Series on Melancholy

Poetry and Sorrow

Like a pair of pigeons,

Sorrow sits on my chest,

My chest—a sloping field.

Beneath it lie bones, once the joy of life,

Now buried under graves of clay,

Graves of fear.

Sorrow comes to sit on my chest,

Crying nibbles at the worms beneath the soil,

Poetry flaps its wings,

Asks, “Are you awake?”

Inside, the bones of joy stir with a faint rattle.

I cannot respond as I used to.

The Elastic Snapped

Perhaps from bearing pain for too long,

The elastic has loosened.

There is no returning in one leap

To the old character, the old joy.

A generation has died within me,

And no one noticed.

No one saw when the thread of happiness,

The delicate sacred thread of love and joy in every human heart,

Snapped and fell away.

An entire group of elderly citizens,

Having lost their right to joy, stripped of their Brahminhood, torn of their sacred threads,

Stand naked under the sky, without God,

Rubbing their cheeks against the feathers of sorrow until they die…

No One Can Reach Anyone Anymore

Familiar faces have forgotten old connections,

As if a magician rubbed poison into their heads.

A crowd now seeks only new acquaintances,

Strangers they desire,

Their affection, their likes, their cheek-to-cheek selfies,

Their late-night inbox messages.

Familiar people cannot approach each other anymore,

Cannot let others near.

Everyone despises everyone,

Everyone fears everyone, hates everyone,

Building walls of silence.

Familiar faces feel like stray dogs with matted fur,

Smelling of familiarity,

Of daily routine,

Of sins accumulated over days.

No one can sit on another’s cot anymore,

No one can slip their hand into another’s sleeve,

No one can puff on a cigarette borrowed from another’s lips,

No one can reach out to grab a handful of puffed rice from another’s bowl—

For fear that touch will contaminate.

Everyone considers everyone else impure, stepping aside.

Instead, they search for halos above strangers’ heads,

For expensive interiors,

For high-pitched greetings and kisses.

A magician has rubbed poison into the minds of an entire generation.

Everyone wants to see, think about, and touch others from afar…

They crave to be utterly unfamiliar, utterly new.

Always Innovating

You were always innovating,

When your spirit sank low, you yearned to lift it high again.

When the windmill of desire grew heavy and descended,

You sought to fill it with air and send it soaring once more.

You were always leaping upward,

Like falling in love anew.

Now, only music offers slight relief,

A thin coating over wounds.

But there is nothing left to numb the pain; the rest is empty,

Bare, open wounds where winter winds blow freely.

Heavy stones weigh down your chest,

The windmill lies crumpled.

What comes next will rise again with the waves, upward,

For I have touched the very bottom.

There is nothing left to lose,

No chains remain.

Fragility of Connection

O wanderer, adrift in this sea of isolation,

What truths do you seek amidst the ruins of connection?

The world hums with noise, yet silence reigns supreme—

A paradox of proximity and distance,

Of longing and withdrawal.

Look now at the horizon, where humanity meets itself—

A thin line separating presence from absence.

Here, in this liminal space, miracles unfold:

Memories resurface, faces reappear,

And fragments of shared laughter guide us forward.

Each moment births infinity, each breath holds eternity.

Do you recall the warmth of a stranger’s smile,

The comfort of a familiar voice on a cold night?

These sensations linger in the recesses of the mind,

Echoes of experiences etched into the soul.

They remind us that beauty exists in simplicity,

That joy resides in the smallest details.

Yet, amidst the fleeting, there is permanence—

Not in objects, but in essence.

The song of the cuckoo lingers in spring air,

The taste of saltwater remains on sunburnt lips,

The touch of a lover’s hand lives forever in memory.

Such moments transcend time, becoming eternal.

But tell me, dreamer, what will you carry with you

When the final curtain falls?

Will it be regret for roads untaken,

Or gratitude for journeys completed?

Will you mourn the loss of youth,

Or celebrate the wisdom gained with age?

Death is not an end, but a threshold—

A doorway leading to realms unknown.

Just as rivers merge with oceans,

So too does the soul dissolve into infinity.

What fears can bind us when we realize

That we are already part of something greater than ourselves?

Imagine, then, crossing that threshold—

Leaving behind the familiar, stepping into mystery.

Will you meet ancestors waiting to guide you,

Or find yourself alone in boundless light?

Perhaps neither, perhaps both;

The truth eludes definition, defies comprehension.

Yet one thing is certain: love endures.

It flows through veins unseen, binds hearts unbroken.

Even in death, it remains—a beacon guiding us home.

For love is not confined to flesh and bone;

It transcends form, existing beyond the limits of mortality.

So let us live fully, love deeply, dream boldly,

Until the final hour arrives.

Let us cherish the ordinary, for it holds extraordinary grace.

Let us honor the earth, which sustains us,

And the sky, which inspires us.

Let us walk gently upon this sacred ground,

Leaving behind footprints of kindness, not destruction.

When the sun sets for the last time,

May we close our eyes with peace in our hearts.

May we leave behind a legacy of light,

So that others may follow in our footsteps,

Guided by the same eternal spark.

Thus, O wanderer, fear not the end—

For endings are merely beginnings in disguise.

Embrace the journey, savor the moments,

And trust that beyond the horizon,

A new dawn awaits, radiant and infinite.