An Ink That Can Paint

Dust sprung up in the breathing air and hung there for a while as if the sun rays were playing the part of strings. Shimmering golden, misplaced pieces of the world.
The woman was anxiously picking up cushions and was dusting them frantically, imperfectly, for the sake of it.

‘There are more of these than I would like to manage’ she hissed in irritation.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t complain darling, they are still beautiful’ said the woman’s companion, who was sipping from a steaming cup nearby. Mrs. Andere.
For the sake of affection she was referred as ‘De’ or ‘Ande’.
She was plum, peachy as peach itself, she wore a shade of disturbing red lipstick on her, that seemed to have been made in a brickyard, using scrapes of red.

‘You’re being too harsh on yourself darling, you need to sit, breathe & have a nice cuppa tea’ she grinned broadly, showing all her teeth, almost looking excited.

‘No no, De you don’t understand, there are a lot of things I must do, then there are few other things I wish to do.’ said the woman, taking a moment from beating pillows together, to wipe sweat from her forehead.

‘Much as I enjoy sitting at leisure, with no work, I regret it too. She heaved, momentarily looking at her stomach that had flattened while she held her breath, then releasing it instantly, her belly rose up like a fermented dough, slightly bulging around the belt of her dress.

‘It’s stagnating, it doesn’t open new doors, new feelings for me to witne- ‘

‘Oh Shut up!’ Ande cut her off repulsively, it seemed as though the woman’s words were nauseating her. Displeasure was so evident, it almost produced cracks in her foundation concealer cream, her real face peeped from inside.

‘I didn’t raise you to be such a freak, you were a tiny girl when I took you, look what I turned you into, this magnificent, beautiful intelligent woman that you are now.’ Mistress beamed with something that was not pride but was teeming with possession and ownership, nevertheless it still was, though obnoxious, a teethy smile.

‘Please don’t mind me, the woman pacified. She took De’s hands with affection in her own and made her sit on the couch. Her smile that was put up to show composure was feeble & fading.

Half a twinkle.

‘You must understand me Ande, I’m neither complaining nor denying anything. I’m simply trying to tell you that my heart desires. It desires new Springs.’

The smell of fresh parchment,
An ink that can paint.
Tea that is sweeter,
A humming heart; thousand folds eager.
Rusted corners that glimmer twice,
A storm that pours within, nigh & beyond choice. Re-construct as such that doesn’t obstruct.
Farther than the sight explores,
Fire that crackles a ‘mood-full’ more.

The woman’s face was reflecting a child’s expression, one that awaits appreciation for self evident creativity or a wise thought. She bit her lower lip in anticipation, palms facing downwards on knees, tensed forearms & shoulders raised to ears.

There was an uneasy silence in the room.

Andere kept staring at this woman infront of her, trying to make sense of what she’d just spoken. Her eyebrows gave a slight twitch of disgust, mouth making a small crooked opening, which was despicable.

‘You know dear, your desires are turning you towards lunacy. What you truly need is sanity.’ She spat.
It seemed she had been stung by a barb dipped in a gall of poison.

‘I taught you everything, looking after the house, the daily deeds, needs, I even got you cushions… so that you can dust them, there’s a carpet too, if there’s ever a need for change.’ She spoke hastily, only to stop for a second, her eyes darting to check whether her words were given their deserved acknowledgement.

‘I let you do & savor things not many people get to realise, you do knitting when you please, crochet too, don’t you? Never restrained you from playing piano.
I let you paint, sketch, read.
Isn’t that just enough?’

‘It is just enough. You’re quite right. But there’s no expanse in enough.’ The woman retorted firmly for the first time, her tone perfectly anchored in conviction.

‘My dear De, there’s a whole world of difference between recreation & self growth, between indulgence & involvement, engaging & blossoming.’

I do not seek just freedom, I wish to disembody myself into the limitless.
I do not dare pursue possession, I seek absolute dissolution.
I’d rather be a complete puzzle of immensity than a missing piece, out of place.
I’d rather rage as forest fire than diffuse as thick sooty smoke from cold ashes.
My desires are the chariots of my growth, without them I’m a damp matchstick in a tiny tinderbox.

‘I’ve to do certain things Ande, things that I don’t even know if they exist, things that touch me in a novel way, that uproot me from the belief of “who I think I am.”
I love the cushions you’ve given me, they are pretty, but I do not belong to them, nor to this carpet, nor to you.’

‘I still have to be who I am. And for that I’ll have to let you go, you’ve been a good confidant.’ She caressed the mistress’s hand lovingly as she spoke.

Andere watched in horror & disbelief. She had never known helplessness such as this.

The woman closed her eyes & then whispered softly, almost making it seem self affirmative.
Just as one command given in solitude. ‘Now you take leave.’

When she lifted her eyelids, the Sun was spilling the lasts of its light in the room. Dust had settled long ago.
The woman sat completely alone staring at the window, the passing sunset glared back, turning her pupils into golden orbs.

There was lying, at a distance, an empty cup, glinting the portrait of the woman from its white ceramic self.
Reflections from self to self. There was no Other.
The rim of the cup was smeared with red lipstick.

The woman laughed nonchalantly.

– Sharanya Ikshan E.

Skeaned Harp

Prisoner of my very own,
Prisoned by my very own.
comforts and hates me both,
the place I call home.
But what can prison a man,
When not his gut, heart and his bone.
Mind, thou prison of heaven bears hell in it,
Beautiful faces, senses and smiles,
of devil’s dwell in it
I fly, fly and soar high,
Thy wings of illusion are nowhere nigh.
Thou art crippled and controls,
I stroll barefoot, the garden of sinkholes.
If thou wishes be the instruments and me not as means, I abandon mine instrument honed miserably to skeans.

– Sharanya Ikshan E.

Midsummer, 28th June 1998, Monschau, Germany

‘Aren’t you supposed to be out in the fields with Selznick and Victor?’ said Mrs. Müller standing at the basin admiring her freshly washed golden rimmed tea cups.
‘No..o.’ came a muffled voice of a boy in early teens lying down really spread eagled on the couch with his mouth buried under a cotton stuffed heavy, bizarrely multicoloured quilt.
‘They’ve gone to the capital for vacays…’ sang the boy with a yawn and a boredom in his eyes, as he was dissatisfied with length of his arm, struggling to reach the nearest lying book with first two fingers and succeeded in dragging it by its cover.
‘That’s wonderful! Your friends are having so much fun in the capital. You should’ve accompanied them. What’s the point of lying in the house day in and day out.’ said the lady carefully adjusting her tea set in the cupboard, where they’ll rest until someday on Earth a ‘worthy’ guest arrives at her doorstep.

‘I’m happy mum, happy to be here, right here, just where I am.’ Said the boy with an air of tranquility holding his book at an arm’s length and flipping to find the ‘not read’ page.
‘I am not…’ muttered the woman looking up at the ceiling focusing on the lamp trying to figure out her feeling and an exact word that would describe it ‘pleased’ she whispered to herself. ‘I am not pleased she said completing her sentence with an an authority.

‘I’ve had enough of you and your silly books flying all about the house. I want you to go out and get me groceries for dinner.’
It was an order, a clear statement of conduct, a subscription unasked.

The boy sat up, his back hunched and hands dangling over legs, his book in his lap.
He drooled over the cover for sometime in a space of silence and dancing thoughts.

‘Take the bus from Wilhelm Street to the store.’ Said the mother as she stuffed his pocket with money for bus fare and groceries. There was something else put inside as the boy looked at his mother and smiled. It was affection.

Eifrig Müller thin, fairly tall, blonde boy with slick hair a denim dungree and plain blue shirt. He was a person best known to himself, he had a mysterious demeanour not something common to many people. His passion for books was more than life. It was frustrating for some and repulsive to others. They were his panoramic scope, his eyes to see the world in the small town of Monschau in North Rhine Westphalia.

As he walked through the dusty, narrow but empty lanes of the city, he tried perceiving everything from the sunshine on his face to the rattle of crows, from the dust settling on his clothes to the warmth filling inside. There were no trees on this side of the lane, surrounding view included old rusted electricity poles and half timbered houses. It was a long walk like this.

At the bus station he sat on a wooden bench to stretch his toes, rest his foot and wait for the bus. He was grateful. A wooden bench under the burning sun is a blessing when compared to iron.
He sat cross legged, took out the paper currency from his pocket and started gazing at it, it was the only entertainment and text available at hand.

‘Not many people will understand you.’ said a gentle voice close by.

The boy’s head turned right in an instant. He saw an old man in soft, shining, clean white shirt standing next to him. He had a smiling face, stout body, sleeves folded up to the elbow, just like his. Only neater.

‘Sorry, were you talking to me?’ asked the amazed boy.
‘There ain’t no other here boy, is there?’ came the reply as the man seated himself on the bench beside the boy.
‘yes there are others, things, roads, houses, stones, shrubs why on earth me?.’ thought the boy. Both sat silent for a while.
‘You have something I desire’ said the old man looking up at the noon sky.

The boy clenched his fist full of money in order to prepare himself for flight or fight in case of any attempt of thievery. His legs gripped the ground firmly now while sitting. ‘One extended hand and I will jump and run’ prepared the boy but for formality he asked ‘what is it?’
‘Answers. To my questions.’ whispered the man leaning sideways towards the boy and looking him in the eye with a smile.
The boy made no movement he was still trying to understand. He knew not what to say.
‘If I ask you what’s the best thing about being young is, would you tell me?’ went on the man with his first question.
‘Well, it’s simple when you’re young you have more time, more energy and less expectations from people. More time to read books, walk paths filled with dust and study a 50 Deutsche marks

note.’ shrugged the boy.

‘You tell me what’s the best part about being old?’

The man did not blink, he simply gazed into the boys eyes for a second and then said ‘I see my youth in your eyes, young man. You have the same curiosity and vessel for knowledge that never fades nor fills. The best thing about being old is you’re fuller, life is fuller in ways you cannot perceive.
It’s just you have to keep deciding what you want to fill it with!’ laughed man. There was an enchanting sparkle in the man’s eyes, a truth in his voice, experience in words and in aura of compassion and bliss.

‘what did you do sir for a living?’ asked the boy fixing his eyes on the man’s face.

‘I was in the army, intelligence official, that decoding-encoding work, very secret.’
‘We were told, we’d be shot if a word goes out.’ answered the man with superficial seriousness.
‘Luckily no one got shot.’ he huffed with smile and dismissal.

The boy found nothing funny about this to adorn a genuine smile. He took a moment to review and framed his next question with care. He had never asked any body such a question to anyone before.
‘What is it that you fear the most at this stage in your life?’ he muttered.
‘Humph, the the more you live off it, more it feeds of you. I’ve tried to do all that which scares me, even if I’ve failed at it. Once you’ve done it then it’s a breathing space. It frees you. I don’t think I am afraid of anything now. I have lived a lifetime, I would certainly not like to create new fears before the Grand Ending!’ set the old man truthfully assessing himself.

‘Grand Ending? you are not afraid of death even, if thats what you talking about?’ asked a bit bewildered boy.
That was something new, people he had known were the ones who cry their hearts out with bouquets in hands in front of a coffin and this man called it Grand, Ending though. What is Grand about it that he perceives.

‘No, I don’t think I fear death. That would be disgraceful, there comes a point when you stop stretching the length of your life. I would embrace it when it comes, the end of the journey should be grander than the journey itself otherwise the whole thing becomes meaningless, otherwise…’ the man paused for a fraction, closed his eyes and felt his breath leave his body and slowly refocused, ‘otherwise you disgrace it.’ finished the man.

It felt as if the words had more than meaning for the old man for he did not smile this time.
The boy thought about his fears for a moment and how he will express them if asked about.
‘I know your fears boy, your fears are common to every ambitious youth and an intelligent mind. You are not alone. You’re me, a little less, but me. You’ve nothing to be afraid of.’

‘Do you believe in destiny?’ questioned the boy.
It was an important question for him.
‘Yes and no, what comes to you, what confronts you is not in your hand but how you deal with it, how you counteract and perceive in that situation is your choice. It’s all in the possibilities. There are 43 quintillion ways to solve Rubix Cube but it’s your choice always, innit? answered the man.
‘That felt good, good to know there are things in your hand as long as you believe in tweaks and twists and turns trips.’ said the boy with eyes pouring with thoughts.

‘Have you made mistakes?’


‘And do you regret them?’

‘No, they are a part of me.’

‘Do you like them? I don’t.’

‘Me neither.’ both laughed.

The talk was like bonding between two people who know each other but have met after a long long time, ages.
‘There’s more to you than what meets the eye. What may I call you young man?’
‘Eifrig, surname would be a formality but Müller.’ quipped the boy quickly with a smirk.
The old man laughed. His laugh was adorable and warm.

‘Curious, very curious. We are very different segregated by age, yet so much alike. You’ll find me when you have my age. I too have an eager name but that’s not important. You have the ability to go beyond identities young Mr. Müller, I might self assure myself that you will one day transcend everything. Time is a mysterious thing, we have so much to talk about but that would be another day’s journey or a lifetime’s.’

Before the boy could reply or make sense of it the bus arrived in front of them they had talked for nearly an hour. He got up almost instantly thinking how late he would be to reach home.
before stepping in he turned to thank the old man, but there was no one he looked all around for him.

He was gone.

The boy embarked on his journey prescribed. He uttered not a word to no one, all his thought was bent on the words of the old man.

He returned home and headed straight to his room, opened the last drawer in the table and pulled out a diary and started writing,

“Good evening diary, guess what happened today I realised inadvertently, I am truly moving towards a Grander ending. I met someone I know, a little less though. A satisfied, fulfilled but more eager and curious eifrig.”

-Sharanya Ikshan Evyavan

Fringes of Reality

“I’m new in here Sir, moved very recently, could you guide me little about this place. It’s very uninhabited and , though there is space enough but all of it is occupied by the darkness. how did you come here?”

A question was asked by this new entry, he had a brightness to him & stiffness, an air of eliteness, well polished personality, straight smooth back and stern behaviour. But he also had good manners of politeness.

“Can’t say for sure if I like it this way, for I haven’t had a life long enough or a vision huge enough to know any better, but I do have a story, long, old, quite of it is smudged & faded to be honest, but it is a part of my existence and who I am.
I haven’t had many comrades or contemporaries with me for a long time now, not that I’m aware of.
They certainly are there somewhere out in the world but I haven’t chanced upon them though, pardon my solitary existence. It isn’t something that I have much control over.”
Said the old groggy voice in a light-hearted manner.
To whom the question was asked, who was already present in the dark room, he looked old and worn out by age, he had scars but they weren’t relpusive to look at, rather they gave a glimpse of knowledge of ages that was in him. Unlike the youth he seemed cold by visage but warm by nature. He was seemingly joyous with this new companion, his words came out with such ease as if he wanted to share a lot with him.
He was sitting in a corner, his back bent.

“I’ve had a brush with age and I’m afraid it doesn’t leave fond marks on anyone. Yet I can recall my youth, it’s a time you get tossed a lot, the frivolity of it…”
He confessed, His voice getting deeper.

“The desperation of showing off worth, value and what you can get, the frequent longing for change. Beautiful times aren’t they?” He scoffed.
“But also when you get used a lot, even against your will & for things you don’t approve of. It’s the unvarnished grim truth of youth, there’s always pain in beauty, for without it there’ll be no truth in it.”

He looked affectionately at the youth standing Infront of him. Who was listening intently.

“It’s interesting, the story how I came here, but what’s even more interesting is that I never envisaged it. Ain’t that what we do mate?” He scoffed again.

“Lost in our worlds, in our fantasies, too inebriated by dreams, until one day the world we live in really loses us. And we go into that space where neither dreams are born nor reality settles, only rust.”
He broke off as he gave his words a clear thought.

“Perhaps our very realities are fringes of someone’s fantasy and when it no longer amuses them, we’re lost, in time irretrievable, untraceable or become unworthy of being traced.”

The youth’s face was not visible because of dark but his presence was heavily tinged with worry, which was easily suspected by the speaker, though he kept it to himself.

Am I being too sadistic ? oh I’m so sorry, it’s the pain you know it has a habit of re-surfacing…
Thorns in the bush.

Is it a rose bush? The youth questions laughingly.

“N-no not necessarily, it’s the leaves that matter more you see, they shouldn’t dry up and lose shade. The roses, th-they Come and go.”
The speaker answered quickly with agitation.

“Now where was I in my story.” He inquired with impatience.

“When dreams break & reality sets in.” Appeased the youth.

“Yes, it does.”

“From the comfort of suits and warmth of hands to the biting cold blizzards, lying naked under the gray sky.
Nothing without a roof remains warm son, it’s when you become cold from within.”
He made sure that he was firm when he spoke these words, so they seem more relevant as advice.

“Is it painful?” The youth interrupted curiously.

“Certainly chilling, but some life still stirs in the grey, brown & dead.
“But the rain, it murders” Speaker chuckled this time, before preserving the tension in the room.

“That which gives life shall erase it slowly, etch by etch, drop by drop.”

“What about transition, from youth to age, from warmth to cold?”

“The thing about transitions is that you remain unaware of it’s entirety and purpose until it’s over, and it leaves scars. You cannot see journey as whole until you’ve reached your destination, can you boy?”
Answered the speaker, pacifying the curiosity of the youth, he seemed wise, but also tortured.

“I’ve lived half a century or a little over that in comfort and delusions of my pseudo significance, which I must admit is an elaborate time for someone like me to spend in that demeanor.
But the frame of mind changes, you start losing friends you made over the course of your lifespan, over trade & in necessity.
It is difficult.”
The speaker trailed off from speech as he witnessed a lump forming in his throat.

“But I’ve lived longer than that in solitude, lying in complete obscurity, where your own existence doesn’t bother you anymore. On the streets it hurts the most, near the garbage bins, homeless and unnoticed. The dark under water is both calm and restless, it never soothes, until by chance someday, a glint of moonlight crosses the depths to throw a glint off you.”

He continued, trying to shrug off his own emotions as they were disrupting his words. The youth listened wrapped in attention.

“Then there’s a place where all broken things reside together, but no communications muster. Where everything is sonorous but the only sound audible is of peltering rain. Which slowly takes one into a deep deep sleep. A scrap yard.”

The boy’s face aggrieved, as his nose twitched. He didn’t like the description, not even the sound of it.

“The overwhelming identity of the place is such that one forgets all sense of identity & worth, where pain or past have no hold on you, they don’t bother anymore, where you can finally be whoever you want to be and be at peace. It’s revelationary in its ways.”
He pondered it, over a deep breath.

“Places such as these are timeless, they take you to a place where nothing matters anymore, not in an indifferent way but in a pleasant way. Where you can watch the whole world around you change, the comings & goings of entities. But you remain untouched at peace, in silence and wonder.”

“How can a place stop you from feeling?”
The questioner asked again.

“Nay, it doesn’t stop feelings, it changes how they make us feel.”
The speaker smiled and answered.

He took a moment to pause and thought to calm the elevated worries of the youth.

“There’s a beauty in broken things, never to be mended, and there’s also pain, it’s like you stop being that, what you were made for, by others.
Scratches, dents, corrosions, missing parts are most expensive, they come from first hand experiences.”
He whispered seriously, there was passion in his voice.

“Until someday your fate’s plan for you changes and you get picked up by a stranger’s hand moved by intrigue or sheer liking. Thats when you get moved and waken from slumber only to end up some in other corner of the world.
That’s how I came here, in this tin box.”
The speaker smiled a big smile.

“It’s not bad in here, there’s no sun parching our colours down, no rain to rust off your shine, no dents really, only a few scratches once in a while when the box is moved, not to be minded.” He shrugged.
“The darkness isn’t an issue, just a matter of getting used to it. It gives a feeling of belonging, this place,” the speaker said smilingly, his happiness was visible.

“Someone’s belonging who picked and locked us up, if nothing else it is still comforting that we’re wanted.”
He finished with a sigh.

“I wonder why you came here, you’re young you must still have a life outside?” Speaker asked his first question in astonishment.
“You don’t belong here, not yet!”

“They don’t need me anymore, it’s been 25 years of my usefulness, now they got better ones, new one’s,
I’m now only kept as a token of memories of past.”
Said the youth without being affected by his words, it seemed as if he was almost indifferent to his plight.”

“It’s perhaps good time I took some sleep and rest too.”

“Well then, be that as it may” laughed the older rusted copper penny in response to the young nickel’s cheerfulness.

“Two old and worn out, in a tin can, coins,
Penny, nickel, quarter & dime.
Our worth be worth more than shine,
Vintage, tarnished, faded, together we twine,
Survived merrily by our ol’ good times.”

They sang together, in the darkness of the tin box.

– Sharanya Ikshan Evyavan


Limitless what a possibility,
Limitless what corruptability.

Limitless, promises un-countable,
Limitless those accounted unavailable.

Limitless a wise man’s aim,
Limitless, oh what a bargain!

A word for a word, another for the other.
Futile meanings to the mouth, withersoever.

Commonest of the common, prefix to the very limitation, chiselling out the ego.
A word more than itself, lost worth hither ages ago.

What do they perceive I know not,
Limitless shall be my endeavours,
Be Nigh Limitless Or Not.

*Conditions Apply

Red Rose

The unrealistic gathering on the Hoodwink street of southwest Texan market everyday was by far usual and someday real.

There wasn’t much for spark or colors, only the daily needs of people drawing them together out of their houses. The old vintage America and its fragrance.

The 1900s were believed to bring a colossal change in human history, now ten years into it, there isn’t much for Mr. Jones of the 1886 Established doughnut shop. Doughnuts anyway never had many opportunities with transfiguration.

There was much lesser in existence with respect to innovation for Mr. Stonehill with a separate cobbled path halfway through the street and his dairy, and Ms. Fortesque of the ‘More Than Words’ flower shop.

‘More’, is the word. The door of her flower shop was frequented by a roadside mimer, who would sit with his brown worn off hat at his feet with little but shiny and clinking appreciation in it.
More than words indeed.

Snow flurried not so winter morning was marked by interest as Hoodwink street had a new visitor.
The locals’ rendezvous’ were overwhelmed by odd excitement as they had a new topic for over tea conversations. suddenly the doughnuts seemed a little brighter, more spongy and mouthwatering. Mr. Stonehill’s cows were strangely delighted with the stranger, their eyes never seemed more livid and shone with moistness, tongues lolling out and their tails hanging in the air were the witnesses.

Curiosity is a human emotion they say.

The stranger was unfazed, unmoved by the tumult around him or more so for him. He was a grizzled old man, there was an untouched stillness to him, no ripple in his being and a shadow of old age. His overcoat was ruffled by snowflakes. A middle-aged man with a gleam in his eyes and torn piece of paper in one hand.

He stood on the cobbled path, very dear to Mr. Stonehill, glaring at the wooden-glass shop of flowers.

Mr. Stonehill was having a hard time whipping cream and his emotions. He was beating an urge to churn out the story of life out of this man standing in front of him.

It seemed as though the burden of curiosity of the entire street fell on his spine and his back ached.
‘Where’ve ya come from? N’ver seen ya before.’ shouted Mr. Stonehill with a hand on his back as he felt the whole street go into silence and alertness.

‘I’ve come from the sea, don’t belong here. ‘ ‘M looking for someone…’ There was a pause, a pause of epiphany before he said it ‘A lady named Ms. Fortesque.’

The mimer sitting in front of the flower shop, the only speck of unnoticed usual stillness, turned his head for the first time to take a look of this man.

Mr. Stonehill had a funny expression on his face and his head tilted sideways like a dog before he exploded in raucous bark-like laughter. ‘What a nutter !’ he said gasping for breath ‘nutter indeed.’ he thought he whispered to himself but almost everyone on the street had a chance to ponder on the statement.

It took him a moment to calm himself down and throw a few words at the stranger, ‘Ya are ten steps away from her fella, the flower shop there, it’s Ms. Fortesque’s. ‘

The man moved with such agility in his legs it seemed as though it didn’t belong to him and as if before long it will be taken away from him.

He knocked the glass pane of the wooden door, there was a moving rhythm in his body as he waited. A young girl in mid-twenties came out, she was pretty with short plaited brown hair, a pleasant presence, sweet smile and a fragrance to her gown. There was a resemblance to her.

‘ ‘M looking for Ms. Fortesque.’ said the man almost showing his teeth. ‘ I’m Ms. Fortesque, how can I help you, sir?’

This wasn’t what he had expected ‘Not you, perhaps your mother…’ he stammered saying this but he did ‘Mrs. Fortesque.’

There was an instant drop in the shade on the girl’s face ‘She’s no more, she died five years ago.’

The man had nothing more to listen he was frozen, in time, in feeling, in memory. The girl waited for a response, a mere ‘sorry’ but nothing came out of this man, he just stood there gazing into space. The girl plucked a red rose from a bunch and stowed it in the man’s hand. He felt nothing. she left. He was still there.

The torn piece of paper flew from his hand and fell into the brown hat of the mimer. With appreciation in his pocket, the mimer tossed his hat onto his head and gleamed at the piece of paper as he walked away, the paper read :

‘More Than Words…’



How Long? How Much, More…

Undeserved usurped, non-deserving victorious,
Ashamed though should not be,
With grace and smile, all merits put to foil.

Boded brace totters, denied,
Unsettled, unusual skips the heart,
Meaner Rabble Wonder Twined.

– Sharanya

Resonance Beyond Lies

You’re not really a musician, until it personifies itself in you until your presence resonates with it, you become a vibration of your composition as wild as wilderness itself. Reverberations more powerful than the hummer. The echoes, each as unique as the other, pulsating at the very origin. And not a single ripple escapes the wave.

The music chooses the rhythm, and you are a chord in between, a stipe of feeling, a vibration, trivial yet so much like the transition of a quarter note between the half & the whole.

The impulse of a nondoer from doer is the basic note. It’s not always the Sound that creates the music. It won’t matter if you touch a black & White key or a letter key, Music Happens. Won’t matter if the string is stroked or a paper with the imagination of a nib, Music Happens. Won’t matter if its a pure note or the silence between two, Music Happens.

Music Blossoms in rare souls, Deaf souls, with the only receptivity for their own, Resonating limitlessly, for no one, except one.
It can’t be perceived, beyond comprehensions & the desire of the same.

Because It’s not really the pianist or the one articulating, not the plectrum or a hand with a pen. Not the words, nor the page or the story but everything in between, not the dancer not his dance just the flow. The flow of Existence, not by you, Through you… Music happens.

Until then you are not a Musician. You’re a liar. And everything in between is a Lie.


Silence of Words

Words are the best sniffers how they smell every known unknown feeling around and with an amorphous drop of tear falling on a paper they spill everything that suits their symmetry.

Their curved crispy sharp ends are not enough to define the moment that created it. They stand there embedded in ego of their usefulness.
The moist paper edge at the corner above gleams and wonder what if someday these stratigicly designed symmetry losses its meaning.

Only the etched and shriveled surface of the paper will be the narrator and feelings would be felt in Silence…of words.


Experience Rather Discover

Discovery of unknown aspects and the experiencing of the same, happens simultaneously.

Does feel that the feeling of experience transitions to cognition of its presence. Such inadvertent realisation of an existent aspect, that too incomplete.

Repeated contemplation of the moment may bring bits of realisation back to feeling. But it will never have the same influence as the gone by momment, it’s bare recallation of the experience and not the same…


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