BEING AND BECOMING

Listen with care Your real nature is compassion Your ignorance beclouds you Your ego entraps you In little business and messy affairs Listen with love The melody of hearts The agony of forefathers The hope of future Listen with compassion The story unlived  The forgotten dreams The suffering of samsara Listen, listen, listen! Like never before Have you heard this tune And will never again  It will comeback Listen, once again This very moment  Carrying forward The symphony of past And the possibilities of future Listen, you please listen! 

O mind, running after what? Longing for whom? Look inside your mystical darkness That light is effulgent In every form and function O mind, anxious for what? Trembling in the ocean of desires Let those waves witness  The inglorious height and its downfall Stop! Realise the eternity Within vibrations of time Know that constant The first principle  Blooming and bursting In various rhythms and patterns Of being and becoming of existence O mind, longing for whom? A past that never was  And a future that never will be Witness time in eternity And eternity in time O mind, angry for what? Wishful for which progress A linear lifeline Unreal to our mental eyes Look at the circularity of existence That cosmic dance and vibrations Imagine sacred in profane  And profane in sacred Matter knows everything The dark secret of nous And its all pervasive love Flowering! Flowering! Flowering!

Student: I want to excel in my life. Over the years, my graph of success is achieving a new height. I am doing hard work to become one of the smartest and richest persons on the Earth. Teacher: Wonderful! Who is  achiever and what is achieved? Student: I am the achiever. My name and fame are shining day by day.  Teacher: Who is this ‘I’? What is the material by which it is produced? Student: I is the ego which is the agent achieving successes and facing failures. Teacher: Whether ego is real or imaginary? Student: It is made of name, form, and function. Teacher: Whether name, form, and function are eternal?  Student: No, they are changing. Teacher: Anything changes does it exist? Whether these are real or merely fictitious images appearing and disappearing before the sightscreen of mind? Student: They are the images constructing my identity as a person. Teacher: Well said! What is the stuff by which these images are made of? Who is maker and what is made? Student: They ar...

Careerism is a ghost haunting the prospective world of spontaneous living. Whole life people invest to make a straight, soothing, and decent image with no avail. The life of a career is nothing more than a speck of dust blown away by storms. Yet, human beings are trained to create a career, to live and die for it. The whole life is wasted for running after an image which is simply a creation of mind, an assemblage of external stimulus, and fixation of identity around symbolic representations and their meanings. This symbolic rationality is deeply embedded in the collective psyche of society like a smokescreen hiding the eternal truth. Every action is evaluated on the scale of career and the price of a person is evaluated on the parameter of its utility in terms of functioning as a career, within the career, and for the career. In the end, retirement gives a sense of loss of the economic and professional values accumulated by economic man, a sense of imaginary losses, which imprisons th...

आदत नहीं हमें कि चंद सिक्कों पे लूट जाना है ज़मीर के सौदागर हमने पग-पग पे देखे हैं उल्फ़त की आँधी हो या बेचैनी का शैलाब जो राह पकड़ के चल पड़ा उसे कश्ती मिल ही जाना है देखे है हमनें बड़े पत्थर दिल वाले जो दिल को छू जाए वही जीवन को जाना है जो बात तोड़-जोड़ कर निकले उन्हीं बांतों में जमाना है अदा जब अश्क़ बन जाए सदायें ख़ुद से ख़ुदा हो जाना है ये कैसी नादानी है कि खिलौनों को खिलौने का शौक है तेरा गुरुर एक बुलबुले सा है कुछ पल में ही मिट जाना है तूने मन के लिबास पे  जो कलिखें पोत रखी है उस मलिन मन के भीतर वो बच्चा जो शांत सा बैठा है क्या तुमने कभी उसे पहचाना है?

Name, you are chasing and chased by You, do you really matter? What if you don’t exist? What if you’re a funny fiction; Invented by a few, fallen from spontaneity? Your fictitious glory is taken for granted As if, you are the beginning and the end You, the first and the final dogma The weaver of the life-stories The gene of romance and tragedy You, the fulcrum of human power The traces of memories  Whose erasure is truly a liberation From the burdening flashes of thy presence! Yet, you are blooming In an Age of Reason and Anxiety!

Time passes by Like moving in a train of thoughts Its sequence is always forward Vibrating like a cosmic dance of Shiva Time is creating and engulfing The little waves of the ocean Going where? Nobody knows Like a dream does not have a destination It is as true as any absurd play With friends of pleasure It moves like speed of light With friends of need It is felt like a moving river Allowing a little moments of thoughts Before everything becomes a history With friends of virtue Time becomes a sublime touch Soothing and healing the pain Becoming a spectator To watch the cries and follies Beauty and ugliness The rainbow of joy And an album of suffering Time touches Yet it remains aloof Like Purush is witnessing The colours of prakriti Yet remains unblemished And untouched The union of two is always mystical Their touch is a source Of creation and transformation Time is witnessing everything In its sequential movements Who is witnessing time? What is independent of the originatio...

At the juncture of the silence, The cosmos reveals its sublime beauty, The truth, the substratum of the Witness,   The holy mixture of atoms and their alchemy. Silence reveals the communion of matter and space,   Their constant dialectics,   Appearance and disappearance of forms,   By which the potency of matter is realised and unrealised. Silence lets the voice of nature,   To Blossom and reveal its potential meanings. Silence heals the wounds of speech,   Its therapeutic effects cement the social bonds,   In its profoundest horizons,   Individuality submerges into; The holistic union of finite and infinite. Silence is the mirror,   Which reflects the cosmic dance,   Of light, darkness, and their convergence. In the glory of silence,   Words move and produce,   The cacophony of prayers and meditations, The liturgical magic of religions,   The baffling discourses of academia,   Only encircle in a s...

Spectacles and Enchantment of Power, Power of glory; glory of power, O glorious power,  Where are your branches? Where are your roots? Where is that dark matter; Burnt and sacrificed for your glory? Burgeoning flashes of glory, Narcissistic fever of power, You, the witness of your thousand defeats, You, the player of little triumphs, You, the hero, You, the villain, Power, the inglorious history of glory, Your glory of which, God is also boundlessly jealous! O little thought, The shadow of clouds, The mother and progeny of glorious power, Where is the resting place; On which you stand and deliver; The narcissistic fever of Sapiens! How poetically you weave; The power of glory, And the glory of power? How imaginatively you create, The glory out of nothingness, And the glory into nothingness?

Portrait Courtesy: Saatchi Art O Manas, the seed of all desires! The weaver and witness; of unending cosmic plays. Thy spirit inheres; in every form, in each movement. What manifests, without thy will? Where does the world disappear; if not under thy everlasting arms of compassion? Infinite worlds manifest and disappear,  through thy sight, in thy embodied spirit. O Manas, the progenitor of kalpana! The singularity of all the cosmic vibrations! Who else is the Creator; of the multifaceted dreams? Who else is the Witness; of the everlasting worlds? Their kaleidoscopic colours, and their engaged plays? If not thy spirit? If not thy imagination?

Painting Courtesy: Pinterest You touch everything; Yet you remain untouched; What is the mystery are you, O time? Some say you exist; Some say you are not; Yet you are the witness; Of every movement; What is the mystery are you, O time? You, the only witness of all desires; You, the only predator of all life longings; You, the only question; You, the only answer; What is the mystery are you, O time? What makes you so patient; To witness the cosmic play? What makes you so standstill; To witness the birth and death of all inclinations? Who is the progenitor? And who is progeny under your arms? What is the mystery are you, O time? Every shadow of life; Lives under your yoke; Each leap of heaven and hell; Is lead towards your shore; Each knows you; Yet forgets you; What is the mystery are you, O time?

What language of love, Have possessed you, O utilitarians? Language of ownership? Power of possession? Pleasures of enslavement? And enslavement of pleasures? You love life, Like a useful instrument, Only means and means only! What devices have invented you, O selfish genes? The machinery of give and take? Prospects of offer and consideration? Utility, the master principle! The master Principal! Like a saddle, riding the human's fate! Effect is thought incessantly, For cause, life is invested continuously, The world of causality, The world of commerce, Intertwined as a science,  Of self-gratification! Where is love, In the practical world of contract, O contractarians? Where is loyalty, In bond with royalty, O marketarians? What do you say, About selfless love,  O interestarians? What do you feel, About language of freedom? About bond of sacrifice? About fearless ecstasy? About madness of surrendering? Only in absence of me and you, Love blossoms, Like an aimless seed! Like a ...

Empty is mirror, Yet it reflects what is. Chit is absolute abyss, Yet it contains the existence, Like unending horizons of sky. Chit in bond with manas, Creates and witnesses, The playful dance of life. Shunyata is the absolute truth, Yet it is all of the possible worlds. Out of its voidness, World appears and disappears. Is it real or unreal? Or merely the Dream, Of all the possible dreams? If it is the case, Who is dreaming, the dreams of all? The One, the Cosmos. What if the One is also a figment of imagination? What if the world is a poetic creation? And the Poet has deployed itself, In every form of poetry? The poetry of life. What if only bhokta is bhojan? Only observer is observed? Only worshiper is worshipped? Only subject is object? All are the waves of same Ocean.

Hiding the face, For introjecting thy guilt, On the face of others. The blind faith in escape,  Driving will to move, In the circle of finite and infinite. In absence of courage to face the known, You, the trembling mind, Invent the story of heaven and hell, And postulates for good and evil. In the theatrics of performing escape, Self is veiled, In comfortable opinions.  Escape of self invites the other-self, Haunts back like a suppressed love, Its revengeful intimacy,  Sinking thy heart. Watch your shadow,  The hidden hole in your heart, Its secrets are written, In the threads of human-thoughts,  Watch your thoughts, The mystical code of samsara, The seed of phenomenon, And possibility of noumena. 

Life is what I construe  From the Lens within What is the stuff of which This Lens is made of? It is the mind inside  And the social mind outside  Both annihilate and create each-other  What is I  It is reflected in the mirror of relationship A great teacher once said What you are is visible in the face of other The mirror of self is in the mirror of society The mirror of society is in the mirror of self  You start anywhere And end up everywhere