Sounds all around us,
each different in nature.
We're all here,
yet we seldom hear.
In a single moment,
everything can change—
an accident,
a terminal disease,
a pink slip.
Are we here to suffer?
Nothing has changed—
the accident,
the terminal disease,
the pink slip.
Yet perhaps
we are not here to suffer.
In a
darkened room,
you see nothing.
You switch on the light,
and everything comes into view.
Come, let
us begin here.
Close
your eyes.
You know they are closed.
But who knows?
Is it the
mind?
Then turn
your gaze
towards the mind itself.
You know when thoughts arise,
when they linger,
when they dissolve.
But what
is it
that knows the mind?
Consider
the clothes you wear,
the food you eat,
the house you call your own.
You know them all,
yet none of them is you.
Now look
within.
You know
your body
when it is healthy,
when it aches,
when age inscribes its passage
upon your face.
You know
your mind
when it rejoices,
when it grieves,
when it wanders through
the labyrinths of thought.
The body
changes.
The mind changes.
You witness their changing.
Then who
are you,
if neither tells the whole of you?
You are
not merely Supratik,
the name you answer to,
the face the mirror remembers,
the story you tell yourself.
Remember
the infant Supratik?
That little body is gone.
The child gave way to the youth,
the youth to the man.
And one
day,
this ageing body, too,
will return to the earth.
Names
fade.
Forms change.
The chapters close.
But must
the knower
of all these changes
change with them?
Now
consider the three states
through which you travel.
In
waking,
a world unfolds before you.
In
dreaming,
another world arises,
only to disappear
when you awaken.
And in
deep sleep,
where neither world appears,
you wake to say,
“I slept well,”
or “I knew nothing.”
Pause
here.
What can
you truly claim
about that silence?
What was absent,
and what, if anything,
remained beyond your knowing?
Do not
rush to an answer.
Let the question do its work.
For the
Self, as the sages teach,
is not merely the waking person,
the dreamer lost in dreams,
or the sleeper sunk in darkness.
It is not
another object
waiting to be discovered,
nor a little person hidden
somewhere inside the body.
It is
that by which
every state is known,
while it cannot itself
be reduced to any state.
The mind
may seek it
as though it were a distant star.
The intellect may name it,
argue over it,
and build philosophies around it.
But no
name can contain it,
no thought can make it an object.
In the
stillness of inquiry,
the ancient question returns:
Who am I?
Not the
body alone.
Not the restless mind.
Not the passing name
or the life that bears it.
Tat tvam
asi—
Thou art That.
The
deepest truth of Advaita
is not that Supratik
will live for ever as Supratik,
but that the Self, in its true nature,
was never born
and can never die.
The light
does not come and go
with the scenes it illuminates.
And what
you seek
beyond the changing world
is not somewhere else.
It is the
very truth
by which you know
that you are here.
If I
could see the same wood
in a table or in a lectern,
why can’t I see in you
the same Brahman I see in me?
Perhaps
I’m overwhelmed
by this mind and body.
The One
Reality
If I could see the same gold
in a bangle or in a necklace,
what prevents me from seeing
the one reality in all its grace?
Perhaps
the mind and body
cannot trace the path through silence.
If I mistook
a rope for a snake
but, through knowledge, came to know
that there had never been
a reptile to fear,
what prevents me from seeing
reality as it truly is?
Perhaps
the mind and body
have yet to learn to be at ease.
If I
could see the same water
in the ocean, in the waves, and
in the clouds,
I could see Brahman in a crowd
and recognise it instantly.
The waves
may subside,
the clouds may disperse,
but I remain limitless—
the one, indivisible Self.
Like
every other discipline,
this, too, requires practice;
this, too, requires mastery,
this too, needs faith, bravery.
Divisions
of every kind
dissolve into oblivion
with knowledge.
Then
there is no fear,
no feat to achieve,
no greed to pursue,
no longing to possess,
no need to want.
And yet,
with vim
and vigour
you face life as it is,
and compete
as though you were
that little creature
you had risen above.
When I hold your hand, my friend,
I know the days are golden and will never end.
We'll sail through thick and thin;
I draw my strength from somewhere within.
I'm so happy and complete;
It doesn't matter if I lose or win.
I forget to fight; there's no appetite to compete.
But the day you left me, my friend,
I was shattered; I couldn't pretend.
Sadly, the world for me had fallen apart;
The way you hurt me broke my heart.
Days were long, nights lonely;
The bed lay in darkness, weeping and moaning.
My breaths were heavy,
My hands forlorn;
Moments dropped dry as the pool on the lawn.
I was scared to dream
Of a fresh new dawn.
But time has taught me to begin anew,
To see the world in its different hue.
I walk alone, yet feel no void;
I've found the peace I once destroyed.
The silence no longer weighs me down,
Nor does solitude make me frown.
I've learnt that life can still be a winsome whole,
Even when there's none to befriend my soul.
When I hear these waters
rolling down from somewhere
I imagine it as a hidden place in
a mountain where treasures are stored,
tears of joy roll down my cheeks
For all that I have lost,
have learned.
When the softest light falls
upon the earth from somewhere
I imagine the sky,
wisdom dawns within me,
teaching me peace.
When darkness falls
and the day disappears
Somewhere I imagine
to be nature’s memory,
wisdom, tolerance, and acceptance
are born anew.
Silence, words, silence.
A thought, a doubt, a requiem.
A daydream, a nightmare, the stories.
The void, the voices, the echo.
A whisper, a scream, a sigh.
The heart, the hurt, the hope.
A tear, a smile, a lie.
Love, violence, wealth.
The truth, the mask, the mirror.
The distance, the longing, the loss.
The question, the answer, the silence.
Between the
words—
you, the other, the gap.
I don’t remember when my mom
stopped feeding me, when she stopped
cleaning me. I vaguely remember
when my father stopped walking me to places,
when my parents stopped scolding me,
when they stopped teaching me maths,
physics, and geography.
I remember the faces that smiled
because I giggled, the hands
that clapped when I finished my food,
when I learned to say
A, B, C.
And here I am, that same child,
now a man writing poems in silence,
learning the lessons of life;
cooking, eating, taking care of my health,
talking to walls, pressure cookers,
furniture,
and the pages of history—
all by myself.
With my boat, I am going nowhere.
The sails, the mast, the boom lie still,
though the wind keeps pressing against them.
The rigging and lines have grown weary;
even the keel and rudder seem tired
of carrying me nowhere. Hence tied.
There is an unspeakable sorrow
in knowing that tomorrow,
when another dawn breaks,
I may still be here—
anchored to the same place.
Around me, the waters awaken.
The port stirs to life.
Other boats slip quietly into the morning,
their sails catching the restless wind,
their hulls gliding towards distant horizons.
Every dawn seems to renew them;
every morning gives them another beginning.
But I remain.
I am in a fix—
caught between staying
and setting myself free.
Perhaps I should sell the boat,
let someone else take her out to sea,
let another hand hold the wheel,
another heart trust the wind.
Yet how does one sell a boat
that has carried so much of one's life?
So I sit here,
listening to the water
and watching the others disappear
beyond the harbour mouth,
wondering whether my boat is truly anchored—
or whether
I have simply forgotten
how to sail.
The same words,
different verse—
fear, joy, love,
bitter, sweet,
punched in and out
of sentences,
of days,
of lives.
They have said it all before,
yet mean something new, tragic, or fun
each time they return.
Love once meant forever;
now it means letting go.
Joy was once a song;
now it is the quiet flow
between two sorrows.
Fear was once a warning;
now it is the shadow
of things already lost.
Bitter and sweet—
two words we keep apart,
though life has always known
they belong together.
We keep rearranging the words,
changing their places,
changing their clothes,
hoping perhaps
they will tell a different story.
But the words remain.
It is we who change—
we who grow weary
of giving them meaning,
we who discover
that every sentence
has been written
with a little of ourselves.
The words.
The same words.
Different verse.
And now, I'm exhausted,
I have nothing left to say—
except perhaps this:
sometimes silence
is not the absence of experience,
it is the experience of absence.
Words can neither heal, nor harm
They can neither hurt, nor charm.
It is what remains
when the words
have finally told
the truth.
