The Chinese Teapot

No one should be so valuable that, if she hurts you, it may become impossible to forgive. No one can hurt you so much, that you may so bitterly try to express your anger, and never get a chance to do so. Relationships are like mirror. If they break, then each one is responsible. But when one breaks without reason, or so it may seem, how do we analyse...

There are times in our lives when we find ourselves helpless. I had many such moments. And in those difficult times, I took whatever support I got and at times clung on to it unabashedly. What does a helpless girl do, when all she gets in the name of a family, are people who chastise her  for everything. In Indian homes, she recoils and hides in the shell and waits to get married. But not me. Because I met this charming, enthusiastic girl my age, as my classmate.

She was highly opinionated, strong willed and smarter than any other girl in the class. And to my family, a good influence for the wretched me. So while they jeered at my choice of friends, all the time, they pushed me to make friends with such a girl. Whether that compromised my self respect, was none of their concern. And to be in their good books, even for the short period, that it really was, I compromised everything.

I am Suma and this is a story of extraordinary events of my ordinary life. My family comprised of my parents, my siblings and myself. My siblings were considered by my parents, to be of superior intelligence to mine. I will never know why. My family ignored me most of the time, unless it was to cook a meal, clean the floor or to wash clothes. Because I did not pass in most of the subjects, I could not refuse to do any of these.

Shruti joined my school in eighth standard and was instantly an object of great interest to all classmates. She was different. She had just come back from Singapore, where her father was posted for five years. She had the attitude of a NRI, that was not known to most of us, till then. She was also wise enough to make friends easily. Good with her studies and generous with friends. Her parents supported her little endeavours and therefore, she had a fulfilled look on her face, which I could not sport even remotely.

I had an instant complex with her, I had a complex with everyone around me. Complex is all that was given to me by my family. A brief definition of me, that they had given me in my little period of existence was... "you know nothing and you need someone's help to conduct yourself". How do people survive with such complexes? Looking back, all I can remember is the endless sense if shame of being me and of fear. Fear of authority was on top of my list of fears. I wore my self image quite literally.

Shruti loathed me instantly and made fun of me occasionally. But I would dare not pick up a fight with her. She was after all the golden girl of the class. I did not pick up a fight with anyone. Because as a rule, everyone could trample me, any time. What amazed me most was that, Shruti made friends with both girls and boys. Boys were off limit for me. I was beaten quite literally, when I was seven, for borrowing a notebook from a boy in my class. I kept a distance from the boys ever since.

But now I was in my teens. But then there is another story to add to my fear - when I was 4 or 5 years old, I remembered how my Mother had warned me, that if I did anything wrong, she would not hesitate to put an end to my miserable life, because I would bring such a shame to the family, that I'd rather be dead. As I grew, I also had a constant sense of the fact that my mother was fleetingly hoping to find me do something "wrong" so she could finally have me under her complete control. I could have tested this out. But I got scared of her too early. I did not really know what was "wrong" back then. I just grew up with the mortal fear.

Shruti was out to grab life at thirteen and I was still fumbling for a self image, that would wade me through life safely, I did not ever think, to where? What intrigued me about Shruti was, how she could demonstrate her emotions so well, Whether it was like or dislike. She would just pour affection on her friends and torment her enemies with constant slander. And I thought I'd rather be in her good books. It wasn't very difficult for a coy girl like me to hide my emotions. In fact it did not take much to change my opinion of something. My parents usually achieved it with a slap or a threat of a slap. My peers achieved the same by few dirty looks and some criticism.

There was a constant struggle for me at home, to prove my worth. And since my friends were all viewed with sore eyes, I was pretty sure that if I had Shruti for a friend, I would definitely be treated with respect at home. So what happens spontaneously for people... i.e. making friends, became my goal.

In those days, Shruti was gelling very popularly, with another strong minded girl in my class, named Ranjita. They were practically inseparable. However Ranjita was not so popular with my family, because she was not a star in academics, she was ordinarily talented in studies. Shruti however carried an air of talent and discernment. Making friends with Shruti meant, I had to be friends with Ranjita too. Shruti loved anyone who loved Ranjita sufficiently. She was really strange. But this problem got resolved on its own. Ranjita's dad got transferred. She left Shruti crying for days.

I wondered how people could cry so effortlessly in public. I for once had never felt such joy or sorrow, deeply enough, to either laugh or cry without the care for the world. I was a dowdy teenager and I had no way of knowing, when the next blow of censure would come from my family and for what reason. What did I know?!!!

I gained Shruti's confidence by being considerate about her loss. Helping her come out of the sorrow, that Ranjita's absence had caused to her. But then I truly wanted to tell my family that I had struck gold, in the form of friendship with Shruti. Shruti however took all the comforting care from me, but barely ever noticed me for quite some time. And I began to realise that, my efforts were leading to nothing. This prize was not meant for me.

But one day my prayers were answered, when I was just about to give up. She caught up with me and said, "Suma, I am sorry, I have ignored you all this while, when you cared so much for me" and I realised I had stuck gold. I completely ignored Bela from that day. Bela and I were at the point of striking a reasonable friendship. A really nice one I must admit. I broke Bela's heart in many ways, but she just made way and moved on. I did not even imagine I was capable of breaking hearts. I thought I was too insipid to be noticed if I was gone, from any where.

I reveled in Shruti's friendship and her many ways of showing her friendship. For me it was the only source of any real affection. My family was probably too preoccupied to notice a teenage girl's yearning for love. Not that I did not pay a price for that friendship with Shruti. From that time on, I became "Shruti's friend" to all my classmates, from being a nobody in the class. Not a big change, but I could talk to more people and attend lavish parties, that Shruti held in her home regularly. I got a red carpet to all that excitement by becoming her friend. I also gained some respect in my family, for a short while, I would lose it again soon, when they would realise, that I was just a side kick most of the time.

But Shruti became my window to the world. She usually befriended a person, who was no threat to her in any way, academically and socially, to tide away her own sense of insecurity. And she made good use of the available pool of such hapless girls. Shruti also had her insecurities. I became a confidante to some of them. But mostly she would treat me as a favourite pet. I saw the true meaning of a family in her home. Parent's love was showered on her and her siblings almost equally. All of them confident young adults. Capable of carrying themselves off in any situation. Capable of asking complex questions, without fear. Capable of confiding in their parents. Her working mom got just as much respect, as her dad did in the house. And to top it all up, her mother drove her own car, her's was a two car family. Back then I may have been hapless, but Shruti's affections and her environment, introduced me to my life's dream. The dream I thought, I could strive for. I could live and die for a dream like this. To be a professionally qualified working mom, with a husband and children who respected me. Was it possible?

I did not know back then, whether it was really possible, but then I did not know how young brains have the power to achieve just anything in life. One of the other contribution of Shruti's was also the fact, that she appreciated me academically sometimes. She noticed things about me, I or my family never noticed. Shruti simply became more of my God Mother than my friend. The fairy God Mother if I must dare say.

She was probably getting tired of this role and one day just decided to stop talking to me. And I tried every trick up my sleeve - tears, annoyance and even begging of her, but she would not budge. I realised that my days of glory were over and became really restless. And started to keep a sad face, it was not really difficult for me, as I was profoundly sad, for how life had been treating me. This really worked and Shruti, the most spontaneous person I have ever known, probably felt it on her conscience and simply decided take me back as her favourite friend.

However she had evolved with the experience. She had learn't to make new friends, while I remained her favourite friend. She would just keep building new associations. I could never understand what powered Shruti, in fact most of the girls in my class had some inhibition or the other, she was a wonder for all of us. She was as fearless as a boy.

I don't know if this is the story of Shruti's brilliance, of my abject loneliness or it is the story of my evolution from the unique circumstances, in which life had chosen to put me.

I was sometimes physically but mostly emotionally assaulted at home and this went on for a long time. It is difficult to build a self respect in an environment of fear. Shruti was like the balm. I looked forward to see her and to hear the comforting words from her and to have the company of her and her friends.

One day I learned that, my father got transferred from the town where we lived. Shruti and I parted, with genuine tears in her eyes and forced ones in mine. Because by this time the constant battering at home and insults at school had made me completely devoid of real emotions. It was a total of two years that I enjoyed the seemingly unconditional friendship of Shruti. When she took advantage of me, and she did, it was the price I paid for being her friend. I was not her match after all. I moved out immediately after my board exams.

I secured dismal marks in my board exams, Shruti did reasonably well. We kept in touch by letters mostly. I did miss her, I was like a bird without wings, in her absence, she had mostly been my connection to rest of the peer group. I was afraid of making my own friends. I had no idea which one my parents would censure me for. But now I was in a situation, where I had to make friends, because Shruti was not there. I made a few friends, but could never be true to them, I feared admitting to my parents, that they were my friends. I feared admitting to myself, that they were my friends. I was just a Brutus in the loose. I did make some friends, but none would meet my parent's approval.

Something else happened in my life. I learnt the skill of topping in my class. So I gained some value in my family's eyes, due to that. Though that became a different problem for my mother. She was beginning to realise that, the free house help, that she considered me to be, by reminding me of my poor results, was now getting away from her. But I had a dream to reach. A goal that powered me, I had to make a family of my own, just like Shruti's.

I don't think there is any friendship without a little bit of jealousy. But it is about how I expressed it. By and by, I started to realise, it was impossible to reach Shruti's level of confidence and her sense of freedom. Since the only way I had learnt to grow, was by comparing. I did not see anything unique in myself, just as I was!! So finally I stopped writing letters to Shruti. I wanted to compete with her. Another lesson I did not learn for a long time was, that you do not openly compete with friends. You build healthy competition with them. I was beginning to break another heart. And I did it just like that. After all, I always thought that, whatever Shruti may claim about the importance of our friendship to her, she lacked any respect for me and would not even notice if I was gone.

In the years to come we would mend and break the friendship many times. I would learn to appreciate Shruti at less than the elevated position I had put her on, in my teenage years. But her broken heart would never be mended. I was just not capable of unconditionally offering my friendship, at any of those times, that we mended our friendship, for the brief periods of time. In short I always failed the test of friendship.

I went on to realise every dream I had seen as a teenage girl, in Shruti's house. I became a professional working mom, with a loving husband and a beautiful child. We became a two car family. And we got a Duplex home, just like Shruti's parents had.

And then the inevitable happened. Shruti, just like she had done it years ago, disappeared from my life. She stopped responding to my mails. She did not bother to congratulate me for the birth of my only child and she did not bother to respond to any of my mails. And this time, I just let her go. I felt genuine tears this time. I felt that a hand that had guided me through my dreams, had disappeared for good. But I waited. Shruti had a strange way of finding herself back into my life always. But not this time.

She did invite me on Facebook and I accepted the invite. I learnt about her becoming a mom too. But I tried my best to not write to her. Besides a few messages, that were never responded. I learned eventually that Shruti was a past. Letting go of the hurt of being spurned by her, forgiving her for breaking contact with me, became a task that took a very very long time for me. She seemed to have formed a layer of my personality, the layer that looks for affection. The layer that would have gone totally missing in my miserable teenage years, if it was not for her.

A chinese teapot, that Shruti gifted to us, when she visited our home, after I got married, still stands as a decoration piece in my house. It always reminds me of her. I have tried to get rid of it, but it is difficult to get rid of. It also reminds me of the truth of my life. My truth, I realise now, it may not be all that flattering, but truth is still the most glorious possession we may ever have. They lead us to places where we may never have dreamed of going. And how...?

The chinese teapot will stay with me, probably for ever. And I will probably never know why.





Note: *Brutus stabbed his friend Julius Caesar the emperor of Rome and killed him on account of political disagreement.

Write Your Mind - Writing Workshop

Writing is an art, or so I have started to discover, as the Write Your Mind Magazine is taking shape. I heard this from an extremely learned English language teacher, that poetry is the articulation of overflowing emotions. Emotion is a word tinted with many connotations and it mostly has a negative connotation in our minds. Because it is somehow associated with anger or infatuation. Both of these emotions are not considered socially productive. While "expression" which is the outcome of emotions, mostly enjoys positive connotations. I wonder why!

The writing workshop was for children in the age group of 8 to 12 years. The age when children have barely started to understand the wonders of words. My idea is to catch them young, so they make friends with words, before words start to scare them.

Writing does not come easy. Drawing is easier. And for some neither comes easily. Writing and drawing are both communication, communication comes with the risk of being judged. 

As the workshop progressed, I realised the task in front of me. I had planned in advance for 4 sections in the two hour workshop:

 - Fill a Slam book
 - Make a postcard, with a drawing, description of the drawing and a message to the recipient
 - Write on a favourite subject and write whatever comes in your mind.
 - Complete a story

Children enjoyed every bit of it. They are waiting for another session! In fact though I had planned for it to be only a one time event, I am looking forward to another session with them too.

Writing, for any age, does not come easy. Gesturing, speaking, not expressing does. Written words can have its own consequences, in the minds of children however, it seems to be the surest way to get ridiculed. If this can be changed, we can make them more expressive and responsible with words. 

Grand Canyon

My visit to Grand Canyon was a memorable one. The bright red topography spreading for miles and miles, a thin ribbon of a river flowing down below, quite out of reach of any onlooker. It is like a river flowing through the desert of fire. Here are some lines I wrote on my way back, from the visit to the canyons, on the back of National Car Rentals bill. The only paper I found in the car!

Crooked and Green and Naughty,
Like the devils tail,
The Colorado River flows,
Through canyon scalding red.

Besides few brushes and pine,
Not a sight of life,
For so many several miles,
Just the scalding cauldron.

And at the depth below,
Edge of a deadly descent,
That stream so full of life,
So out of reach from life.

And huge red bubbles,
Inside the deadly cauldron,
Frozen in the abyss of time,
The chilling hands of death.

Banished in the desert,
The devil made his workshop,
Treading inside the depth,
He dares each man to dare.

Isn't Clean Dusty?

I cleaned the place, not a speck of dust left,

And then I stood on that spot,
A speck of dust on earth myself.

I dried my self, not a spot of water on me,

But water is what I am, more or less.

I write and write, though words fail me,

And try to explain whats inexplicable,

There are stories untold,

But then there are, words unformed as yet.

I plant a seed and look at my hand,

Its soiled and dirty, I wash my hand,

Amazing how we tell, dirt from dirt.

I rise from slumber, Sleep walking almost,

For what is all of this life,

If not an extension of my dreams?

I am free... or that I think I am,

For I am as free as the mind allows,

The black cat here, an eclipse there,

My mind conjures a trap every where.

Strong like a soldier, fighting for a cause,
Soft inside like flower, withering at little hurt,
I put up a face with many expressions,
Of Fear and Strength, of Tears and Joy,
Of Failure and Victory, of Mourning and Merriment,
Of Anger and Forgiveness, of Confusion and Assertiveness,
Of Hate and Love...
The many faces all at once.

My Experience of Story Telling

Story telling is my passion. I used to bring together neighbourhood kids and tell them stories, when I was young. Ever since my daughter was born, I have been her story teller. We would sit for hours reading books about fairies and talking animals and of people with strange magical powers. Stories have helped me to bond with my daughter. But as she is growing up, I have realised, that soon she will be by herself, reading books on her own or spending time with her friends. How can I then connect with her, through the stories we enjoyed together so much?

And now I have an answer to that. "Story time with Rajat Aunty" is not just for her, but for all her friends, her age. Not just does it give me a chance, to be part of my daughters little world, it also gives me a chance to spend time with children. There is never a wiser company than little children.

Today I had eleven beautiful children for the session. Each one of them added a different flavour to the gathering. It does not matter whether they appear to be attentive or not, each one of them absorb every piece of information around them. And then they beautifully interpret it, in their own way. Some are silent observers, some like to talk. Some just cheer everyone up with their constant smile.

I do not know if we bring up our children or they help us grow, into better people. Because if there is anything we need to know about ourselves, we can see it in our children's actions, and hear it in their words. As for our children they eventually find their way in the world, whether we told them or not.

The story telling session entailed sketching, painting and even writing. I got 11 little masterpieces today. When it came to writing, some of the kids refused to write, because they did not know the spellings and some even copied from others, hoping to get the right spelling, in their friend's paper. Truth is none of them knew the right spellings, and that was not what the session was about. Since when did the 6 and 7 year olds get so self conscious? I was surprised a little but mostly saddened.

We forget sometimes that we do not discover talents in our children, we only nurture them. Talents are for the children to discover for themselves and to capitalise on it. Those are the little gifts with which God sent them on earth. We just need to do our job well.

We demand perfection from our children, to the extent of bullying them, when they are unable to be perfect or to be at-least better than the other kids we know. But the world is too big. The kids we know, should never constitute competition for our kids. Otherwise children will not make friends.

We are the gardeners in their life. Story telling is my way of showering the children with good ideas and thoughts. I don't know what they will make from it. It is for them to discover.

I Live There

My love for Himalayas, in a poem. My first visit to Manali, a scenic hill station in Himachal Pradesh, was quite dramatic. We reached there after nightfall and checked into a hotel, situated at the bank of river Beas. The whole night, I could hear the bubbling noise of the river. I woke up in the morning, to the majestic sight of snow covered peaks of the Himalayas. The most breath taking morning of my life. Himalayas feels like home since...

My home is in the mountains somewhere,

Where a river sings lullaby, as I sleep,

Come home some time, sit for a while,

You'll love the enchanting snow covered peaks,
Majestic paintings by God himself,
Breathtaking curios, that adorn my home,
And while we chat, we must sip sweet something,
I serve the sweetest chilled water you can get,
scooped up from the raging gurgling river,
An apple or two to munch on too,
Sit on the chair of rocks with me,
Enjoy the bubbling song of the river,

The sky my roof, it leaks sweet showers,
And how to describe the colours of my floor,
When it snows, my floor is white,
The slush is the hue, whenever it rains,
And green in the spring, with prints of flowers.
And let me not leave out the walls,
The mountains are the walls of my home,
Painted green, whenever it rains,
Turns spotless white, whenever it snows.
My heart dwells there, in the mountains somewhere,
I long to reach my home some day,
My home yes, I long to reach.

Survie's Article

To introduce Survie in a few words, I would say that, Survie is a Content Designer and a mother of two wonderful boys. She is the quintessential working Mom, managing her work and life balance, through her choices at times and through her tenacity at others. Here is an article from her:

How to Keep Your Kids Busy During Vacation

It’s time for summer vacation again and we, the parents, start wondering how to keep our kids busy WITHOUT SUMMER CAMP!!! Yes right…without Summer Camp!!!

So, friends, there are lot of ways and options available which will definitely help in bringing out your Child’s creativity ranging from art to craft, reading and writing, science and math projects to sports and swimming. Here are some of the ways to keep your kids busy at home:

Crafts:  Kids just love to create. So you can help them on some fun crafts projects which will nurture their imaginations and keep them entertained at the same time. For instance, scrapbooking. You can ask your child to cut some interesting photographs from old magazines or newspapers and to past them in their scrapbook.  You can also think about buying a cheap camera for them so that they can take their own snapshots and make fill their diary with their holiday adventures.

Solving Puzzles: Solving puzzles might sound boring for many of us, but believe me it is one of the best ways to get rid of boredom. Not only it’s entertaining but also improves the child’s ability at problem solving. Also, I feel solving puzzles can be challenging for any of us and challenges are always fun…what say????

Reading: Reading is obviously the best way to pass your time in a meaningful way. Try to get some interesting books for your kids for the vacation. Apart from books, you can also ask them to read some magazines or newspaper.

Cooking: And the last but not the least, cooking. Yes, children love cooking. Get them involved in some kitchen activities and you will find a big smile on their face. This cooking technique works even better if there is some reward for them at the end.

So encourage your kids for such summer activities, I am sure your kids will be active and have an educational summer. So what are you waiting for, get yourself involved and make this summer vacation a great learning time for everyone.

Anushka's Poem

Make Me Human

My poem from long back. I had read this piece in a forwarded mail, about an old lady, who says that the heart of someone who has lived a meaningful life, is full of bruises and cuts, because that is what makes it human. Can't really recall the complete context. She was probably tending to a hurt grandchild. Some of you may remember...

Give me a knife,
Because I wish to carve myself.
Burn me with fire,
So I can prove my tenacity.
Cast me like iron,
Into a figure not replicable.
Chisel out my edges,
So I can be perfect.
Give me a soul,
So I can come to life.
Stab me with a knife,
So I can feel the pain.
Patch up my wound,
And make me human.

Buttons - Story of a Virtual Faux pas

My very first introduction to buttons was the buttons on my frocks. As a toddler, the frock that was like a jacket and had button running from top to bottom, was my favourite. I fortunately found a similar one for my daughter, when she was two years old.

Then there were buttons on the school shirts. The white ones. And on the sweaters. I have chewed on quite a few of them after they fell off, I found stray buttons lying around in the house. I remember one particular button on a yellow sweater, that tasted remotely of orange lozenges. I chewed that one on the sleeve of my sweater very often. Eventually I grew out of the chewing age.

Those were the days of license raj in India and most threads that were used to sew the buttons were not long lasting. And so, most of these buttons would keep falling off, to be replaced either by safety-pins or with press buttons. And therefore we had a white dog shaped empty box of Calcium that we filled with stray buttons of all colours and sizes.

When I was probably thirteen, I learnt about a button bag on Doordarshan, a cloth bag stitched on with buttons of all shapes, sizes and colours. I wanted to have more and more buttons. But I never got on to making a button bag. Stitching them on was quite a labourious task.

Anyway, in my early years buttons had only one meaning. The ones used on clothes. But buttons have a different connotation too, as I started to discover. The 'on' button on TV to begin with. We were accustomed to the black switches on wooden switch boards or knobs in the mixer grinder. Buttons did not switch on or off many things earlier. But TVs came with buttons and our index finger became the key to a new and exciting world.

And soon desktops came with buttons. One on the monitor, one on the CPU, one on the UPS (Uninterrupted Power Supply) etc etc...  

Desktops soon turned into laptops, buttons by then had truly become ubiquitous. A press of a button meant, we were in and out of office. We could be anywhere and yet working. Work from home became the most happening way to be employed. Though only a few privileged ones got this opportunity. There was another underprivileged group of people, who could now ‘work from work’ and ‘work from home’, round the clock.

And soon smart phones and Tablets created a new form of buttons, virtual buttons! Buttons that could be pressed only when there was power on the phone. The concept of virtual gadgets took shape. What we have today within our fingertips, are countless small buttons, that will download just anything from the virtual space, into our smart phones and into our lives.

My friends and family and all my tasks are just a click away. My phone works like a dutiful butler, beeping away every so often, to tell me someone has reached out to me, or something needs to be done.

In this scenario, what happens to slippery fingers and what happens when one wrong button is pressed? With the touch sensitive virtual buttons, there is very little scope for small mistakes, a lot more for big ones. And there is one that I made just two days ago…

My new smart phone is the main culprit. I did not have enough space in the old phone to have too many apps on it. Apps are lethal weapons I must say. Best to have as few of them as possible. But a lesson learnt too late.

And so I downloaded one of the professional networking sites, so I could have it on my fingertips! Not knowing the wows of having slippery fingertips. All went well till the download, besides that, I pressed one button too many. Suggested Contacts “Invite All”, one click of the button, I have no idea how many people I have invited. Hundreds maybe. I have never been a great believer of networking sites till date. Not that it is wrong. I just come from a different era of buttons. And now my phone is loaded with, “your invitation is accepted”. Thanks to all who have been gracious enough to accept my invite. 

I am still tending to my slippery index finger. A plaster for a few days would really help my cause. But there is no stopping me. I am already looking for more and more apps to download on my little device, my trusty butler who understands nothing, but the press of buttons...

A thought that crossed by

Enticed by my thought,
I lost touch of time,
A soft fog descended,
And enveloped the scene,
Light had quietly taken its leave,
The chirping of birds had slowly subsided,
A hollow quiet replaced the day's humbug,
Only pierced by reverberating insect song.

A shrill cry of an owl from a distance,
Repaired my attention from reverie,
I felt a chill under my skin,
An involuntary thought crept in my mind,
Life had marooned me, while I sat there,
On a chilly, dark, foggy, hollow patch.

As the thought crossed me, I recalled,
This was the same pleasant patch of the day,
I was just as alone in the dark,
As I was in the day,
But then I was alone,
And now forlorn,
I shook off the thought,
And walked back home.

Life Unchanging or Unfathomable?

Life falls evenly on all,
Like the sun and the moon and the sky above,
Unchanging. Just the same,
Yet we view it in many shades,
Our minds playing mysterious games,

Is life really just the same?
Encased in those replicated breaths?
Or is It more of what we think?
More of the shades, in our looking glasses?

On a sunny day, some are perked up,
Some exhausted in the heat,
Yet others dehydrate,
No, it cannot be the same for all,
Life cannot be just the breath,
It is what one feels with each breath,

What one believes  is one's truth,
Do we survive on verifiable beliefs? No,
Under the same sky, over this very earth,
There are as many worlds as people alive,
No... more worlds than there are people alive,
For each one is capable of possibilities unexplored,
One question, one doubt is all it takes, for a new world to emerge.

Neither past is unchangeable nor future uncertain,
Thoughts are the unmistakable magic wands,
They can change the past, or make future more certain,
For past is what remains of it in the thought,
And future is but a stroke of that thought,
And how one views it, when one gets there indeed.

Life is an unfathomable mystery,
For the mystery lies in our very thoughts, that we so tirelessly control.

Truth

I always felt that if I closed my eyes,
Long enough,
Tight enough,
Or if I looked away,
Far enough,
It would just go away.

But then I was young,
And the meaning of 'always' changes,
Every passing year,
For as I grew, I found it out,
That "Truth" is etched in stone,
And just as the breath,
It stays!

More permanent than the breath,
It remains, haunting the dead...
And therefore each passing moment,
Those with breath fear the truth,
Or untiringly work to create, a perfect truth.
For those without, have lost that hope...
For better or for the worse.

However the mortal remains may be treated,
Burnt or berried or taken to the Tower of Silence,
Truth stays alive and breathes.
Look away, look away if you wish, look away,
It tempts,
For I will live in places not thought of,
Not contemplated,
Unless you make me your torch and follow me.
And then I shall be your guide.