Come, pierce my shell.

To people who take pride in being alone: This story/poem from David Rakoff’s book Love, Dishonor, Marry, Die, Cherish, Perish: A Novel (2013) first appeared on This American Life’s “Frenemies” episode (#389, originally aired on September 11, 2009). It is one of the better ‘we all need the eggs’ kind of take on relationships that I have come across. Like with everything else ‘radio’, it’s even better if you listen to David recite it. It is a bit lengthy, I must confess, but in the age of the internet, when most of us have the attention spans of a tsetse fly, allow yourself this luxury, lest you forgot how to stand still and stay strong.

Nathan, at one of the outlying tables,
His feet tangled up in the disc jockey’s cables,
Surveyed the room, as unseen as a ghost,
While he mulled over what he might say for his toast.
Though the couple had asked him for this benediction,
It seemed at odds with them parking him here by the kitchen.
That he’d shown up at all was still a surprise.
And not just to him; it was there in the eyes
Of the guests who’d seen a mirage and drew near
And then covered their shock with a “Nathan! You’re here!”

And then silence. They’d nothing to say beyond that.
A few of the braver souls lingered to chat.
They all knew. It was neither a secret nor mystery
That he and the couple had quite an odd history.
Their bonds were a tangle of friendship and sex.
Josh, his best pal once. And Patty, his ex.

For a while he could barely go out in the city
Without a being a punchline or object of pity.
‘Poor Nathan’ had virtually become his new name,
And so he showed up just to show he was game
Though his invite was late, a forgotten addendum.
For Nathan there could be no more clear referendum
That he need but endure through this evening and then
He would likely not see Josh and Patty again.

Josh’s sister was speaking. A princess in peach.
Nathan dug in his pocket to study his speech.
He’d poured over Bartlett’s for couplets to filch.
He’d stayed up until three, still came up with zilch.
Except for instructions he’d underscored twice.
Just two words in length, and those words were ‘be nice’.

Too often, he thought, our emotions betray us
And reason departs once we’re up on the dais.
He’d witnessed uncomfortable moments where others had lost their way quickly,
Where sisters and brothers had gotten too prickly
And peppered their babbling with stories of benders,
Or lesbian dabbling or spot-on impressions of mothers-in-law.
Which true, Nathan thought, always garnered guffaws
But the price seemed too high with the laugh seldom cloaking
Hostility masquerading as joking.

No, he’d swallow his rage and he’d bank all his fire.
He knew that in his case the bar was set higher.
Folks were just waiting for him to erupt.
They’d be hungry for blood even though they had supped.
They’d want tears or some other unsightly reaction.
And Nathan would not give them that satisfaction.
Though Patty a harlot and Josh was a lout,
At least Nathan knew what he’d not talk about.

I won’t wish them divorce, that they wither and sicken
Or tonight that they choke on their salmon or chicken.
I won’t mention that time when the cottage lost power
In that storm on the Cape and they left for an hour
And they thought it was just the cleverest ruse
To pretend it took that long to switch out the fuse.

Or that time Josh advised me with so much insistence
That I should grant Patty a little more distance,
That the worst I could do was hamper and crowd her,
That if Patty felt stifled she’d just take a powder,
That a plant needs its space just as much as its water,
And I shouldn’t give Patty that ring that I’d bought her,
Which in retrospect only elicits a “Gosh,
I hardly deserved a friend like you, Josh.”

No, I won’t spill those beans or make myself foolish
To satisfy appetites venal and ghoulish.
I will not be the blot on this hellish affair.
And with that, Nathan pushed out and rose from his chair.
And just by the tapping of knife against crystal,
All eyes turned his way, like he’d fired off a pistol.

“Ahem, Joshua, Patricia, dear family and friends,
A few words, if you will, before everything ends.
You’ve promised to honor, to love and obey,
We’ve quaffed our champagne and been cleansed by sorbet,
All in endorsement of your hers-and-his-dom.
So now let me add my two cents’ worth of wisdom.

I was wracking my brain sitting here at this table
Until I remembered this suitable fable
That gets at a truth, though it may well distort us
So here with the tale of the scorpion and tortoise.

The scorpion was hamstrung, his tail all aquiver.
Just how would he manage to get ‘cross the river?
‘The water’s so deep,’ he observed with a sigh,
Which pricked at the ears of the tortoise nearby.
‘Well, why don’t you swim?’ asked the slow-moving fellow.
‘Unless you’re afraid. I mean, what are you, yellow?’
‘It isn’t a matter of fear or of whim,’
Said the scorpion. ‘But that I don’t know how to swim.’

‘Ah, forgive me. I didn’t mean to be glib
When I said that I figured you were an amphib-
ian.’ ‘No offense taken,’ the scorpion replied.
‘But how ‘bout you help me to reach the far side?
You swim like a dream and you have what I lack.
What say you take me across on your back?’

‘I’m really not sure that’s the best thing to do,’
Said the tortoise. ‘Now that I see that it’s you.
You’ve a less than ideal reputation preceding.
There’s talk of your victims all poisoned and bleeding.
You’re the scorpion. And, how can I say this but, well,
I just don’t feel safe with you riding my shell.’

The scorpion replied, ‘What would killing you prove?
We’d both drown. So tell me how would that behoove
Me to basically die at my very own hand,
When all I desire is to be on dry land?’
The tortoise considered the scorpion’s defense.
When he gave it some thought it made perfect sense.
The niggling voice in his mind he ignored
And he swam to the bank and called out, ‘Climb aboard.’

But just a few moments from when they set sail,
The scorpion lashed out with his venomous tail.
The tortoise too late understood that he’d blundered
When he felt his flesh stabbed and his carapace sundered.
As he fought for his life he said, ‘Tell me why
You have done this? For we now will surely both die.’

‘I don’t know!’ cried the scorpion. ‘You never should trust
A creature like me because poison I must.
I’d claim some remorse or at least some compunction,
But I just can’t help it. My form is my function.
You thought I’d behave like my cousin the crab,
But unlike him, it is but my nature to stab.’
The tortoise expired with one final quiver,
And then both of them sank, swallowed up by the river.
The tortoise was wrong to ignore all his doubts
Because in the end, friends, our natures will out.”

Nathan paused, cleared his throat, took a sip of his drink.
He needed these extra few seconds to think.
The room had gone frosty; the tension was growing.
Folks wondered precisely where Nathan was going.
The prospects of skirting fiasco seemed dim,
But what he said next surprised even him.

“So, what can we learn from their watery ends?
Is there some lesson on how to be friends?
I think what it means is that central to living
A life that is good, is a life that’s forgiving.
We’re creatures of contact, regardless of whether
We kiss or we wound, still, we must come together.

Though it may spell destruction, we still ask for more
Since it beats staying dry but so lonely on shore.
So, we make ourselves open while knowing full well
It’s essentially saying, ‘Please, come pierce my shell.’”

Silence doesn’t paint the depth of quiet in that room.
There was no clinking stemware toasting to the bride or groom.
You could’ve heard a petal as it landed on the floor.
And in that stillness Nathan turned and walked right out the door.

— DAVID RAKOFF, Love, Dishonor, Marry, Die, Cherish, Perish: A Novel

Milk and Cigarettes

Then.
Cigarettes. Only last evening I had promised myself to buy milk,
instead of this despicable poison.
“Enough, no more,” they had heard me say.

Today.
But when the shadows started looming around the margin of the twilight,
I found myself making my way back to that trusted vendor of viles.
His betel-red teeth broke into a smile as he quietly slipped a pack of Gold Flake into my hands.
Money exchanged hands, a tired ritual weighed down by another kind of shame.
Shamefacedly, I looked around the corner to check if someone was looking;
only fellow culprits met my guilty stare and I shuffled my feet left and right
before sending their way one of those fake greetings I had once known, but forgotten.

Now.
In the silence of my own company,
the faces on my wall have started jeering once again.
“We told you so.”
I rubbish them with a peremptory wave of my hand, rudely affirming my own existence.
“I am stronger than you”, and saying so,
I light one up and inhale.
Deeply.
As my scarred lungs soak up the filth and the black tar spreads its tentacles into my veins,
the shadows begin to blur along the edges, while the voices are turned down.
As a smirk peeks around the corner of my lips,
an uneasy peace is brokered between my uninvited guests and I.

“Tomorrow, I will buy milk.”
So renews my dance with myself.

Beauty in the Beast

In this selfish world of vested interests,
I find in you a better person to be.
You make me need you more,
Even though I burn green in envy.

Two parts ripped asunder,
In the feud of myself with me.
I can tell my better self to listen;
What of the honest one? He refuses to be.

Every night I struggle against myself
Letting you know nothing so you don’t hate me.
My tormented soul weakens and sides with The Devil:
A part still relieved you’re too far away to see.

When in morning my reason dawns,
I write down these words; but do they listen to me?
I clamour to be better to deserve your love
But we wonder if the voices shall stay to be

In this conflict of overlapping identities,
There’s still that truth that claims its special place.
My love for you is strong and fierce
Though it is tainted by the sin of jealousy

I languish each day in a desperate hope
That my beauty can see beyond the beast in me.
So tonight, yes, I love you.
But only if you can find in yourself to let this be.

Division Bell

I stumbled upon my stash of Floyd last night.
“Hello, Old Friend”, I blurted out to him,
“We never got a chance to finish our conversation.”
“Strange indeed, dear boy”, he says to me, “that our paths should cross again.
For I had almost decided to give up on you
And the rest of your lot.”

The silence was a little awkward for, you must agree,
I had been caught in a tight spot.
It was a tad unnerving to hear his familiar voice
On the most desolate of nights and
When one has grown used to the silence of one’s days,
Every word seems hard fought.

Having waged a long and protracted war against them
I was quite afraid of uncomfortable questions.
About what’s and where’s and how’s and who’s
Of past and present and future and what not!
Every answer I could muster seemed laced with danger
And thus with a dejected sigh I resigned myself to the onslaught.

He saw me twitch; he must have seen me squirm,
For he lights up his pipe in that irresistibly cool fashion
(Which, by the way, always reminds me of my younger days
When love was new and battles zealously fought)
And as the toxic rings work their lethal magic, I hear his voice:
“Relax, old boy, you still need to learn to loosen the knot.”

I shuffled my feet left and right
Knowing not what the hell I had landed myself into
But, as you would know, old friends have a way
Of settling discreetly into each other’s silences
And presently I found a sense of calm descending over me
When only a moment earlier I had been so distraught!

As the night slowly ambled past us both,
In each other’s company we grew, ah, comfortably numb.
He spoke of life, while I droned on about love;
Memories from rusted, old trunks we must have dug out.
When the morning saw us become strangers once more,
We shrugged our shoulders, indifferently, like men must,
For out there, we have appearances to keep
Even when untold terrors pervade our thoughts.
And when I lost his friendly face to the hour of the dawn,
When I learnt the price I would pay for my fears,
I realised to my surprise:
He had asked no questions; not a single answer had been sought.

Scenes from a Lonely Dinner

Ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention, please?
Ah, much better.

Tonight, we won’t be serving our excellent pinot noir,
for we fear that inebriated conversations,
piping to the rhythm of the soft tinkle of delicate cutlery
and held captive by four courses of the finest Italian cuisine,
often result in confidences being shared too easily and
inhibitions being shed at the slightest hint of
a touch;
one slip is all it takes for
this night of loneliness to culminate in a crescendo of muffled moans and suppressed sighs.
And while restless lips, looking for some semblance of escape,
are drowned in desire,
the morning after stands a silent witness to
an ancient shame
as shadows of the night,
who had morphed into one,
quietly slip away into the
anonymity of the light.

We shall not have some half-famous and already forgotten rock band
distracting our troubled patrons from their errant thoughts
or their murmured vows of silence —
thoughts that have now begun to run haywire in circles,
in turn
struggling, strangling, and stimulating.
Our well-trained busboys will refrain from making any offhand remarks
that might unwittingly provide you with an insight
into the human condition that has so far escaped your keen intellect
and, what is even worse, prevent you from swallowing
that peaceful pill tonight.

In anticipation of lengthy conversations with oneself,
and considering the glazed look in the umpteen eyes that scan this weary space,
we have suitably dimmed the lights in this singular establishment
so that the other distressed faces here,
stuck in a world of isolation and
creased by concerns, real as well as imaginary,
are ultimately lost in the swirling haze of smoke and loneliness
and are alienated beyond redemption,
denying you of the guilty comfort
that is often found in ignorance and the mock familiarity of ordinary company.

Ladies and gentlemen, you wear the scars of a million battles with dignity.
Your disdain for emotion and mere existence is matched
only by the relentless assault of your own conscience
and, in keeping with the timeless tradition here, we welcome you all tonight
to the company of your own solitude
and a heavenly ride through silence.
Thank you for listening.
Bon appétit.

[Image: Nighthawks by Edward Hopper]

Ugliness in Death

Where do you desires go when they die?
When they are all mottled up and shrivelled,
Mutilated beyond redemption;
When we have confused them with our needs
And made them vital to our survival?

Do they hide in the recesses of our dreams,
In the yellowed pages of a long forgotten journal,
To be the waning life force of hope and ambition,
Only to make an appearance on a sunny day?
Or do they become the remnants of an emotional baggage,
Abandoned in the face of tears, dejection, or reason,
That keeps dragging us down into the depths of despair?

Does hope gasp for breathing space
As the graveyard of longings comes to be littered
With the tombstones of our failures?
If they had ever found refuge in our benevolent minds,
Who nourished them like their own,
Do we wish on a false star by hoping to stay the same?

I suppose one could hide in a corner,
Like a moody dog who jealously guards his bone,
Casting a suspicious eye on his own reflection,
'Til the effort of playing sentry to our hearts
Wears us thin and we scoop out the last bit of dignity
Into the cup of surrender,
To be served at a moment's notice
To the demons of self-pity.

I suppose one could learn to forget,
Try to heal a damaged self,
Even beguiling it into knowing respect...

I suppose one could keep waiting on that miracle.

Saki

चार-तीन कुछ छंद पढ़कर, हाय, भटक गया मैं भोला भाला, गंतव्य समर्पित कर चुका हूँ, बन गया हूँ मतवाला। विचलित मन है मेरा अभिशाप, तन और धन का भी बोध नहीं, रीत जगत की भूल चुका हूँ, शरण तू ही है, मेरी मधुशाला।। अलग अलग पथ बतलाये सबने, पर खाली रहा मन का प्याला, भूला-भिसरा मैं थक-हार के, जा पंहुचा अपनी मधुशाला। अवश्य, मदिरा के प्यालों का जी भरकर सेवन किया है मैंने, परन्तु हर बार मेरे प्रश्नों का उत्तर देने से रही कतराती मधुशाला।।

'और पिए जा, और पिए जा', उकसाती रही मन-मोहिनी साकीबाला, तोह फिर उसके मादक कर कमलों द्वारा क्यूँ न मैं चखता हाला? षण भर प्यास शांत हुई जो ज्ञान हुआ परिस्थिति की विषमता का, अब हार मानकर छुपा हुआ हूँ घूंघट में मैं तेरे मधुबाला।। मदिरालय में कब से बैठा हूँ, सखी तोह प्यार जता कर चली गयी, असमंजस है - 'और, और' की रटन लगाऊं या छोड़ चलूँ मैं मधुशाला। स्वयं विवश हूँ, मंत्र-मुग्ध हूँ, अब तोह बस कर इतराना, साकीबाला, वश में तेरे सब लुटा चुका हूँ, रहा न कुछ अब देने वाला।।

दूर खड़ी एक विचित्र मृगतृष्णा सी लगी हमेशा मुझे मधुशाला, 'आ आगे' कहकर हर बार होंठों से हटा लेती वह मेरा प्याला। निराशा के इस घनघोर तम में वोह भूला विश्वास कैसे ढूँढू मैं, और भी हैं पीनेवाले, उनका मनोरंजन करती है अब मेरी मधुबाला।। समझ में आया है अब जाकर कभी नहीं था मैं पीनेवाला, कुछ पल दोष तेरे सर मढ़कर बूझ गया मैं गलती अपनी, साकीबाला। पर हिम्मत रही न कि बढूँ मैं आगे, न साहस है कि फिर जाऊं पीछे, अंतिम जाम है, होंठ से अपने अंकित कर खिसका दे विष का प्याला।।

Ek Harqat

तुम्हारे एक इशारे पर ज़िन्दगी पर लगाम सी लगा थी हमने
ठहर गयी, थम गयी, अफ़सोस ना सूझा, हम भी रुक गए।
मोड़ पर खड़े हुए हम तुमको नए फ़ासले तय करते देखते गए;
दिल को बहलाते रहे कि साथ हमारे भी चलोगे कभी।
(उफ़! क्या नज़ारे थे। आख़िर आरज़ूएं हम में भी बेपनाह थीं।)
फ़िर लोग जो हमसे आगे निकले, उनसे ज़िक्र क्या करते?
आख़िर तुम ग़ैर भी तोह ना थे।

चाहत हमेशा रही कि चाल तुम्हारी भी थमे ज़रा, रुक जाएँ कदम
पर अलफ़ाज़ होंठ पर आते-आते दम तोड़ देते थे।
(और फ़िर तुमने भी इशारे कभी समझे थे कहाँ!)
हालत ऐसी है कि इस ठहरे पानी में सिर्फ़ आंसुओं से लहरें मचलती हैं
ख्वाहिशों के मकान भी सुनसान खंडहर बन कर डूब चुके।
तलाश है एक हरक़त की, शायद तुम पुकारो, कोई आवाज़ दो कहीं से;
आख़िर चलना मज़बूरी हमारी भी है।

Debauchery

I drink her in
Licking every last drop greedily and,
Wasted,
Take her along as I
Stumble through
A whirlwind tour of my own life.
There are the relics from the past and
The future propped on shivering columns.
But all this time,
While she looks around,
Amused, relieved,
(I can't discern the glint in her eye)
The question still remains,
"Why are you here, again?"

Detach-ment

Push, push, and further still push them all away.
Edit out all those guilty, wretched faces, one by one,
Carefully, painstakingly, meticulously, scrupulously,
Like that faceless man in an empty room
Who mechanically runs his pen through
All the words accused of sedition emotion and
Strikes at the still throbbing heart of life.

Push, push, and further still push them all away.
Until the last of love has trickled down
And the bowl lies empty where once it
Brimmed with light, and conversations, and light.
Lick your dry, chapped lips clean of all laughter
As the piercing loneliness of solitude begins to
Settle down into the dull rhythm of your days.

Push, push, and further still push them all away.
So that the guilt of having failed finally surrenders to
The pain of having a thorn gutted in your side
Where it sits still only to turn every so slightly everyday.
And as light begins to flounder in a sea of darkness,
You realise you’re failing still, falling still,
But now, there is no one to let down, except yourself.

Push, push, and further still push them all away.
Until the memories confined by exuberant photoframes
Begin to decay into a state of utter disrepair,
Decrepit like a neglected mansion in the woods,
For there is nothing to nourish them back to strength
Apart from the, ah, cloying sentimentality of nostalgia,
Held ransom by the vague outlines of your umpteen fears.

Push, push, and further still push them all away.
So that the empty walls of your severe room
Occasionally cramp your soul as well
And your feet, when they wander in the direction of comfort,
Made so appealing by the noises drifting downstairs,
Get confused, nay, lost in a maze of insecurities
And come back to where they were.

Push, push, and further still push them all away.
Until your tiny window is stripped bare of all beauty
And the silent accusations lose their teeth but
In doing so become a state of being.
Until your peace is botched with vile, stubborn stains –
But is the only way you can look yourself in the eye –
And your detach-ment is complete.

Joined together at the Lips

Joined together at the lips,
He can see his reflection in her eyes.
Closer, closer, closer still he squints into them;
A million mirrors.
Lips swollen with longing,
Straining to break free once again.
Smooth lines are fringing his face for
The frowns are all lost in the throes of passion.
A gentle music lines the edges of their embrace now and
There is the hint of a little poem in his eyes.

“I will sing you a Story”, he says.
“Silly man”, I would tell him. “Stories are not sung anymore.”
He would sulk a little at this realisation for
Sometimes his world is too delicate for truth.
But she would smile a mile and cradling his head in her neck say,
“You are my song and my story, darling”.
He would look at her through big, believing eyes and
Sleep the night away living that dream.

They have so much history to sift through;
One would think they’ve been joined together at the lips for ages.
Oh, the cloying sentimentality of their words!
Their wretched worlds!
It would put you off were it not for their feverish earnestness.
Life imitating art in its morbid fascination or
The other way round? Stupid games of love and lore.

He was ugly and she owned no tiara
But there is such loveliness in tragedy,
Like an innocent teardrop on the most worldly of cheeks.
Such ugliness too, I tell you, that one doesn’t know what to believe
Anymore than the pulp novel I bought from the footpath yesterday.

“I am going”, she says, “and I don’t want you to come”.
He nods his head in agreement for
The distance has leached him of all his emotions.
You might find him kicking and screaming,
In the silence of his solitude,
Desperate to feel something else.
He cannot read their words, so many millions of them,
Without dying a hundred deaths.
Without knowing his greatest fears.
Without being shamed by the worst of his Days.

The face has begun to fade away and
The lips have been robbed of their blush.
The memories have started to blur around the edges,
Assuming the all too familiar hue of perfection.
Too immaculate for their own good.
Would flaws be an escape?

He catches the drift of a song,
He doesn’t even need to listen
For she had done all the singing. . .
All he does is cry these days, the spineless sod.

A lump in the throat chokes his heart as he pours over her letters
And tonight, looking away into the distance,
Like a poet whose verse is too clichéd,
He decides to put them away.
He has had enough.

Days

Today and now, the rains seem to have taken my city hostage.
They have washed away from the streets all the vestiges of
The Day’s footprints – muddy, cheap, fashionable, or smart.
Everything looks virgin and fresh, waiting to be cleansed by
The angry, overcast skies once again. There is a merry breeze
That has travelled all the way from somewhere I don’t know.
It has brought with it the flavour of spices and condiments
From unknown lands and it assails my senses in that friendly
Manner that tells me I am home. Finally. I measure my steps
As I walk back, slowly getting soaked in the familiarity of the
Place, humming a tune to myself, allowing you a smile since
You had been so in love with it. And me. The room beams
To greet the spring in my step and I laugh back in abandon.
The light’s almost gone now and so are all the spare details.
There is an almost ghostly glow here – the bluish white kind
And I have begun to naively presume it couldn’t get better.
The soft tippity-tap on the ledge outside reminds me of you
And makes me wonder what it would be like if you were to
Think of me right now. But this is not the time to wallow in
Plight or longing and I let a little bit of life wash over me too.

Prison of Mind

His gaze, from staring through the bars,
Has grown so weary that it can take in
Nothing more. For him it is as though there were
A thousand bars, and behind the bars, no world.

As he paces in cramped circles, over and over,
The movement of his powerful strides is
Like a ritual dance around a center,
Where a great will stands paralysed.

Only at times, the curtains of the eye
Lift, without a sound. A shape enters,
Slips through the tightened silence of the shoulders,
Plunges into the heart, and dies.

- The Panther, Rainer Maria Rilke

These Days

These Days, she floats around on pretty heels,
Smiles and sighs lighting up her worried face.
There is a delicate skip in her steps; on little toes
She dances and twirls around. Whistling.
Gently running her fingers over the words,
She pleads with them to come alive. Once.

As she turns away her face to long a little more,
Her conversations are left to fend their fate.
Surprised companions raise their cynical brows;
But then, dears, so little of her do they know.
Just one truant poke with a knowing finger
And she would willingly dissolve into specks.

The nights are long, the days lengthier still;
But her heart has never been more full of faith.
She will waltz in her white dress, humming
A song that only her lips know the words of
And she will brave the jealous stares
As to her little private jokes, she chuckles aloud.

We play this Game but ache for those dreams,
Lying to believe that a different world exists.
Mad, mad love. And enough of it to go around.
When just a dollop of it can make our world round.
So, dears, steal a peak at her on one of these days
And borrow her music for your troubled souls.

Ardh Satya

The following poem, by the Marathi poet Dilip Chitre, is a bit abstruse to start with. I say abstruse because different people may interpret it differently. Someone might take it to be a commentary on the existential crisis that stems out of failure to act justly. While someone else might find it to be a fitting description of a romantic’s predicament on coming face to face with the ‘real’ world. You, on the other hand, might come up with a totally different interpretation.

Ardha Satya, a film by Govind Nihalani, has Om Puri reciting it in one of its scenes and gradually becoming aware, during the course of the same recital, the stark similarities between his own moral dilemma and the one the poet is talking about. As the meaning sinks in, he continues reading, but in a much more subdued and sombre tone. He knows the ‘Chakravyuh’ has caught up with him as well and either he must find a way through or subject himself to the moral backlash that will result if he chooses to become a part of it. There is no changing the maze itself. In a way, the poem encompasses the gist of the movie - moral impotency and the loss of self-respect as a person finds himself slowly, and involuntarily, becoming a part of a system he could never relate to in the first place. The loss seems to have amplified when he meets a woman who has much more courage than him.

The part I like best about the poem is its acceptance of the fact that there may not be any Absolute Truth. Just Ardh Satya or the Half-Truth. So, when the moment of reckoning comes, what do we choose? I guess, then, the ‘What’ is not as important as the courage to be held accountable for it. To have the strength to live with your choices and ideals. After all, in the light, the light of choices, will everything be equal? The 'right' choice - it might offer you a way out of guilt. But will it be any less painful or difficult? On the other hand, you might be able to tread the seemingly easier path. But will the guilty conscience be able to subsist on self pity and ignorance? There is no easy way out or in. When faced with an existential choice of such magnitude, in life, love, or beyond, Man is essentially alone, and there is nothing that ‘The Other’ can do alleviate his anguish or lessen his burden. His actions warrant responsibility and the strength to stand by them.

The movie concludes suggesting that Om Puri finally decides to break out of his situation, and regain his manliness and self-efficacy. But at what cost and in what manner? Ardh Satya indeed. Here’s a rough English translation of the poem I found online. However, I would recommend watching the movie you need to feel the real intensity of the poem.

Ardh Satya by Dilip Chitre

Chakravyuh mein ghusne se pehle, kaun tha mein aur kaisa tha, yeh mujhe yaad hi na rahega. Chakravyuh mein ghusne ke baad, mere aur chakravyuh ke beech, sirf ek jaanleva nikat’ta thi, iska mujhe pata hi na chalega. Chakravyuh se nikalne ke baad, main mukt ho jaoon bhale hi, phir bhi chakravyuh ki rachna mein farq hi na padega. Marun ya maarun, maara jaoon ya jaan se maardun. iska faisla kabhi na ho paayega. Soya hua aadmi jab neend se uthkar chalna shuru karta hai, tab sapnon ka sansar use, dobara dikh hi na paayega. Us roshni mein jo nirnay ki roshni hai sab kuchh samaan hoga kya? Ek palde mein napunsakta, ek palde mein paurush, aur theek taraazu ke kaante par Ardh Satya.

Who was I, before I entered this maze, Is not something that I will remember. As I entered the war-maze, There was only the life-threatening Closeness between the enemy and me. Even this, I will not realize. After getting out of the maze Even if I earn my freedom, The maze by itself, will not change. Unaltered. To die or to kill, To be killed, or to take someone’s life, Even this will not be decided. As a man wakes from his sleep, And starts to walk, he can never Again, see the world of his dreams. In this light, the light of choices, Will all be equal? Impotence on one side, Manhood on the other, And in the centre, (tipping the scale) is the Half-Truth.

Growin' Old

.
We have grown too old for our limited years;
Time we shed some of those childhood tears.
Let the keen rant of reason be left ignored;
For intellect seems a passion for the bored.
Relax, relent, give in; but do not just give up.
Life's brimming over; why, then, an empty cup?
We think we shall break, but never shall bend,
When a bargain is all we need to comprehend.
We inhibit, criticise, abstain; but never do tell.
Not to Devil, but to Reason our souls we sell.
We try hard, but we try too hard; still we sink
In a sea of despair till all our emotions stink.
Is it time to take control; or, better, to let go?
Faith, belief, trust - that's the line we must tow
Our colours are wild; why not let 'em freely flow?
For what's a canvas with just pathos to show?
.

Feared Intimacy

so many dreams, so many whispers, and so many anecdotes -
some invigorating, few inspiring, while most insanely inane.
shared, narrated, told, then retold - means ever so varied -
often through a mindless silence, or indulgences in vanity.

will they run out of them, having done so over and over again?
silence, shared in light and dark, become ever so intimidating?
will the quaint little nuances, growing into inexplicable causes
of hatred, poison the novelty in their character and stifle them?

they fear formalities and niceties turning something pretty into
a marriage of convenience. a secret paranoia and insufficiencies
ravaging the palace of cards; with it all its ideas, all its hopes.
will ambitions then be murdered at their altar of question marks?

the beauty of the moment seems tainted by this feared intimacy;
the friends and the lovers, though, still revel in their cynicism.
they give up more pieces of the puzzle than they can take back,
yet, without letting go, i fear, they would never be able to know.

Faces on My Wall

Last night, while shifting in an uneasy slumber,
I saw them all. I saw those faces on my wall.
They winked and smiled, stunned in wonder,
For I had surprised them, and invited them all.

I drew them on my wall, canvas of fickle whims.
Each of their expressions – sadness, disquiet,
Laughter, agony – I imagined hard and painted.
New feelings surfaced; appeased emotional riot.

Each scorn, and all the love, it breathed anew;
One by one I saw them live again on my wall.
Wanton hair flew amuck, so did nascent smiles,
Sunshine skipped around; I was there to see it all.

For so long I had ignored them in my vanity;
But they were there for me, at my beck and call.
One wistful pleading, or a fall from humility
Was all it needed to bring my faces to my wall.

They pondered why I was being so generous;
But little did they know about my dirty secret.
My fears had instigated this party so frivolous;
Fears so dark that even in my sleep I had fret.

But this time I have vowed not to let them go.
(And even in my dreams I promised them so)
For what’s a canvas with just blankness to show?
I hope the feeling lasts just long enough to grow.

Ahalya

O Ahalya, untouched and unchanged,
Let me suffer the curse of your vice.
O Ahalya, my frozen deity, my beloved;
Rid my tired senses of this endless strife.
O Ahalya, unspoken words of my silence,
Become a rhyme in the verse of my life.

Ahalya, by the lamp, I had seen tonight;
Tears in your eyes, by that yellow light.
Those pearls were never meant to glisten;
So the tale of woes, I promise to listen.
But that mantle, my dear, you must shed;
Reach me out, leave the obvious unsaid.

Or will you listen if I told you my story?
Its words forever, more yours, less mine.
I vow to recite from the start, the dawn
Of our togetherness, to the end, my pine.
Forgive me if I falter, for wasted I am;
You are all I have, your essence divine.

~~~~

Your lips quiver, yet they make no sound.
I’ve relished your silence; deep, profound.
Every nuance of your body, each blemish
I recount in dreams; all there’s to cherish.
Each wanton curl, every guiltless twinkle,
I remember them all, to the last wrinkle.

Irresolute lips did whisper my devotion.
But did they echo your indifferent ears?
How I despised being an ignorant fool;
Was I still a stranger? Worst of my fears.
I’ve now worn out, longing for a chance;
Love’s labor’s lost, and with it my tears.

~~~~

For you, dear, all inhibitions I’ve shunned.
Given more of me then you’ve returned.
Saying so, I wait, fade, hope, and trust.
Have love my faith, but only if you must.
Thus in your arms, myself I do surrender;
Let me in your light, my beautiful stranger.

I rant and rave, hoping you would listen.
Though in my heart, resigned is each wish.
I err more often than I breathe Ahalya,
Become the perfection in me, lest I perish.

Déjà vu

Déjà vu
Is it a dream? A thought?
A whisper lost in sepia hues?
An idea once known and lived?

The murmur soon replies.
A fleeting moment
Ephemeral shadows cast on you
They shall pass.
Laughter seems guilty,
While smiles perfunctory.
Snap out of it?
Help me help you;
This is not the end.
See the blinding light?

The illusion casts a veil;
Reason is clouded.
Tunnels of darkness,
But no gates of light.
Voices take over the reign.
I don't find you going anywhere.
Who says you were good?
It was always an illusion.
The game never began;
You never played.

Sweeping Victory.....
Remember the Titans
We shall overcome
The day we end, we shall