To Be Done

As duty calls and my work is yet to be done,

I am returning to the world of cares,

A place where the race takes place

With all the sidekicks possible.

Not that I care much for what comes now

As my part is in doing my job

Taking one day at a time, one step at a time,

Like a trusting child, like a bruised old woman.

So tired am I today that I yearn to sleep

But rest runs away for now;

The broken fragments all picked up again,

I move on in the battle of life.

Come what may, the work is there

To be done.

The Final Desire

All experiences that touch the soul with true happiness are signs of eternity and have beautiful parts to play in our consciousness. Often, I have had the sinking feeling of losing a cherished person or experience. However, at the say time, a 'never-say-die' voice in me has told me to be patient and not to give up hope. When I look at my life I see that people, who, apparently, were lost to me, have come back. Relationships have been restored. I have healed. What about those that are over for good? They were not meant to be and their short stay has taught me to let go of the undeserved/ undeserving.

My life has taught me to look beyond life. When I move on from the stage of this mostly-tragic drama of life, I move on with a burning desire in me and I know in my soul that my ultimate dream too will become reality. I hope to get Him who is called by various names. I call Him Vaasudev Krishna and my dream is to hold His hands and dance as best friends. And all the others who are dear to me will also be present there for my Vaasudev sustains us all with only a fraction of His infinite energy. I, inspite of all my imperfections, have full faith in His mercy and grace.

My Devam, my very own

Devam wanted to come over to my place;
I had no place in my dilapidated hut;
But I love him and yearned to see him...
Devam is my very own and I told him the truth.
He being who he is, understood;
And, I was asked to come to heaven...
To see him.
Devam held my hand as I crossed the threshold
And his home has become my home.
Such is my Devam, my very own.

The Shelter

http://groups.yahoo.com/group/prerna231/message/21405

The cyclone hit the garden and the leaf was torn

And was carried by the ruthless wind,

Far away from the leaf's home.

As she tried to resist, knowing how useless it was,

She wept for her friends lost: other leaves, flowers and birds.

Why was she cruelly torn away from the place she loved?

Oh, why were her friends all taken away?

No one answered her questions as she was tossed

From here to there, by the cruel wind.

Was there no place where she could rest?

Was there none to give her refuge?

She felt that she was about to die, her dreams dying with her.

Amidst all the roaring of the wind,

She dared open her eyes, and saw closed doors in front.

Feeling all hope was lost, she cried out, a piteous cry;

And, the door opened with the wind pushing against it;

The leaf shut her eyes as she was carried in.

No longer having the strength to cry,

She opened her eyes once more

Even as the wind dropped her and she came to rest,

And saw the beauty of the place.

The trembling leaf looked up

And saw the golden dress, the smiling face.
The torn leaf, the homeless leaf
Had found shelter at the feet of Vaasudev.

( jag se aankhe band kare to, Surdas ne dars(n) kiye )

(only after Surdas lost his earthly eyes, did he see the Lord)

I am taking a break from blogging; will be back in July, Krishna-willing.

May you stay happy and in good health.

The Choice

They say that I should not be independent;

Like themselves they want me to crawl.

I am lectured by them that every act of mine is wrong,

When all I do is follow the inner voice I hear in me.

They come in various names and

Under the guise of some relationships;

But each one of them is what I call

Defeat-incarnate, and they try to enfeeble me.

Much have I cried while fighting them

And now the tears have all dried up;

The defeatists are still there, talking foul

But I have shut my ears to them,

As I hear now, only what I choose to hear:

Words of love and words of truth

Etched in this soul eternal.

Holding On To Faith

As I look at this drama called life

Trying to make sense of all the chaos,

I see that life goes on, and there is joy too.

If there come hurt and betrayal from some

Who I had thought were my friends,

Some others come along to heal my heart

And I feel whole again.

This losing and this gaining have taught me

To hold on to dear faith;

If on one side we are robbed,

On the other side is God's grace.

There is nothing called the final goodbye

Often people feel that death snatches away their dear ones. This becomes one of the reasons why some people are afraid of deep emotional attachments. If being born is something natural, so is death. What is the point in mourning something that is inevitable?

Yet people cry when someone dear to them dies. I cried when my mother passed away. Once more, death made me cry when I saw my former-student, Shayaan's body in the coffin. We cry primarily because with death we lose tangible contact with the departed and we think we will not be able to share our feelings and experiences with him or her ever again. Then we cry because we feel the departed person did not get enough of this life.

Yes, it hurts to be separated by death, but I personally believe that there is a joyous reunion beyond this life. The supreme mastermind of the universe is kind; He would not play any cruel game with anyone. Thus, death is just a temporary separation between the living and the dead. If this life is unfair to a person, he gets compensation in the hereafter. Those who love always have faith and their faith manifests as reality.

(This post is dedicated to the memory of Shayaan Chowdhury who passed away on 24 May 2008. It was a cruel experience for me to see my former-student's lifeless body. The photo at the top of the post, is Shayaan's.)

(The views expressed in this post are my own and I have no intention here to propagate or denounce any school of thought on death, religious or otherwise.)

Quoting the poem, Death Be Not Proud, by John Donne:

Death be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,

For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.

From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,

Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,

Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.

Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,

And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,

And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?

One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,

And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.