Category: Philosophy

How much is too much?

by Donna, posted in Philosophy 
"They"! the ones whose taunts coaxed your parents to draw the curtains every night when you screamed to be heard by them, they, us and anyone possible? Or do the "they" fall into the ever burdening responsibility of themselves as well? The knock knock of the doors, the thud thud of the bed, the wail wail of your throat, the hush hush of the lips! Are the "they" not comforted by the rest of the "they" being them as well?

Isn’t that human nature? The another crux of being humane so as to put it? The faith that there is no them but “us” in all? Or are some “us” higher than that other “us”? Or are there no “us” but just “me”? And if there is a demarcation between they, us and me then where was the handbook lost before being provided to each of us?

Nihilism, is it? The fancy word that eventually tells you what your gut has been trying to for ages? Oh how ironic it is that we remember to brush every day of every year of our entire life and yet forget the very thing that cores your very existence. The will to live? Or the will to live without they telling you how to. “They”! Do you remember the word? That very powerful word your parents told you as a child?

How is the existence of humans discomfited to the existence of other kind of humans. And till when shall the people pleasing to turn the they into me so that the me can become they to be accepted by everyone go on?

A tired mind rambles on till the senses laugh at it and beg it to forgive itself. And here we enter the “it”….. The “it” of it all. The “it” that beckons the world of competition and makes brothers fight brothers, sisters fight sisters, mothers scorn at daughter, fathers vilify sons till one day all of us lie in the dimensions of what we believe in is all but a little too bland.

Thus ends the story of “they” till time stops turning.

Take it up all at once

by Donna, posted in Philosophy

Till you reach the end

Or till the end reaches you

Till you see the closest ones vanish in the despair of the night

And take you with them

Till you scream resisting what is inevitable

Until the inevitable catches with you

And slyly grins at your turmoil

Till the life givers suck the life out of you

Till the last drop of blood severs what you once held dearly

Till the deared ones dare you to dear anything else beside them

Till the world stands between you and your breath

And snubs at your very existence

Gorging on everything you held tight to yourself

Till there is nothing more to take away from you other than your own self

Till the yearns of the ages turn themselves into wails

Wails that only you hear, or rather, are adept to hear

Till the last hand on your head viciously takes itself away

Till you lie in an empty room gasping for breath

And when the termites come

You stand back up

Ready to take it all in

That is when, you remember, my friend, to ask for me

There in that tiny cottage where time stands still

I shall stand awaiting the shadow

That we both had recognized for long

A rhapsodical diapason

by Donna, posted in Philosophy

Come here, love, I have something to tell you. Ever so in life you wake up from waking up. A squirrel tautology in itself.

You remember a part of yours that had believed, you remember who you were once upon a time, standing in front of the Lecture annexe, decked up and with your heart beating faster at every moment as young love made its way into your life for the first time. You remember seeing a salvation in a person. You remember hastily building a shelter. You remember the promises you made with each breath you took, You remember how the world around you danced with the pitter-patter of the raindrops and the graceful leaves of autumn. You remember those roads that you took, the library that you felt belonged to only you, the corridor whereform you peeked every now and then as he took his little bicycle and waved at you while rushing to class. You remember the roadside stalls, the innocuous arguments, the infatuation of little kids together. You remember how you felt alive.

You remember the storm that came after. The little devil seeking its way out from the bushes into the little paradise you had built for each other, and how your shelter stood ahead of you as you believed in belief a little more.

And then you wake up. Paradise ceases to exist too soon in the world as polluted as ours, love. You remember the nights as the stroke of reality belittled your very self of existence. You remember as your sense of spirit was thwarted in the middle of the road next to the banyan tree. You remember how the winter arrived with every empty promise of its. You remember how a vulnerability was cut into pieces of putrid loathe and you continued failing your own self. You were young, my love. You were young to ken the dissimilitude of the seasons.

You sit up straight and start looking around seeking a familiarity. The dream has ended, my love. You will have to open the curtains today and perceive the polluted world. The devil is still here but the door? Of all the things you remember, do you remember that the door to the paradise was always yours to keep? You stand at the threshold of the door. You cannot bring the seasons back, my love. That is beyond sway. But don’t stand there resigned, my love. I have something to tell you that I have hidden from you for ages. I wanted to protect you, love, but you need this knowledge more so than ever today.

Look in here, love, yes, within you. That tiny devil slyly peeking through the Gulmohar tree stands there and you can show it the door. You could always show it the door and set yourself free, but you had to learn from its presence before you shunned it away.

Remember the shelter you dreamed of? This time, bring the trees to your house. Water them, and watch the beauties grow. Sit on the bed and sing a song, take the glasses out and pour the wine as you toast at the trees you’ve named by now. Remember the roads that you missed oh so delicately? There were two pairs of feet, and one belonged to you. Keep your share of the memories and pen them down in that novel you had always wanted to write. You have tried so hard, my love and I have seen you do it as I wilily held the secret from you.

An innocence lost is a curtain opened, a heart broken is a devil shown the door, a devil the two of you had fed for long, a pain felt is a maturation stolen. May, your shelter find a shelter of his own, in a world where the devil knows not exists, and may you finish that poem you have been writing for your self. May you find the strength to send the poem to the un-attained address some day and smile at the horizons before you reach for the door.

Fleeting glimpses

by Donna, posted in Philosophy

Once, not too long ago, I lived in a home. It was a small one, a beautiful little railway quarter with my grandmother. Strolling across the empty house of two rooms, she was one hell of a fierce lady. And fierce she stayed till the very end. Till the moment it came crashing down on me.

This cottage I called home had a view of a tiny stream from the verandah. I remember sitting calmly trying to witness the mystical motion of it flowing through the hill while kids out there played their own sweet gully cricket, ocassionally of which a ball hit my head and grandmother came out of the kitchen all enraged ready to take those kids down for hurting her precious child.

We played our favorite games of the Ludo and she did give me a tough time at it. Grandmother did not like losing you know, she never did. Oh, and the Sunday morning breakfast were something she concocted with every drop of heart and soul she could gather.

As the good days ended, like they always do, I saw the cottage turn a little grey with each passing day. Or maybe, just maybe, my eyes were starting to get dimmer. The stream didn’t appear as magical as before, the boys stopped playing and like the presence of a huge dark umbrella over it, the cottage stopped sparkling in sun. The marigolds stopped blossoming, neigbours came and left. And what was once my own turned less familiar with each waking moment.

And then I left. I was young and I wanted the light. I wanted the warmth and my own sense of magic. The cottage stayed though, still reminiscing of what it once was a home to.

Years later, well 8, to be precise, as homecoming happened like never before, I gathered my courage to visit my humble cottage once again. A lot had happened by then. A part of me broken never to be revived and another part built meticulously of every previous shatter. How overwhelming was it at even as I stood in front of my childhood, a sense of familiarity passed through me. A sense of belongingness came and hit only to be reverted back for it wasn’t hitting me anymore.

There was someone else in that home now. New people, building their own set of memories. I stood outside listening to their banter, the kids giggle and the faint sound of the TV playing in the background. It was time for me to go. My home was there, it still remembered me. But I had stopped remembering it for what it actually was in all these years.

Places aren’t cursed, our moments are. Had my beautiful little home not existed, I probably wouldn’t have come this far, albeit trying to run away from something that was trying to engulf me in its darkness some ages ago. Like everything else, I needed a one last visit to a part of me that had stopped existing now only to re-evaluate the beauty of what continues to stay and what lies ahead. 

Closures come with your own acceptance...

Hope or Sham, Sacred or just a Farce?

by Donna, posted in Philosophy

Marriages are made in heaven…but here on earth, the reality is slightly different.

Ever since childhood, I developed an immense contentious belief on the concept of marriages, why they existed, and why the entire aura over the serendipity of binding two souls together with a thread, for an eternity, was ever thought upon?

Well, I for once, never could grab the notion to its core. If I want to be with someone, no piece of paper should be tagged over it, it should solely stem from my own desire to spend my life with that singular person. And then yet again, who am I? Who am I to decide for my future self? At every second, our body, mind and heart is undergoing unparalleled changes, changes that we are so unaware of. Changes that make us grow, make us experience life that a younger version of ours would have never believed in a thousand years. So how do we, at this stage of life, where we have hardly crossed a quarter in terms of experiences, what qualifies us to decide on that one singular entity that would satiate us for as long as we live?

We then come into a society that turns a sour eye upon us if we are unable to carry forward the promises that a less experienced version of ours had made to ourselves. Loyalty, morality and words such sharp and ideal are thrust upon us. Well, the German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche quoted, “Morality is just a fiction created by the herd of inferior human beings to hold back the few superior men.” No, I do not consider myself superior to anyone, but a little reading would draw it well upon you that the entire institution of monogamy and weddings were originated so as to solve the crisis of legitimate heirs with respect to lands and belongings. Its funny how the course of spoken history has always been quite tumultuous and paradoxical. But what better way to make people follow a certain rule than to instil the religious moral compass on them?

This is my take on the subject, my take on why the word ‘wedlock’ thoroughly repels me. I believe that our older generations have done quite an incredible task in souring marriage for us. We have seen our relatives, more so than often, surviving in a loveless marriage, sometimes even bordering abusive, solely because the opposite is so tabooed that it requires a higher level of courage that no one, not even your own people would support you in. As we grew up, we saw our elders grow up too, and in visible remorse over their decision to get married at several points in their life. And we thought, kept thinking to ourselves, that if it was so tasking, why not just take the easy way out? What is wrong with the easy way, especially if the harder way is doing good to no one? To believe that you are living in an unhealthy marriage solely for your kids is disturbing in so many levels.

Maybe, time will change my line of thought, or maybe not. Maybe the institution does hold in itself something sacred that the sceptic in me is missing. But in a world where freedom comes at a price, where even the choice to breath offends a mighty lot, I refuse to see the purpose of that piece of paper and those elaborate rituals that follow. I refuse to believe that any of us is equipped enough to decide on making a decision this big, that involves two lives, and then abiding by it come what may. If I am wrong, correct me. I shall be finishing this up with another quote of Nietzche. “You have your way, I have my way. As for the right way, it does not exist.”