A Song Of Thousand Griefs
Momila
A love of thousand dreams revisits me
And a joy of living once creates me
Ishwor Ballav
A love of thousand dreams revisits me, he said. A love of my thousand griefs reflects me, said I. One who learnt to love the dreams foresaw the future, and one who learnt to love grief saw the past. The formers walked hand –in –hand with life to meet his dreams and therefore, reached the destiny where full blossomed present welcomed him and I, caressing the majestic beauty of hynotic grief too, reached the present.
Thus a dreamer who loved the dream and the one who loved the grief both met and intermingled with each other in the present. This dreams and the griefs of mine met, dissolved and melted in the ocean of time. Yes, the dream and the grief.
I exist in my void emptiness. Void and emptiness. My existence exists here. This abysmal void, emptiness –say, is the journey of the beginning and the end. This life has now turned into such Veewa where its tune and rhythm are composed within us but helpless to create any beautiful sound of melodies. They say, one cannot create a sound without beating a bell, but I say unto you my love, satisfaction is only the metaphor of Death. Thus, I am celebrating this unauthorized life among the bloody crowd of death sometime falling down from the dreams of mountains tops only to realize my entire existence, and sometimes surrendering all the colours of dream to the rainbow only to find myself a colourless portrait that speaks the black and white mood of some alien artist. Still, you'll find me singing and whispering: A love of my thousand griefs revisits me.
I cannot speak with certainty about the bygone days, about those moments where I lived and cherished my life with its full beauty and promise. These days, I am always enchanted with those sweet and fairy like memories when my tiny, childish fingers would creep into the bar to harmonium. Without sensing perhaps I might have dispersed into the ocean like a tear –drop, but the mere recollection of such a small reflection still hypnotizes me. In a curious moment you find the gravity of pain. And a pain perhaps drenched in rain.
I used to think in a different tone. I would dance to death, celebrating life in different seasons. There were unversed passion for living, untitled joys and unwritten poetry of compassion. When the colours descended into different expression and the emotion of dance, when they were expressed with the mysteries of words and metaphor, I would get the feeling that the joys of my being the 'otherness' have no bound.
When the path of existence was drawn into the surface of time in its own accordance, I would feel that the life had sketched its majestic portrait into the different strokes of colours, into collage –words and into the tunes. The time comes but when you will be shattered into pieces when there's a realization that everything we assume as our possessions, belongings is a mere illusion.
Realization. Illusion. When your personal belongings as your happiness, joys, memories and all the nostalgia are shattered you are left isolated. And uninvited sorrows govern you, rule you.
My conscience is dwarfed by these questions unanswered. My being 'otherness' is invented with my relationship between the grief and human sentiment. Curvature of existence translation itself into the counter question is stopping my way. And I am still recalling my thousand counter –questions this moment.
Thinking of the existence of colour in the absence of light, it is not necessary that everyone's dream should be colourful. Indeed, man cannot live like an immobile lake without any exit. He's bound to seek for the way out. Thus, unknowingly he finds himself flowing in his own course of journey. But dear me, I am composed with my own nostalgic obsession along with my bleak pictures of those voyages where I dropped down my little 'being' somewhere. Fresh memories of once upon a timed journey are recalling their glory making me believe that I should walk towards the destiny of my life creating my own music, colour, melodies and seasons. Yes, I'll create my own art, nature and beauty to sketch into the final portrait of time. Yes, I'll produce a debonair art sans light, let alone there be a song of my thousand griefs and glamorous darkness.
Nowadays, my fragile sentimentalities are often attack by merciless thoughts. Inorder to free myself from these confused pollution of thought I close my eyes and there I see the world beautiful. When I open my eyes the same ugliness creeps out of nowhere. In this way, I choose darkness to see this ugly world beautiful. Doing this I recall my thousand griefs, listen to its love –call which always fascinate me, bewitch me. Of course, my friend! This is the pious moment when my love –affair with life blossoms. This is the life I cherish and this is the life I love most.
Today, being ostracized from my own existential question I've come to this exiled time. In this moment I'm touched by the sentences of the admirer, a lover of my former poetry. These sentences:
-Some poems are created in such a way which can be presented as a gift like a flower. like Blue Mimosa. Like a Rose...
How heartlily the poem of mine: the wounded heart of my poetry, might've been read by these eyes! which reached abroad as a gift. The nearness of this establishment, a relationship between a poet and the reader germinates in such association. All the literary enterprises, creative association can have the strong foundation only if there's a common understanding and co –existence between the author and reader. This understanding may varies with the taste and mood of the two individuals. Another truth: after creating a certain text, the text itself associates its own existence and identity. Let the author vanish somewhere in the illusive allegory of words and letters. But, can't we discover the poet's existence in the poem itself? Can't we find the poem's existence in the reader? But alas! The reader's existence neither has the deepest form of sentimentality nor has the highest degree of conscience.
Conscientious feelings, its essence refers to the relativity of the age. And the age itself refers to the relativity of time. Age and time, here seems irrelative –isn't it? But how can we one disclose an isolated meaning of time? The objectivity of time is just like colourless, odourless, formless water which being sublimated into the earthly colour appears colourful. But alone this truth cannot be said of time because all the truth revolve round the other truth creating their own centre and they are reflected differently during the longitude of time where they interact with different colour and light. That's why we cannot think of finding that earthly wholesomeness anywhere. This realization of grief resembles or thorny existence is the rose. And I'm engrossed with this pain of contradictory reality or say an illusion.
The sense we observe here everyday, everywhere are illusive. Beauty of flower itself metamorphosizes into the stone and attacks the flower's youthfulness. A disguised smile shatters our love –stories. Hearts are busy cheating each other. I feel the God is just a human being utopian formula in this world of people. In the world of sinners, religion is just a utopian mask. In the abode of sufferings, love is just a soft pretext. Thus, I'm waiting for self –realization in the bank of life's river. When the waves of my conscience touched by the lotus floats towards the distant horizon and turns into incomplete axiom, I feel as if all the straight lines of the earth is nothing more than a utopian illusion. If they say the earth is round and oval then all the lines of earth are curved and definitely encircle themselves round and round. Therefore, there is nothing such a thing like conclusion of thought so far. That's why Ishwor Dai, forgive me. In the pretext of living, putting aside all the beautiful illusion of life I'm singing"
-I love my thousand interrogated griefs
The way how the path of life is intermingled into the framework of religion, meaning, lust, enlightenment, the existence of life is also framed into the framework of different seasons and colours. Suppose, existence itself is a journey, it breeds flowers and spreads fragrance, it is perhaps the height of unscaled mountain and the depth of bottomless ocean. Existence itself is the self –recorded beginning and the vast end. History is a witness: Jesus was crucified on the ground of so –called man's bloody ideologies and hence these so –called men with their re –incarnated ideologies worship him. Statue of Lenin was established and destroyed. Alas! colours of existence are transformed changed into anonymity but this is also true that the labour of people being mixed with the colour of earthly process, phenomenon interacts with the time –space and is reflected since the ages. In such a brightness, the lost civilization once again claming its existence accepts men's heroism and is turn, a man celebrates life even in the shadows of pain and sorrow.
One cannot always find the meaning of life, rhythm in life. Absurdity and worthlessness of the materialistic world fill your mental seasons. Our feet tremble in the darkness leading us now here. You exist in between somewhere and nowhere. Even putting the whole paradise into the gamble, there arises not a willingness of victory. The sound of bell does not awake the heart of stone. The prayers are unheard and the blessings never bestow upon us. How many days would the ruined faith and belief stand along? Perhaps the hungered faith of surrender might have become wretched and desolate in the name of so –called infactuated love? The evergreen youthfulness of fairies only to become a motherless ghost might have screamed spending everlasting dark nights. I feel, there should be immortal pains in heaven.
My unfavoured memories give me a sign of relief in the extencial struggle against the episode of my life's absurdities. I've still a vague memory of the death of my father dear. That mysterious night of multiple fear and personal anguish which has translated into deep frightening experience still occupies my mind and freezes my nerves.
However long the seemingly endless height of sorrows may be or the day of short –termed joys be, the day should be destined to the night. That's why, I started to live in the habit manufacturing a feeling that every departure, every loss is a revision of life. Now, all the memories of my suffering are tuned into the rhythmic beauty of chorus –song which I cannot forget assuming them as an illusion like a dream. The realization of grief is such an omniscience when, where a man should enjoy the concrete torture after the breakdown of his celebrated illusions. I think, the endless happiness of such agonies has perhaps inspired me to live this absurd life in a beautiful way.
I'm insearch of a proper title for my life. And the life carrying the grandeur of sorrows is seated infront of me proclaiming all the commitment of bless and prosperity. But see, I'm still lodging inside the dungeon of holy darkness making walls with the light I stole from life. Here, I live a life with my multiple inaugurated accidents. Here, I cultivate the feeling of living because in the world of mine there are people who love me, hate me. There are formal relatives, kith and kins and informal outsiders. There are nonsensical formalities and well –wishings. There are mistakes and excuses. A lot of possession do I possess: pain, vain, sun, warmth, dewdrops, blades of grass and the natural dance of stars, all mine.
But someone from my inner being always whispers: You're nowhere.
This sublime whispering has given me the strong faith on my being- the selfhood. These and in such beautiful picturesque of burning griefs am I sketched here, there and everywhere running, waiting and walking with seasonal life.
Still, I'm looking for a grand metaphor, image of the self. Love and hatred, life and death, all the combination and fusion seem like an abstract painting of some old anou artist. Insearch of freedom form the whole mechanism of boredom and montony not only Nietzcsche and Albert camus I too, am totally dictated into the bottomless pit of life. That's how I've started to love my melancholy dreams. Take this for granted, now is the time when the ship of my existence is chartered into the ocean for a long voyage and whatever, whoever I'm now, I would always like to remain the same, once for all. I would like to remain my self.
In reality, now I do not have any particular materialistic possession to lese only to gain the wonderful gift of being a loser. My autumnal tears never caught the song of flowers that creates the waves of revolt, neither my personal sighs and meanings caught in the melodious harmony of any desperate flute –player. Instead, my dreams keep on vanishing upon the midnight creamation –fire, and putting on the ashes of my fossilized dreams on my forehead in the morning, I start my lonesome journey towards the crowd of nameless void and emptiness which you'd better call life: untitled or say life: re –visited.
Today, I'm showered with the rays of self –realization. Rays of both hatred and love are dismantled on its own accord. Neither love nor hatred is my being. Like sphinx I awoke from my own ashes and I'm heading towards the ephemeral void of existence.
I came from my past. The road I took led me here where my sufferings and sorrows outnumbered my short –termed joys and happiness. The evaporating afternoon ends up bragging its leg at the gloomy night. The night sleeps quietly while I lay awoke counting the distant stars. There is neither bottom nor surface of my celebrated griefs. On drenched monsoon days I peep into our world of illusion from the eyes of some outsiders. This is such an absurd touch! Life seems a beautiful absurdity full of chaos and pathos. That's why I love my thousand griefs.
Whenever I try to exchange life into a plain white canvas and sit to portray the handsome picture of yet –to –born Buddha, I'm always bewitched by the aura and aroma of the ancient Buddha. Even, trying hard to erase my entire past life with eraser of my fate and destiny, I could not write hitherto, a fresh introduction of mine. A past –less identity. In this way, so –called established religion, politics, thoughts and logics have always created a barrier to the archaeological findings of existence. I feel, I'm also hidden into the same distant past with you portraying a hallucination picture on the canvas of universal mysticism.
Someday I was secured like a tongue among teeth. I would take permission form teeth even to laugh but again and again the same teeth tore my apart, left me bleeding. But the day when a beloved friend of mine died, I didn't take permission from my huge admivers. only after his death did I realize that it was love, who translated my entire existence into the sorrowful celebration.
I'm remembering him not in the coloured background being fascinated by the flower of agony. Memory, a continuous mental exercise is an excused luxury. This beautiful and living memory and its existential commitment never lets me down. My past, pains, tears and memories have become enthralling attraction of life. My nostalgia has created his present where love, compassion outlive me.
Like a pang of laughter, this attraction of mine has become ideal because I was also touched by the human helplessness that was showcased in the picture of a dead mother where here child was still sucking the stale breast. If this is my jealousy to my joys, I'm convinced Ballav Dai, you'll forgive me taking this as a human weakness.
When I meet sorrows, I forget flowers. I forget stars. When I meet death, I forget life. This is perhaps the harsh reality of human instinct where the inner –observation rules. This reality, this truth that emerges, shoots out form the inner world is a true love.
I'm living in my uncountable agonies which noneother than me alone, can experience. In these exotic agonies of mine and mine alone :I'm living, existing here, here is this corner of life which I call heart. I'm a temple abolished and ruined by thousands pains, a temple prayed and accursed by thousand love and hatred. I'm not touched by the visible attraction. You've said my soul is like an archaeological idol which I'm worshipping in the name of pain. Yes, love is such an indegenous and aboriginal idol!
This is a smoky dusk, time when the birds return to their nest. You can smell the evening air in the atmosphere and you can see the footprints left by the daylight. Innumerable leaves are falling down from the hocturual trees dedicating the wounded history to the blue sky. Leaves are flowing with the water. Standing by the river bank I'm watching the flow of river with you. Certainly I would fall into this water one day and flow like life. The corpses would ablaze into dancing fire. Slowly the sky would be overcasted with the smoke. Such an imagery word parting is sketched inside me in this moment. I would present this painting to my grief –inventor, my lover from whose lover I denounced myself. But there's a least chance of snatching him from his love because I'm trying to implant the soul of Buddha in the statue of Hitler. Perhaps, the lover of Hitler, Eva would have desired such dream too. Dear me, I too, am going to commit the same mistake.
Now, I'll descend into the memory of these thousand haunted griefs. Now, I'll forget the dream of life. In total, my present is void, a great emptiness. This is me, myself and the existence. The great void crawls within me like a baby inside the mother's womb. This is the moment of great energy flickering inside me. This is my resurrection and an awakening dream space and time melt with each other within my being.
But we're all committed to draw a line of our universe creating fraction and division of human existence. And this is not uncommon to imagine our own celestial sky in the crowd of this worldly devilish miser. Infact, the very moment when we realize the sky as one common space we all unite. Perhaps, enlightenment is the name of this divisionless absolute truth, where neither his dream exists, nor my grief anymore. Neither future nor past. My quest is to disappear into the present full of terrestial emptiness with love alone.
Thanks to my thousand griefs which inspired my to realize this absolute truth...
A love of thousand dream revisits me, he said. A love of thousand griefs reflects me, said I. The difference is caressing his dreams. He loves a dream –heroine, I love the grief –inventor of my reality. Love is an aborigiual feeling, indeed!
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