission that I had to accomplish.

I took the shot and that’s all I remember.

It was 3 am, she woke up with her heart running out a similar sense of pain to her nerves. “It was a dream, it is just not possible.”

She picked up her phone and typed the words AHMED HUSAIN. The search results flushed a sequence of visions, she closed her eyes and realised that Neha was never Nur.

The lady stayed there in her bedroom, with her eyes closed, with a heart throbbing out for something that cannot be described. The feeling could not be highlighted.

She opened her eyes and saw her daughter sleeping gently, the baby was dressed in pink and the single colour provoked a cry of her life.

“What’s the matter, Nur?” Umair asked her, as he woke up in fear.

The room with a family amalgamated through faith was reckoned to silence. The lady took her time to answer and after wiping her tears she said, “ I am lucky to have you, Umair. I love you”

Haunted by Diversions

The sphere of the mellow beings, linked through a web of dreams,

Guided by symphonies, rested through a legion of extremity,

Humans found their ethos, building coherence over a divergent identity,

Through the distinct culture and ways, a ghost of diversity came to play,

A ghost that haunted the zest sublime, reaching out to eliminate the colours to blind,

‘Terror’ was the phrase to define, the inhuman solace of the night.

The contemporary holds a vision of abhorrence,

The globe is held by the drought from the bane,

Terror found its peak for the reminiscence,

Eliminating life and love from the rain,

What we reckon is the cry of our faith,

And the cure to the demise, shall be a union of our names.

To save the mystical being,

To recover the scars of the fall,

An espionage shall emerge, seeking the ghost to preach,

Dealing with each move of the anomalous believe,

The symbol of life shall defend the one common deem,

The unique logos of the whole world,

A common name to call them all,

Shall uproot the occult of uncertainties,

And restore the regalia from the luminosity.

-Sagar Arora