Belonging to Life


I cannot seem to sleep. Even when I am dreaming, my senses crave for you; and as if out of habit, I consciously keep giving form to what is the ineffable invisible light of your being, like trying to grab the air in my palms. I am surprised to discover that I have limbs, that I can move, that I exist. I seem to think that I can breathe without you.

I can reason again. For a moment there you had become so palpable. Having the memory of your taste is like having heard an unstruck sound. With every passing moment since I am back, a longing for being united creeps inside me and the taste in my mouth tends to become bitter. Ah, memory is fulfilled now that it remembers you. The momentary touch of your changeless ageless substance has undone the customary deadness of ritual.

Imagine my wonder at having a body and to feel that yours is different from mine. You have hands now, and mine are different from yours. As if in a fugue, I left my body to travel to the end of cosmos where a vision of annihilation shocked me; I was scared and could not cross over to your side. But you are here.

I remember how I played with fire, setting many old photographs ablaze. The fire always assumed the shape of the picture being consumed. It was terrible at times and at times it was comforting. But, I could not burn you; you were beautiful. All that was not you perished. I seem to be getting back to my senses, or rather I should say, my senses seem to be getting back at me. I feel modern already.

Do you remember how these ancient slaves of the finest order– the senses– paid homage to you with all honesty and sincerity when we were together? Now, they do not seem to obey your will, perhaps contemptuously, since you seem so familiar. Anarchy will make them unruly. My eyes are not used to seeing you like this, quite like myself. They ought to be trained to unsee what is not polite to be envisioned.

But forgive me. Do not consider yourself tainted because of the defects of my eyes. Of course, you know everything. Eyes are mere globes of fat, you will remark with nonchalance. Do you remember how I painted your eyes? I had the greatest fun knowing that you were watching me when I was doing it. For a moment there, I felt I had made those eyes, like those eyes belonged to me alone.

Oh, how jealous I am to know that you are watched by others! I thought I could have you for myself and for myself alone. Heaven knows no wrath like that of a spurned lover. Yes, I remember now how we got separated. How could I dare to think of others when I was with you? Unclean heart, weep and repent, till the tears have cleansed your wounds!

Let me confess, I do not pretend to understand you in all your sublimity. You are famously mysterious. I was just happy that you were so graceful and charming; I would’ve felt I didn’t deserve you, if you’d forced a form upon me. We had quite an intimate moment there all by ourselves when we showed our hearts to each other. Mine was so narrow it could accommodate nothing but you. Yours was so large, it even accommodated me. My reasons were limited, but your cause was limitless. My embrace was intentional, but your embrace was causeless.

I did not believe you were so forgiving. Anyone else would be considered naive to have made such unconditional mercy mandatory upon themselves. Why, they feel they should be rewarded more for their discerning righteousness. But belief was not my aim. I began to believe so that I may understand; I did not attempt to understand so that I may believe. While I am worthy only to be a slave of such beauty, you insist on friendship. I will die if you continue to shower such mercy. I am greedy and obstinate, ignorant and wild. I was in love with love, until you loved me.

I would’ve died if I did not come back to my senses, and I am still unable to understand whether I was engrossed in an ecstasy or suffering from a cataclysmic vision. Considering that I am back in the province of reason, I must conclude from the body of evidence that my body seems to be working fine by itself. The heart is working on its own without needing to be seen by you, thoughts are clinging to my intellect without wanting to be engrossed in your form, and the senses are giving orders which I readily seem to find obligatory. I have come back to life.

This is where I belong, in you and with you– where I have known you, but without any pretence of having fully understood you. There is only the faint impression of a wisdom or a flash of an impassioned impulse, of what awaits beyond the nuptial night when the moon has shied into nothingness and the sky is unclothed from shadows of its false clouds and the borrowed light of stars.

In the guest at my home, the wind in the space, the fruits of the trees, the fire in the altar; or the courage to speak truth, and the strength to bear separation: I promise to remember your face until the fever of life has been stilled. To promise anymore would be perjury.

Till then, I remain guilty of having my heart stolen by you. I remain bound to the weak imitation of your impeccable beauty, or my gullible imagination. I remain,

Your slave, your friend, your lover


~ by Bombadil on November 22, 2009.

4 Responses to “Belonging to Life”

  1. Why do you delete some of your posts? The one about love and fear…

  2. Just back from Kohima, Nagaland. Met a priest on the train journey back. What a lovely smile he carried!

    The post’s in cold storage for later editing. I did not find it as a finished work. Did you?

    You once asked about the “about me”. I wonder if you’ve read this one:

  3. I was pondering over what you had written…that love cannot live without fear, did not quite understand it hence wanted to read it again.

  4. Mere bhai, bhay bin hoye na preet.

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