Mind Tales

A short story that weaves myth, archetypal symbolism, and allegorical psychology. Carefully analyse guilt, rigidity, and other important thematic tensions. Reya was inside her room. She stood facing the curtains. She felt uneasy as if something stood behind the curtains. But that unease was quickly replaced by a curiosity after aeons. “What is it?” said Reya. The small table lamp in her room that, interestingly, was meant to light the entire space, started to flicker. It was all quiet. She could not even hear her own breathing. Perhaps it had stopped too. Reya was now walking down one of the grocery store’s aisles. She kept walking with a still face, motionless. She held something she had loved for long, almost had identified with it – her matchbox. Her grey eyes sat firm rock-solid. Someone deeply interested and mentally well-acquainted with the nuances of Greek mythology, would find her similar to a modern Medusa. Honestly, the polished curls of her hair closely resembled snakes and ...

 Reflect on an uncommon perspective on destiny. Track the metaphysics beneath the boulder's descent. Boulders. One atop a knoll rolls down. The wind pushes it to its fated crumble. The big boulder thought itself wise to have self-crowned itself, In the likeness of a daring despot over the knoll - reduced to constricted fear. In the dice of destiny, In the scroll of fate, There awaited a future  different. Fate is choice. Preordained choice. Choice chosen not by the wind but by the boulder when it was a rock, A deformed small stone, A hardened ball of sand, Sand, Dust, Matter, Void. Fate is choice. Preordained choice. Choice chosen by the boulder, In its basic essence. But, Essence is simply, Essence. It is knowing, Unconscious knowing. The Void chose to experience - conscious experience, Driven by the mind's concrete sensibility. It wanted to feel, Feel unconscious knowing by stepping out of it, In the realm of touch, Concrete sensibility, Concrete hardness of rock over the ai...

This poem captures the subtle feeling of absence or 'missing' something essential every time we decide not to do something because of the so-called 'naive idealism' we despise. It captures that call within each one of us that we begin to ignore as we grow, and eventually forget what it even is. It is that wonder for the universe, for the self, that we outgrow, and take pride, or even don't realise its fading steps, not because our natural capacity to listen to it disappears but because we are taught to value the "greater" and more "practical" concerns of everyday life. I am a sapling. I am smaller than where you thoughts can go. I am smaller than you -  the thick trunk mighty. My fellow greens  talk of admiring you. Your height, your closeness to the sky, Your reach to the uneven patches of soil white. I often wonder if the white patches of soil up there feel like home, Just like the brown here. But, that's my only admiration. Sorry, not you....

An enigmatic journey into the dense forest of the soul, in an attempt to ignite its life once again, and pull it out of abandonment. Only Stillness reigns. The abandoned forest of the self is where danger lurks. Because it is empty, Not of trees, But of life - the subtle embodiment of stillness, Like a deep breath that draws life inward, A wholesome inhalation of rejuvenating purity. That abandoned forest of the self is empty, Yet packed with trees, Crooked, Withered, A decay of life, A decay of the Spirit. Yet packed, Adopting the semblance of a full mind, Cluttered and exhausted. Please do leisurely pace, Walk to saunter and let Wanderlust tie you and direct you to that forest of the abandoned self. One step in and the mystical winds blow. The other step in  and it gently begins to pour. The water with ancient memory knows how to heal. Time unfolds to further unfold the fragile creepers, To make them spread their arms wide to the darkening clouds. Receptivity to inner clutter awa...

Explore the philosophy of waiting, a quiet transition often considered unproductive and futile.     I'm sitting here, Wondering what I can pen down today. And, as I continue to wait, I realise something. The art of waiting. Simply beautiful. It encapsulates   the soft undercurrent  of anticipatory patience like no other. There's a tinge of restlessness, Precisely, contained restlessness. A hopeful expectation. Like, counting each second until your dear one arrives. The mind wanders. It drifts into divergence, Into exploratory possibility. What may happen? And what may not? But, it all the more tracks the same path. It runs on the same chain in a patiently restless wait. Each second is felt passing by. The rhythmic tick of the wristwatch is not unheard. It seems like  time doesn't want to go by. But in the enigma of time, We seldom understand but feel it quietly dissolve. Hours fly by but I can't claim that they run. And, as I wait in patient expectatio...

A short story that brings forth the unseen dangers of unlearning, cyclic traps, and an unexpected transfer of agency. There was a diary before me. I heard a voice. It said, "Sadhan, write." But I could not. I picked up my favourite pen and flipped open the first page in the diary. It smelled freshly untouched by a writer's hands. The writer's creative instinct in me grew excited at the ancient smell that escaped the diary's pages and travelled to my nose, enlivening me. But there was a mellowed, in-the-background, melancholic nostalgia that hummed in the vastness of my mental space.  But I could not write. I was not exhausted. I had become weary of putting my thoughts down on paper.  Another voice spoke, "How ironic Sadhan! On the one hand, what you call the 'creative instinct', blooms life and meaning into you. And on the other hand, you feel weary of writing itself." I agreed to the voice. Living in ambiguous irony and mental uncertainty was us...

A reverie. It was a tree before me. Silent and watching. The trunk was thick and knots of bark twirled around it. It looked like it had been held captive for years. Its long, spooky branches extended far and wide. They seemed to be contorting in the air, trying to catch something but weren’t able to. They were trying to hold something that escaped from their gnawing clutches before they could even feel it completely. It, or the mysterious ‘they’ slipped out of reach too quick. A lost opportunity. I felt soft grass underneath. But it occasionally irritated me because I could feel it move. The grass, the saplings of life underneath danced to the wind. But without it too. And their harmless tickles felt dangerous. Like an attack. I could feel ants dot over the skin of my feet. It was uncomfortable and scary. But the feeling of life twirl to its breathing rhythms. I walked toward the tree that stood still. Almost lifeless but not fully without life. Perhaps, it had been full of life once. ...

A prose that clarifies clarity in a society used to the muddle.  Someone said the other day, “How does he have an explanation for everything?” He smiled and kept quiet. The truth is known by everyone, at least partially, if not a nuanced understanding. But some push matters under the carpet and pretend nonchalance. Nothing happened worthy of attention. But that doesn’t make the truth any less true. It is hushed over for some time. Until the day it catches fire, and leaves pretense and falsity ablaze.  Someone said the other day, “Why is she so argumentative? Why do her words cut sharp like scissors do?” She stopped midway, while cutting through an untested but all-accepted aphoristic claim. She spoke no further. Not because her arguments were personal, emotional, constructed to win, or because she had no more to say, but because it would add no value. One can chop fruits to make them bite-sized and easy to eat. But one cannot cut boulders with scissors the same way. Those boul...

A short story. Reflect on institutional nonchalance, responsibility, guilt, and recurring horrors. Soch sat smugly on her cabin's special grey cushioned chair. A gush of wind shivered through a partially open window. "I'm freezing in this cold that only seeks to strangle. I freeze and my world freezes too." She paced quickly - pulling on her closed fists out from her sweater's pocket - and reached out to the window. As she shut the windows close, she fashioned a deliberate pause to observe the world outside her own. The forest. Quite a few silver oaks outside bowed, not to, but against the wind. "It isn't difficult to imagine spirits not just gliding around but also moving about the flora around them as they groove to their own whims." This instant her cat meowed. It had to - not just wanted - to say something in a language that communicated - at least with humans - through unspoken inference and sentiment. Soch turned around. A surreal entry into he...