Someone is trapped in my body.
Or I am trapped in a body.
This Someone, trapped in, keeps growing new wings every secret flash. And when I am not watching, it keeps breaking and sprouting out of the skin and cells to breathe lungfuls of trees and flowers and leaves and rivers and mist and forests and waves and temple bells and eyes and faces and prayers and more and more and all of more and more of all and keeps filling the lungs. And then, some mad moment, it stops even rationing it all and just harvests all of that by the armfuls, and keeps bringing it home and of course, it all spills over and begins to tiptoe in, finding nooks and crannies and clefts in my cells and pores and skin and vessels and nerves and bones and all of me.
And soon, I become the Wings.
Sometimes, when it’s not wings, Someone grows new antennae. The kinds that bees have. Or butterflies have. So glassy, so glassy that even I can’t see them. So I easily refuse that they are there. But oh, these antennae have a strange network. So crystal, that the human in me wants to call it hogwash. Maya? But then, the stories never end. My eyes look at a face and my antennae transmit me the saline lumped behind them. They look at a stranger and they telecast my story with him from a past life. I dream of a child and my ‘satellite dish’ tells me he is going to grow into my Master. I look at any face and I know, ‘I know him, her, them….. I look at all and they all look like me. I look at them and they all are me. I know they are me and my antennae are broadcasting it from the Unknown Somewhere.
The Unknown Somewhere is not so unknown too.
It looks white. Cottony white. Suds of milky, melting cloudy cotton walking on No-Ground. But the ground beneath my feet is yet so solid. So grassy. So mountains, so much a carpet of flowers. So sea, air, sky, and even fire at some times. Nothing hurts. Nothing thrills. All fits. Just fits. Into Love.
This Someone, knows only love.
With all arms, fingers, nails stretching, stretching towards love… For this tiny white flower that grows a smile on its face as it bends from the side of a mountain faraway along the aridness of Chamba.
Or that unwrapping peepul tree that stands in the middle of an unnamed road in the heart of Dehradun.
Or that lost little girl staring through my car window.
Or that little monk in a Rahul Bose movie.
This and that,
and that and this
and many more things…
This Someone, knows only love. And no anger. And no hatred, and no jealousy. It knows no money and no silken clothes and no diamonds.
And Someone knows no big houses. Someone knows Home. And home is Love. And love is home. And when love is home, all the world is one.
This Someone knows only One.
And I have a feeling, that despite this body refusing to let Someone in, Someone lives here. And I have a feeling, the body is not me. And I am not body.
PAINTING COURTESY: Winged Aureole - David Hicks; www.fineartamerica.com
Or I am trapped in a body.
This Someone, trapped in, keeps growing new wings every secret flash. And when I am not watching, it keeps breaking and sprouting out of the skin and cells to breathe lungfuls of trees and flowers and leaves and rivers and mist and forests and waves and temple bells and eyes and faces and prayers and more and more and all of more and more of all and keeps filling the lungs. And then, some mad moment, it stops even rationing it all and just harvests all of that by the armfuls, and keeps bringing it home and of course, it all spills over and begins to tiptoe in, finding nooks and crannies and clefts in my cells and pores and skin and vessels and nerves and bones and all of me.
And soon, I become the Wings.
Sometimes, when it’s not wings, Someone grows new antennae. The kinds that bees have. Or butterflies have. So glassy, so glassy that even I can’t see them. So I easily refuse that they are there. But oh, these antennae have a strange network. So crystal, that the human in me wants to call it hogwash. Maya? But then, the stories never end. My eyes look at a face and my antennae transmit me the saline lumped behind them. They look at a stranger and they telecast my story with him from a past life. I dream of a child and my ‘satellite dish’ tells me he is going to grow into my Master. I look at any face and I know, ‘I know him, her, them….. I look at all and they all look like me. I look at them and they all are me. I know they are me and my antennae are broadcasting it from the Unknown Somewhere.
The Unknown Somewhere is not so unknown too.
It looks white. Cottony white. Suds of milky, melting cloudy cotton walking on No-Ground. But the ground beneath my feet is yet so solid. So grassy. So mountains, so much a carpet of flowers. So sea, air, sky, and even fire at some times. Nothing hurts. Nothing thrills. All fits. Just fits. Into Love.
This Someone, knows only love.
With all arms, fingers, nails stretching, stretching towards love… For this tiny white flower that grows a smile on its face as it bends from the side of a mountain faraway along the aridness of Chamba.
Or that unwrapping peepul tree that stands in the middle of an unnamed road in the heart of Dehradun.
Or that lost little girl staring through my car window.
Or that little monk in a Rahul Bose movie.
This and that,
and that and this
and many more things…
This Someone, knows only love. And no anger. And no hatred, and no jealousy. It knows no money and no silken clothes and no diamonds.
And Someone knows no big houses. Someone knows Home. And home is Love. And love is home. And when love is home, all the world is one.
This Someone knows only One.
And I have a feeling, that despite this body refusing to let Someone in, Someone lives here. And I have a feeling, the body is not me. And I am not body.
PAINTING COURTESY: Winged Aureole - David Hicks; www.fineartamerica.com
