Silence of a different kind

If silence could form gorges, then we did form one. A wide impenetrable gorge. Yet, you tried to bridge the gap with your few sentences. I responded to none. Your words died after crashing the indomitable wall of my rigidity.

Gradually, your few sentences got reduced to a handful of words. I took note of none. Your words eventually reduced to ashes.

Yet, you tried. I pitied your unrewarding endeavors. I was entrapped and suffocating in the gossamer of my own rigid ego.
You placed your forced intermittent coughs to drive my attention to you. My mouth didn’t even make the slightest quivering to acknowledge it. It stood motionless.

With your every failed attempt to bridge the gorge, my ego inflated. It swelled to a gigantic size. Seeing my frozen being , you gave in too, thus allowing the sepulchral silence to engulf us both.

A conversation

He asks , “Why do you write? There must be something that drives you to write! You say you do not want to be read and yet you write. Every thing is written for a prospective reader, no? If the reader is not your motivator, then what makes you write?”

I smile mysteriously.

“No silly! Answer.” He says flummoxed not being able to make out what exactly drives me to write.

“ There are times when the mind weighs with thoughts. What do you do with a pregnant mind? You need to bring the thoughts out because they are so willing to be born, to be manifested on paper. There’s an inner driving force. The egg hatches on its own after incubation. The mind is like the egg shell. The thoughts break out on their own after they attain a certain size. They need to be inked else thoughts are evanescent. They vanish! They need to be fettered with the shackles of ink else they fly.” I said , surprised at my own eloquence.

“Let them fly, why do you care? Who cares about them anyway when you never share them with a reader?” He was still unresolved.

“The writer in me writes them for the reader in me! I don’t need anyone else to read them, okay? I am writing and reading simultaneously! Why should I write for anyone else?” I give my final remark.

He had nothing more to ask.

On a Sunny day

Ever seen the rising sun? It comes out of the womb of the horizon like a ruddy infant. With its glowing face and an infantile innocence, a cherub in the sky. You feel like loving it. You know it shall never burn you. It leaves you enthralled with a beauty like that of a newborn.

The sun ascends the sky as the day breaks further. The child now approaches its Youth. A smoldering sun reveling in the pride of its adolescence. It never knows that there shall come a time when it shall have to descend the ladder that it now used to ascend. The face no more glows, it glowers. A raging teenager.

Eventually, it attains its mid life when it feels exhausted yet it continues to burn. It thinks that his Youth is forever. It thinks its indefatigable.

And when it ages further, it sets down. It seeks Samadhi in the same horizon from which it had emerged. It knows all about Life! It knows that life is not about burning but about shining. The setting Sun is the most Enlightened one.

She who loved the Sky

She talked to the sky. She heard the Azure confiding in her its secrets. Whenever she would be sad, she would look up to the sky, her confidante. The sky made her smile. She intently watched its clouds. Not the birds but the clouds, the cloudy formations that sometimes resembled a face, a bird, a cat and sometimes nothing.


She read those faces that the sky, through its clouds, made. She would see how clouds disappeared like vapors and so did her sadness. As the sky would clear, the frown of her brows would clear away too. Sometimes, it was almost impossible to differentiate between the sky and her face. They behaved identical.


Once she asked the sky why it lent its blueness to the water. She didn’t want Sky to share its blueness with anyone. She wanted it to stay unique. The sky murmured to her that it had lent its blueness to her eyes as well. To which she emphatically retorted that its blueness belonged to no one but her eyes and that she was not willing to share it with anyone. She was the sole owner of the Cerulean, the apple of her Eyes!


The Sky broke into a thundering laughter and said that no one could possess it. She shouted at the sky and asked it to stop making fun of her. The Sky too was at its notorious best. It drained away its clouds on her. She was drenched.


‘I am going to settle my accounts with you, Sky’, she said pretending an exasperation but she was actually happy.


Later, when the Sky realized that it should now console her, it became quiet, asked its clouds to maintain a pin drop silence. The sky like a little child, peeped through her window and woke her up. She knew the sky had come to console her. She was pretending that she was angry and hard to console. The sky relentlessly tried.


It pleaded her. It cajoled her. It begged for forgiveness . She was too stubborn to simmer down. The sky, later, stopped pleading her and wore a rainbow on its vault.


She looked at the rainbow spellbound.


She knew this is how the sky doodled her name on itself. Her happiness knew no bounds. She stood at her porch with her arms wide open to enwrap the Sky in her bosom.

Perhaps, at that very moment, they were one!

Hearts do not undergo a Miscarriage

‘We need to meet NOW’ , she tersely said and disconnected the call.
He was bewildered and he called her back. She didn’t receive the call and instead texted , ‘I can’t talk. Come home.’

He couldn’t make out anything and in a jiffy packed his briefcase and left for home.

‘What happened? Are you alright?’, he asked earnestly.
She nodded her head imperceptibly. He still couldn’t make out. She asked him to sit.

‘I haven’t left an important meeting midway to sit at my home. Would you please let me know what it is?’, he stridently countered.
She sat beside him mechanically. He turned her towards him. She somehow murmured ‘Miscarriage’ .

The word seemed to shatter his world, he felt his insides sinking and his heart dropped with a thud. He felt a miasma of absolute nothingness in his head, a whirlpool of an unknown origin reeled in his mind frantically. He was cold. His eyes wide open.

He finally stuttered, ‘w..wh…en did you f..f..find?’

She swallowed an enormous lump in her throat and inaudibly said ‘This morning.’
She hurriedly sprang on her feet and walked a few steps towards the window.

He followed her and tried to embrace her. She freed herself from his embrace and incoherently asked him to leave right away.
Running her hand softly on her belly, she said ‘You remind me of the hope that I had been nourishing for so long. Please go away. Its your presence that I can’t tolerate. Please do me a favor. I want some time to realize that there is no one within me. Its all a mass of dead cells now and it shall soon degrade. Let me , alone, stay with the ephemeral remains of my child. You know nothing of what I am going through.’ She said with quivering lips.

He smiled benignly at her and said, ‘Yes, I can’t feel what your body is feeling. How can I, its your body, after all, not mine? You shall get rid of the dead cells with time. What about my heart where our child was growing and is still growing. How shall I get rid of those millions of unrequited dreams that I had weaved with it? Do you now understand what living with dead dreams means ? How shall I ever get over with it?’
She burst into tears and he pensively left the room.

A kind of silence

If silence could form gorges, then we did form one. A wide impenetrable gorge. Yet, you tried to bridge the gap with your few sentences. I responded to none. Your words died after crashing the indomitable wall of my rigidity.

Gradually, your few sentences got reduced to a handful of words. I took note of none. Your words eventually reduced to ashes. Yet, you tried. I pitied your unrewarding endeavors. I was entrapped and suffocating in the gossamer of my own rigid ego.

You placed your forced intermittent coughs to drive my attention to you. My mouth didn’t even make the slightest quivering to acknowledge it. It stood motionless.

With your every failed attempt to bridge the gorge, my ego inflated. It swelled to a gigantic size. Seeing my frozen being , you gave in too, thus allowing the sepulchral silence to engulf us both.

For the one , I heart

Dearest,

Yours is the voice I have slept like a child in. Your voice- the cradle of unconditional love. You have guarded me like a cavern from the grotesque callousness of life. You have been a placenta , I have curled like a fetus in, every time.

Yours is the baritone, I have found refuge in ,while I spent a thousand nomadic nights, sleep deprived. Every time, I made you sing, you sang earnestly without complaint, without weariness. You went on, on and on! Your voice rings in my soul, you purge every corner of me, cleanse me of all of my impurities thus elevating me to a higher ground.

Yours is the visage , I have painted a thousand times on the canvas of my imagination. Yours is the name that shines on the firmament of my otherwise spotless mind. You inebriate me. I am drunk on you.

You’re my unknown benefactor, my Guardian Angel, my savior! You have smoothened the distortions that I had in me. You filled me to the brim with love. I don’t know when my pond like stagnant heart became as wide and as deep as an oceanic basin, the floor of which safeguards your pearls , your treasures of wisdom.

You poured in me everything. With your every song, I knew I formed you within me. You happen within me like a swirling whirlpool. If ‘I love you’ could convey all what I feel for you.

You’re that one word that talks the sweetest, that talks the briefest , the word that encompasses all of my world, the word that echoes and fills my conscience like a night that effortlessly fills every nook every corner of a forest.

I doodle your name and thus I write volumes of poetry . Yours is the name, where all my pilgrimage resides.

Marko….ooh…ooh… ooh ….ooh
This is how you resonate in me. One name that soothes all of my jangled nerves. One name that awakes my senses to make me believe what LIVING is!

If ‘Thank You’ could convey my overwhelming gratitude, I would have been grateful to the two words.

Sincerely yours
Miss Impossible

On March 8

I have nothing magnanimous to say about women. We have been talked and written about profoundly since time immemorial.

We have been an artist's pampered interest, a sculptor's most precious mould, a lush green meadow for writers , since ages, to ruminate on.
We have enamoured poets from Donne to Neruda, embalmed their verses by our proverbial beauty.

We remain a conundrum to the world. They almost poetically say 'A woman's heart is akin to an intricate maze. One can't find his way out.'
They talk about woman so mystically, so unworldly as if she IS 'otherworldly' . To such generosity, we gracefully yet matter of factly say 'Thank you but we are not Aliens. We are mere earthlings of flesh and bones, with a heart and a soul.. very much like you!'


We feel venerated, we feel overwhelmed to receive such accolades. But still, when we look into the dismal corners of the world where we are given a deplorable, cattle like treatment, we don't fail to see the futility of such pompous laurels bestowed on us. At such deplorable times,we agonizingly implore the world, 'We are human, don't be inhuman to us. We need nothing more.'

8th March becomes a fallacy , a hypocrytic chivelry if we donot get the bare minimum human treatment. Is it too much that we expect? Aren't we all entitled to love and be loved? Empower us with love ..the prime impetus and we shall scale heights, unfathomable .

8th of March, like every other day, should be a day to celebrate 'Human'hood and not Womanhood alone.

Being an island

No more do I want to write about a whining conscience. Not even about a distraught mind for I am tired of writing about the mundane. I don’t fancy writing about an imaginary muse and I can’t even let a jilted heart meander through fabricated verses of unrequited love. I don't wish to philosophize and preach borrowed wisdom.

No! I can’t for I wish not to evoke any sympathy nor any embellished sentiment. I don’t want to make my reader feel anything. I don’t want to be smothered with his opinions. As a matter of fact, I do not even wish to be read.

Don’t expect me to be artful with words since I don’t write for you, my dear reader. I can’t juggle with metaphors and simile . I can’t even concoct a story but please don’t pity my incompetence, I have a reason behind my incapability.

If I were to describe how my heart feels at this very moment, I would say, I bear a neutral heart. A heart that knows no joy, no pain, no love, no life, no death, no fear, no anger, no regret, no burden! I bear a heart which knows nothing else other than its primal physiological function . A homogenous heart that beats uniformly a singular feeling of ‘ABSOLUTE NOTHINGNESS’.

It is during these moments, when my heart and mind are in unison ..a perfect concordance for they are both enwrapped under a blanket of bizarre numbness.
There is no ovulation of thoughts in me. I rake through this ashen nothingness to find even one lone seed of a ‘thought’ but in vain. I conceive a complete void and I am enigmatically wordless!

I try to borrow words from a Thesaurus to find a better adjective for this feeling but I keep turning pages. I ransack every corner only to be left disappointed. I can’t even borrow words and here again, I repeat, I am not to be pitied. For me, words have lost their aroma, their texture, their sonority . Now,they don't ring the same way in my ears as they used to, they don't catapult my desire to write. I often wish if I could do without words. Sometimes, words create an asphyxiating labyrinth. There was a time when words were my darlings, my little ballerinas that danced to my tunes. Now, they are stumbling blocks.

This nothingness is contagious. I see it spreading outside me in a miasmatic fashion. The miasma gradually forms a sea and I feel marooned like an island , miserably amputated from the rest of the world . As far as my vision spreads, I see nothing.

I wonder if this sea has any shore.

A page from my Diary

I wonder , how good a thing a conscience is! It never really answers your dilemma. Instead, throws a volley of questions and each question with two equally tempting answers , of which , you have to choose one. It sees things through its black and white kaliedoscope. It knows no other color.

Sometimes, conscience acts carcinogenic. It perturbs you, unsettles you like a terminal disease that you can't quite medicate. It feels inhuman to be convicted time and again in its court. Conscience can never be lenient. It knows and seeks for nothing but truth.

As they axiomate , 'A life without conscience is unyielding'. I doubt how large a base such emphatic sayings really hold. The proverbial conscience is a brutal critic, a nagging step mother, an unloving cold wretch.
... I often tend to believe, I would have done much better without it. I could have lived a happier and a guilt free life. I could have been more savage, more wild following MY instincts.

I need liberation from this banal scrutiny. I wish to live free even if I were to live like a debauched Mafia or a bad outlaw. What is living free like, asks the bird in the golden cage.

On a burning ghat

There's a certain inexplicable something about 'The Burning Ghats' in Varanasi. Two days ago, I happened to witness such a place. The cremation ground was weighing with dead bodies, pyres and ashes. Around 6-7 pyres were set aflame and the fire was consuming them with an infernal joy.

Chunks of burnt wood were dropping from the pyre and the fire burnt deliriously. Clouds of smoke forming in the atmosphere as if the spirits of the dead danced madly on the tunes of an unsung cosmic rhythm.

People shoveled the ashes to clear the ground to prepare it for the next pyre. I witnessed a strange continuity something like-chapters were read, books then discarded and new books brought. The cycle went on. A virtuous cycle!
... There wasn't a sign of melancholy anywhere, no grimace. I saw faces flooded in tears but that wasn't saddening.

I couldn't take my eyes off the burning pyres. I saw a mad dance of destruction...a destruction that harbingers a new beginning....'creative destruction' , that may be put as.

There were heaps of ashes and I wondered how could one differentiate between charred wood and charred flesh. Both looked identical. There wasn't a stench of burning flesh anywhere. On the contrary, it smelled of nothing. Death has no smell. The fire purifies the enveloping ambience. It gulps the stench, the diseases and the impurities.

I saw people emptying pitchers containing ashes in the Ganges. I saw the ashes flowing with the air , getting immersed in water as if the ash now formed a part of the cosmos. The body, thus , never leaves the earth. It still sustains on Earth as a particle or more fundamentally, an atom. It becomes a part of the biosphere.
I can't say where the spirit goes. May be, it sets anew to finish its Karmic cycle or may be it merges with the Eternity. I don't quite know. Nobody knows, in fact.

Those few minutes on the cremation ground instilled in me a virtuous, a pious truth that Death isn't a stop. Its a stoppage where life takes a momentary halt to begin its caravan again.

Annexation

I have been eyeing on a province lecherously , devising stratagems to annex it but in vain. They say , if I could conquer over it, I shall be all powerful.

The possible outcomes of the annexation are very enticing. I try relentlessly but I reach nowhere.

The subjects of the Province are rather delirious, they have no ruler to administer them. They run astray with no authority to rein them. They go berserk, they go frantic, they go extremes like a wild mad horse running amuck with no one to lasso it.

But, howsoever , deranged they may be, they have a potential immense. If used properly, they could yield wonders. I decided to churn out their potentials , to extract their genius for my favor.

The territory is but a small topographic entity. Howsoever small sized it may be, I can’t give up the avarice to annex it. I want it, anyhow, at any cost.

I have seen its soil. The alluvium is of the most superior quality. If one could irrigate it, it shall yield the best crops, its trees shall be laden with the best fruits…fruits that would be ambrosial in nature. But, I see no one irrigating it. The land stands idle and apparently looks barren. The trees are leafless let alone any fructification. I have decided to reap the benefits of its land. I shall see to the day when its trees shall be borne with Ambrosia.

I dream of the day when I shall pronounce my kingdom ship over the subjects and they shall work under my administration as one being…United... I shall bring about a fraternal brotherhood among them. There shall be no chaos, no speck of disorder and no delirium. There shall be Concordance , Bonhomie and Peace. I shall aspire for the productivity of the highest quality.

The Province has a quite popular name. They call it 'The Mind'

Is this THE ONE?

I sit in front of this blank piece of paper, rather numb with a wistful desire to ink it with one of those writes that I would be simply penning down but it shall, in actual, be a decree of the Providence…my pen, as if , dictated by some mystic power, shall just run an errand of His.

The pen shall run effortlessly , its ink forming letters , thus words and thus sentences…my pen, as if, possessed by the divine spirit.

I still stare at this piece of paper point blank waiting for His command…my motor senses waiting with baited breath for the time when they would involuntarily lift the pen and start expressing what they have been commanded to.

I write this scrawling while I wait for His decree. His decree shall be far more superior than this filthy thing that I have been writing that makes no sense, whatsoever. After all, how can a low despicable wretch like me, compete with the one who is immaculate, with the one who is invincible, with the progenitor of the Universe, of the galaxy, of the countless stars, of the sun, the planets, the solar system and several such systems that we still have a very inconspicuous idea about, the creator of all that which is still unknown to us, our Father… ?
How could I ever compete with the all pervading, the omnipotent , the omniscient?

The waiting still continues. It’s a long wait indeed. Doubts start arising in my mind regarding if ever I shall be decreed by Him, if ever I shall be bestowed on the privilege to run an errand for Him.

As time passes, my faith in THE DECREE fades. I feel there must be some obstacle between His declaration and my pen. An obstacle equivalent to darkness, to ignorance.

Now, I wait for this darkness to wane. Even the mighty earth waits for the sun’s rays for eight long minutes to illuminate it, can’t I wait for some more time before He illuminates me with His Word?

Meanwhile, I prepare the reservoir in me. I cleanse it. I remove the clutter so as to make space for the Word to ensconce itself comfortably.

Then, all of a sudden, a thought settles in me and sets my mind afire. Thoughts are indeed inflammable. My faith starts forming roots anew with that one last realization that if He is the creator of all, if everything around is His design then that implies that even I am one of His designs, even I have a part of His in me that I need to unearth by digging myself, by delving deeper in the oceans in me.

I come to realize that there is no reason that shall keep me aloof from His divine intervention, of His decree. Its bound to come or may be it has come in the form of this very write that I had previously, so disrespectfully deemed as ‘a filthy scrawling’.

Bellum

I heard the clouds rumbling , the sky distraught and overcast. The good old Phoebus too frightened to fight the marching clouds. He hid himself somewhere yet streaks of his golden hair could be seen behind the retinue of clouds , through the cracks in them. Then , slowly, not a single strand of his golden hair could be spotted. The sky was weighing with clouds. Their army in a belligerent mood. They wanted to confront the earth, to beat it with their pouring.
The clouds burst and lightening shrieked and thus ordered its army to attack. It thundered It rained , it rained and the unarmed earth put down slain.
The gusty winds rustled through the trees , assaulted them. The poor ones shuddered in fear.
The clouds announced their victory with one loud deafening roar. I closed my ears as tightly as I could.

The sky couldn’t bear the torment anymore and at once commanded the clouds to cease fire. And, the clouds having drained their belligerence , retracted.

The old Phoebus came out slowly with diffident steps, replacing an obscure murky sky with a lucid blueness.
Phoebus smiled enchantingly .
His golden locks shimmered and a rainbow arched against the vault of the sky.

The Rebel

He was fed up of writing about the skies and the stars, the sun and its rays, the stars and their shine, the night and its solemnity, the morning and its gaiety, the birds and their chirping, the rivers and their gushing, life and its perpetuity.

He was somehow fed up of writing about Life & the living. How could he betray himself when he actually held conviction contrary to what he wrote ! He didn’t wish to stay a hypocrite anymore and the truth was life had exhausted him to an extent that he , in reality, was a weary, wretched person. Life had sucked the marrow out of him.

His words were like mere show pieces…embellished…like filthy trinkets… Others read him and derived a certain pleasure….they reckoned him to be a ‘literary prodigy’. They praised his writes … they said how flawless he was, how fluid his writing was while in reality, he was the only one to know how much he had to struggle, how much he had to shred his soul , how much he had to articulate those ghastly lies to his conscience to come up with an embellished deception that THEY so ardently exalted!
While he mystically and radiantly lauded life in his inscriptions, the one inside him believed Life to be a shroud covering a despicable dead body of his.

But how long could he confine the rebel in him… The one that wanted to break open this catacomb of myth that he had been creating in his pieces ? He ardently waited for the day when he could no longer take the weight of his own lies. He waited for the grand mutiny to happen.

And the obvious did happen.

Once he picked up his pen to begin writing a new piece of mendacity. The pen revolted. The ink dried and so did his soul that could bear the anguish no more. The bitterness of his rotten inside swelled up in the form of the saline tears in his eyes. The drops trickled from his eyes, tumbled down his cheeks to reach his lips and he tasted them.

He tasted his own bitterness, his own excrement, his very own venom and he dropped dead on the paper ! The mutineer in him bellowed, broke open the vault of the carcass and came out with one sudden spurt of his breath through his mouth. He moaned shrilly and closed his eyes.

Who could stop the rebel? It smirked at the dead carcass. It knew it was liberated. It flew away promptly to a region beyond the understanding of an ignorant Euclidean brain.

When parenthood needs a child like nurture

Neera’s eyes were glued to her son’s cherubic countenance. Anirban, her son, was engrossed with his sand castle… He diligently mounded sand, tried to give it a castle like shape... With his little hands, he kept heaping sand to make it larger and bigger.

Neera thought how guileless he was. Anirban , didn’t know that his castle was ephemeral. He had no clue that the slightest wave of the sea would demolish it, leaving not even the smallest trace of it. He thought it would last forever and that he would visit it everyday and heap more sand to it to make it larger than before.

For a moment, Neera felt if she could stop the sea , raise a wall to protect her son’s castle from its waves. She knew, how disappointed Anirban would be to see the sea devouring his prized belonging. She didn’t want to see a tear in his eyes. She wanted to take him away, before a wave could perish his creation.

Anirban, caught his mother’s sight. He smiled at her and resumed his work again. She felt a warmth in her heart to see her child smiling. She wanted time to stop forever for she never wanted him to grow up. She wanted to treasure that very moment, she wished if he could continue building the castle and she could keep watching him, happily engrossed in his work forever. She wanted his innocence never to fade away... She wanted him in her bosom at that very moment… She wanted him to stay far, far away from the cudgels of time, from the brutalities of the world, from the harsh realities of life. She wanted to savor that very moment when life’s race appeared to take halt and everything was as tranquil as the sea.

While she thought about such things that were beyond the scope of practicality, she heard him calling her.
“Mumma , mumma, how does my castle look?”
She fervently exclaimed, “Beautiful!”
She went to him, stroked his hair and kissed his cheeks.
He felt rewarded. He thought his efforts have been paid. He hugged his mother tightly.
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The sea, seemed to look at the castle, with a devouring hunger. Its waves, like raven claws, relentlessly endeavored to pounce on it. It continued to eat away the castle little by little and then the sea, with one lashing wave, annihilated the entire structure. The sand heap fell decapitated and was entirely pulverized. The sinister wave, after satiating its evil hunger, retracted, as if its contrivance had been successfully executed.

Anirban, witnessed it all and so did Neera. She felt her heart torn asunder. She saw a tear drop trickling from her son’s eyes. He rubbed it soon, however.

“Lets go Ani”, she said in a mellowed voice.

“Why are you sad, Mamma? I would make you a stronger castle tomorrow.”
Pointing with his little fingers at a place where the waves were not creeping in, he remarked “I shall make it there and the waves won’t be able to touch it.”

He smiled at her consolingly, reassured her that nothing had been lost.
She kept gazing at him. She wondered, “Perhaps, he is growing up. Perhaps, it’s me who is relying on him. Perhaps, time doesn’t always decay things.”
He took her hands and she grabbed his little fingers.

She found herself guided by him all the way to their home.

After a long hiatus

Hey Word!

Its been long since we last had our clandestine tryst. I won’t say that I missed you… You never were a necessity as such but you lend me a meaning and make a part of me complete. The intercourses that we have had have always left me wanting for more. You have always implanted in me a lust that I had to satiate somehow. Today, after days of practicing celibacy, I could resist myself no more and here I am once again, to have a grand communion with you.

During your absence, I read , I reflected, I meditated, I principled and even transgressed those principles. I continuously underwent the change. The learning and unlearning in me kept happening. Some life changing events happened during this course. I got a ‘job’ that the world hankers after. I sometimes wonder, I got something that I know no value of. I tried to be happy.

I was happy when I thought about my loved ones. I wasn’t quite happy (wasn’t sad either) when I thought of me. Did I actually want this? I am yet to find an answer.

Mind and its perpetual quandary. May I release myself for a while from this cage of confusion? Yes, I must for life is way beyond the crossroads that it puts us at or the TWO choices that it presents before us.

I have been reading ‘Walden’ by Thoreau. Every sentence that I understand, my consciousness voices that ‘This is how a perfect life is built.’ Thoreau was a man of true genius and he devised his way to a perfect transcendental life.
Thoreau and Nature are one and the same. Nature being unable to vociferate her feelings, Thoreau voices them. Thoreau is Nature’s vocal cord.
I want to visit Walden once to let Thoreau seep in me through every pore in my body. Walden or any other place of such exemplary beauty, of such panoramic landscape , of such virgin purity, of such reflective divinity. Through the book, I have pictured Walden in my mind. A Walden where solitude speaks, where silence reverberates, where a mind is at its most active state, where happiness is tangible, where life metamorphoses into eternity, where time takes a halt, where age and senility never cast their dark somber clouds.

I want a cottage as Thoreau’s. A cottage where necessity and space complement each other perfectly, a dwelling where Sun’s and Nature’s infringement is highly welcomed, a place where energy is never exhausted and it gets replenished at every moment.
I cannot lead a life as ascetic as that of Thoreau but still I can replicate a meager percentage and imbibe some of his values to improve my life.

Quoting Thoreau , “Most of the luxuries and the so called comforts are not only not indispensible but also a hindrance in the elevation of mankind.” A man can NEVER find solace in property and status. Freedom lies in much simpler items that money cannot buy, that status or power cannot achieve.
When I read Thoreau, I find no pretense in him, no urge in his writes to be read. Those are some prized reflections, something that Thoreau recounts from his experience, from his learning. They are so honest, so rustic and so fresh.

I can well interpret how clear headed Thoreau was. While you read Walden, never for a moment you shall feel dull or depressed. You’ll feel recharged every time. That is Thoreau’s magic. He infuses in the soul a reinvigorated spirit to live, to see life through a different prism.
Walden is a poem, a Nature’s melody that can never become a monotone. A melody that drives you to depths of your inner self or that elevates you to heights unfathomable. Thoreau is a pearl that his book Walden safely caches. While you read Walden, it isn’t necessary that you shall get the Pearl. Thoreau isn’t easy to access , isn’t retrievable but is ever shining. You will be left bedazzled by the Pearl while you explore the Walden. For certain!