I was flipping through one of my friends’ poems, and got absorbed in one.
"There are questions I cannot answer
And answers I cannot face
And whenever I corner ME
The heart pumps at a faster pace
There are feelings I cannot emote
And emotions I do not understand
The time plays tricks on me
And slips by the hourglass sand
There are things I cannot do
Because they do not seem right
But who is to judge the wrong
You or I, question one might
For people who judge me let them do
What matters is not their view
But what lies deep within me
Though I fear it, I will know it is true"
One would scorn at me for this,
But I find some solace in this.
I’m not known to be a sadist
But I find some solace in this.
It just reassures that man is alike, with unanswered questions, overwhelming emotions, failing identities, and the right of wrongs and rights.
I find solace, because it suddenly shakes my egocentric sense and I realize I’m one of the all surviving men; yes the boat is the same in which we sail. So may as well we find some solace in sailing together.
Your turmoil is yours, my whirlpool mine. I would say I could weather yours and you would feel you could pass through mine; but His will is as per His strength in us to grind.
I’ll tell you how it happened, the bag of storm and sunshine.
It was dark, it wasn’t night though. You couldn’t have made out whether it was dawn or dusk; or even if it were a heavily cast day sky. I got off the carriage. Don’t quite remember whether it was pulled by a bull or a horse. I think I even saw some mules. A big bus halted close by. It was noisy – it appeared noisy, in the sense that one would expect it to be noisy where hundreds were assembling, coming in by various modes of transport. But for most part of it I heard no market clamour. It was more of numb with little whispering and rustling. I hauled up my baggage from the cart. It was quite a task, and I dropped it on the grassless ground to breathe in before heaving it on my shoulders. I looked around and saw the slope. Thousands kept pouring in. Buses, carts, cars, rickshaws, and yes on foot. One hardly spoke to anyone else but as if programmed lumbered onto the slope. It was a hill if I recollect. Or a mountain, I really didn’t pay minute attention to it. But it was brown, grassless as the starting point where all disembarked their Lorries. The trudge was more because of the backpacks. We had little idea what it contained; it was just thrust upon us to carry. Some murmured about some storm and some rain in the bag. I found it odd initially but it wasn’t late before most of us realized the bag’s contents. I breathed out a puff as I plonked it on my back. “Heavy storm child, heavy storm,” Consoled a passer-by. I hesitated and mumbled a yes. A few men guided the mass of people towards ascend. They told us about the gravity of the bags, adding that it had small oyster and by the time we had climbed up we should have had the pearl.
“Actually you won’t reach atop unless you get the pearl,” calmed me an old granny. Guess she sensed my anxieties.
“I still have the oyster, it’s been 73 years.”
“But where are we plodding?”
I was whispering; it was a sight straight out of a Zombie flick. Men, women, children all flocked on the gradual rise. Mostly heads slung down.
“He’s a grand old man sitting there. We have to deposit our pearls with him. But they say he’s a loving greybeard.”
She confused me. How could he be doting if he makes me toil so much and then take away my pearl if I ever find it? Moreover what about these monstrous bags?
It’s been a while now. I know all men carry their storm and their calm, their rain and little sunshine and carry it all. As I walked laden with mine in a crowded path with each man encumbered, I smiled at one, and said a hello to another. I once cried about my weights to one, and then once light-heartedly poked another of his baggage; a few around me exhaled a little giggle. Behold! My bag turned lighter for a moment. Oh! I just gained sunshine. We continued trudging. I heard the old granny whom I met, found her pearl. They said she’d crossed beyond. People simply guess what the pearls look like.
Here one patted me and said, "hey, aren't we all walking up there and beyond with this burden of seasons?" And suddenly I see myself walking up there and beyond with my backpack with a few men of my like. The one beside me conked my head, babbled something. We coined a word of his gibber – friend. So the next night as I walked, I cried of my storm again to this chap beside me, yes friend. He heard me and gibbered again that I couldn’t make out; I felt nice though. We started talking, crying of our rains, at times giggled and added little sunshine to our bags and are still walking up there and beyond. These gibberish people can be fun at times. As for the pearls, we’ll find them someday and see the loving graybeard. Oh! it's heavy. Yes yes, am walking. It's dark. Yes the same that you can't decide - dawn or dusk. It's silent. It's so numb.
“Isn’t it better to keep laughing while trekking up there and beyond?”
“Oh you keep crying of your bag. Here, take some sunshine.” The gibber slapped my head, tickled me and we broke into peels of laughter again.
Yet pardon me, friend
I find some solace in this
Am not a sadist nor I offend
But found we all have our bags
And gibber of this.
Our boats are same
And sense the same weather
So some solace for the tough sail
At least we all sail together.
