Tag Archive: soul


from google




Aretha Franklin 1942 – 2018


The Queen has lost her voice,


and yet it soars,


reaching up, up, up to heaven itself,


where Aretha Franklin is being welcomed,


to add a whole lot of soul …




from google

REST IN PEACE

no blue monday for you

no blue monday for you

when tears moisten your eyes
and the horizons seem leaden
weighed down by grey skies

when
everyone
everything

suffocates
and life seems like a sad circus
a comical convergence of fates

may you always
always

pause …
to
remember …

that
you are human too

and
that
you feel

deep in your marrow
your entire being through

the sting of griefs fire
and
the ache of unquenched desire

felt
deep

felt true
within you

the river rolls …

neither here nor there …

traversing the meandering bylanes of life

tears fall
through the cauldron of strife

memories like jagged shards of sorrow,

embedded
hewn

into a torrent of emotion

flow on
               and on

cascading over raw wounds

                reaching without
                seeking
peace
                within

clinging onto
filaments of hope

while hollow words

crawl
fade

mope

slinking away to settle
           on tattered scrolls

while life persists,

so long as the river rolls…

                 

finding myself …

if she asks
                   do tell her

      it was having lost her

              that led me down the path

                           to finding myself

at last

Chocolatey Dreams…

under a breath of dark chocolatey desire,

the furnace re-ignites dormant dreams.

Dreams dreamed,

basking in a warm cocooned glow,

as you so effortlessly,

set my soul so scorchingly afire…

The Slothful Musings of an Indicted Leech …

… I suck. Simply put, I suck.

Attaching my slimy being,

surreptitiously clingy,
nauseatingly smooth,
ingratiatingly insidious,

onto warm sources of sustenance.

I suck, I leech, I drain,

the elements of good-nature,

turning smiles into profitable ventures,

sucking, leeching, draining,

the beings I encounter,

suctioned cups of guilt,
of predatory precision,
surgical frigidness,
clinical intent,

sucking, leeching, draining,

till fattened,

bulging with burgeoning gains,

flush with siphoned-off goodwill,

bloated by hubris,

slipping away,

slithering into my den,

creeping on borrowed legs,

seeing with donated eyes,

cloaked in spurious fabric,

I leech, I suck.

Self-pity my only refrain,

flushing what is left of a soul,

down,

into the welcoming drain.

Vacuum

Callously discarding,

talismans of heart and soul,

hastily scorching all bridges,

in a supernova burying me whole,

retreating into emptiness,

no salvation to be found,

sins too many to absolve,

drowning, in a freshly
dug hole in the cold ground.

Hollow, empty, barren desolation closes in,

asphyxiating me,

within the walls of my dismal room,

sinking into the abyss,

disappearing, fading, lost forever,

inside an emotionless,

vacuum

(for Lata Sethi’s late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)

…a wife left South Africa in the 1960’s to join her husband

who was in exile at the time…

 
in 1970 the husband was sent by the African National Congress to India to be its representative there…

 
the husband and wife spent two years in Bombay…

 
one afternoon the husband fell and broke his leg…

the wife knocked on their neighbour’s door, in an apartment complex in Bombay

the neighbour was an old Punjabi lady…

the wife asked the neighbour for a doctor to see to the injured husband…

a Parsi (Zoroastrian) ‘Bone-Setter’ was promptly summoned…

the husband still recalls his anxiety of seeing ‘Bone-Setter’ written on the Parsi gentleman’s bag…

by the way, the ‘Bone-Setter’ worked his ancient craft and surprisingly for the husband, his broken leg healed quite soon…

but still on that day, while the ‘Bone-Setter’ was seeing to the husband…

the wife and the old Punjabi lady from next door got to talking about this and that and where these new Indian-looking wife and husband were from as their accents were clearly not local…

the wife told the elderly Punjabi lady that the husband worked for the African National Congress of South Africa and had left to serve the ANC from exile…

and that they had left their two children behind in South Africa and that they were now essentially political refugees…

the Punjabi lady broke down and wept uncontrollably…

she told the foreign woman that she too had had to leave her home in Lahore in 1947 and flee to India with only the clothes on her back when the partition of the subcontinent took place and Pakistan was formed and at a time when Hindus from Pakistan fled to India and vice versa…

the Punjabi lady then asked the foreign woman her name… 

‘Zubeida’, but you can call me ‘Zubie’…

the Punjabi woman hugged Zubie some more, and the two women, seperated by age and geography, wept, sharing a shared pain…

the Punjabi woman told Zubie that she was her ‘sister’ from that day on, and that she felt that pain of exile and forced migration and what being a refugee felt like…

Zubie and her husband Mosie became the closest of friends with the Punjabi neighbours who had become refugees themselves, as ‘Muslim’ Pakistan was created…

then came the time for Mosie and Zubie to leave for Delhi where the African National Congress office was based…

the elderly Punjabi lady and Mosie and Zubie said their goodbyes…

a year or two later, the elderly Punjabi lady’s daughter Lata married Ravi Sethi and the couple moved to Delhi…

the elderly Punjabi lady called Zubie and told her that her daughter was coming to Delhi to live and that she had told Lata, her daughter that she had a ‘sister’ in Delhi…

Lata and Ravi Sethi then moved to Delhi…

This was in the mid-1970’s…

Lata and Zubie became the closest of friends and that bond stayed true, and stays true till today, though Zubie is no more, and the elderly Punjabi lady is no more…

the son and the husband still have a bond with Lata and Ravi Sethi…

a bond that was forged between Hindu and Muslim and between two continents across the barriers of creed and shared anguish…

a bond strong and resilient, forged by the pain and trauma of a shared experience…

and that is why, and I shall never stop believing this, that hope shines still, for with all the talk of this and of that, and of that and of this, there will always be a simple woman, somewhere, anywhere, who would take the ‘other’ in as a sister, a fellow human…

and that is why there will always be hope…

hope in the midst of this and of that and of that and of this…

hope…

(for Lata Sethi’s late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)

%d bloggers like this: