republic day

let me be myself again,
before my other goes away.
way too far, blurred and rudderless,
drifting apart day by day.

there was a time when i;
my hands were small and fingers closed.
with speechless sounds and scene-less sights;
a child, then i was and others too old.

now that i see, say or hear.
what i wish, should i do?
when i live with you; and you.
shall i not ask, listen and do?

the sky is blue by day alone,
and sunset; yellow-orange at dusk.
lush green are the islands from above,
shipwreck red when left to rust.

the sky turns dark every night,
after a lemon sunset that's too sour to taste.
soon my greenery is your ashes; a shelter for a moment,
until the scenery slowly fade.

what if there's no light, sight or a people!
colourless, unseen nothing but vain.
before the light seize to reason,
let us simply be ourselves again.

pupurupus flames

Standing under the rain tree even after the rain stops is not an easy moment. Those tiny leaves shedding what is left of a sorrow smile never puts a flame away. Each drop adds fury to an angry fire that rise ablaze. When the flame is lit at the roots of the tree, which single drop is to blame?
The rain tree and many others were there all my life, like a nation of multi cultured people. Huge, old, uprooted and no bark at bottom at all. But still today it has the same tiny and as many beautiful leaves, like the many different yet respected people it had ages ago. Once bloom the beautiful crimson flames that never age like the traditions that once never failed to respect another.
A flame cannot begin or sustain without oxygen, heat and fuel together. Other than a natural cause, a simple single action is needed to begin a tiny bud of flame that grows into many blooming blossoms. Many fuel fall to smell the bright mesmerizing blooms keeping the proud flares abloom.

healed prayer

dedicated for those who need a hug
Blessings fell as tiny droplets of rain, while I was praying this afternoon. For the many who never felt even a single droplet of a tiny blessing I offer from the many that fell on me.

enchanting psalms of the wind

when a shadow prostrates

and the sea weeps in submission

to heal an ailing prayer

Let one I help one you until there is no one, I or you

and our prayer is healed

"na naa huvafen dhushee mey" translate: na naa I saw a dream

... felt like i needed some water, and straight from the bottle sipped just enough to damp my senses. there is still half an hour to two in the morning, time for the most peaceful prayer I ever submit to. Through the window a gentle breeze came in, after humming the strings of the trees around the house. The only sound is that of the wind, the bamboo wind chime out on the deck and again a stronger chorus of the winds to follow, followed by an even louder yet different tones of the chime. These are not the days of a festival moon, when a city stops to stare at a powdered face of a glowing mid cycle venus. Hence dark is the morning and quiet is the carnival, hush are the cats and .... had a quick look at the tik tik tik at the top right corner of the screen, and fifteen minutes to go.
This is a good time, I thought, for jotting a to-do list for the day. But i do not remember writing that ever so might as well have it up there in my head. To be honest, I really don't like a routine day of doing things by the list and also I never liked leaving today's for tomorrow. Who made my to-do list, that I follow everyday, like sleeping, waking up, running to the toilet (the three most interestingly unknown items) and so on. Even if I remember, forget, try to avoid or try very hard to miss, still these happen. So no worries and my list is up and running, automatic and fully integrated no matter ...
ding ding ding ... shut this thing down, wash myself, pray ... lie down on bed and let item number x happen ...
naa naa naa naa, naana naey naa naa, naana naey naa naa, naana naey, naa naa (this is what I use to hear as a kid when item number x is in full gear mode) I use to see a red blinking light at the top of a tower from a distance through the dancing curtain of the door and soon my system shuts.

The Pilgrim

Weak is my body. Tired are my eyes. Slowly recovering from the ailment of a nomadic purple wind.

Sleep is late for work. Praying at two in the morning is usual. The dark hissing night slowly sets adrift my mind. I dream of contending pilgrims, hasten to surpass myself.

A cold wind gushed through the half open window. Suddenly my eyes wander beyond a body so still. Through the misty dawn I saw, the hastily contending little pilgrims along the newborn sunbeam, as if the pilgrims of my dream return to the bright sacred place. 

symbiosis

A clownfish lives in the dense, yet colourful and interestingly varying elevations of a tropical reef. A scuba diver or someone who snorkel knows the real beauty of the bright and active city that lie beneath the surface of the sea. Some think that the clownfish is an ordinary, carefree, dependable fish dancing happily for the rest of his life in orange and white stripes. But others believe the clownfish is as holy as a person in a pure white cotton dress, wrapped in a bright orange stole with a pleated black hem.

The clownfish live in the sea anemone, a delicate and protective adobe from among the dwellings of the city. For him the sea anemone sway in waltz to the blue notes of the ocean. And by night she glows to light up the city and her warm cuddle puts him to sleep. For some others it is the last act of play they may ever see.

The abode of the clownfish, as he believes, is a shelter from the destructive monsoon. He never knew the blessings of a monsoon until once a jellyfish told him about the paralyzed driftwood that journeyed in the monsoon. How the caravan of the ocean currents carried him afloat through the colourful carnival of the distant towns.

hmm… 

patience

Picking jasmine is a simple task for a person who never tries. Offering them to family, friends and neighbours, after picking, is even simpler to someone who never understands. Growing them is simpler than attempting to pick them. Living on welfare from sunny days, showing her glamour after a shower in the monsoon rains, and playing around with my veiled friend seems a simple task for someone who never felt simplicity. Picking jasmine is about patience, observation and selflessness.

A meter long bamboo stick with a steel hook attached to one end is used to pick the distant buds. The close ones are hand picked since reaching them is never difficult. The hook is not like a normal question mark style hook. It is more like a v-shape so that the bud is held in between and when pulled it gets stuck within the v-groove and hence removed from the plant. Imagine the sorrow of their mother when the children she bears are plucked one by one before they open their eyes to this world. How happy their mother would be if she could smell the scent of her soul from within the children she bears as they tenderly open their eyes at dusk. Lucky for her that not all her children are plucked, some hide behind their mother’s shelter and some who are still new born are deliberately left untouched. The ones picked are brightly lit in the late afternoon sun, white as a sunny cloud, soft as cotton and having a grin on their face while about to open their eyes.  Sometimes a hundred of them or even two or more are picked daily.

Now she is old, tall and out of normal reach and hence to reach her children one need to climb and walk along a thin four-meter high wall. As soon as up there can see the cute little ones humming with the wind. And yesterday was one of those days that my friend teased and argued that she never understood why the cute little ones are taken away from their home. As I tried to pick a distant little one, my friend, the invisible wind, she moved the young one away. And again and again she did so until I stopped. She was so amused, caressed the little bud from where she was then came to me and asked me if I would dance and left. Suddenly from behind I felt as if the waltz had just begun, and whispered in my ears to thank me for not taking away that precious little reflection of a mother. I almost fell off the wall but I knew she would never let me loose but hold.

Am I sad that I may never see yesterday again? I am indeed until I felt a moment of yesterday as always as how I remember my past. Yesterday swept slowly into the cold but clear starlit soft light of early morning. Almost a quarter past one in the morning is not unusual this month to walk slowly along the sleeping roads and closer to the vast park with the sleeping trees. My whispering footsteps or my jazzy heartbeat is not enough even to kindle an already snoring fire of a giant rain tree in the park. Slowly, quietly I walked along and finally reached the mosque compound to see many more hurrying as if like an army of ants fleeing from a flood and into their tunnel of homes. I think that their home is designed with a proper drainage system of additional tunnels or else they would not run into their homes again and again every time it floods. Or are they drowning themselves unknowingly into a place of worship. Connection almost went off, while in my silent prayers, when I sensed a sudden hiss from behind. I felt from behind the same quiet, cold embracing that almost shook me off my feet. My friend is here to pray with me, I thought, and closed my eyes. Patient indeed I am in the waiting, that I might hear her prayers one day.

a sip from a stolen cup

Good morning Friday. It is half an hour past midnight. But how do one know it is friday and half past midnight. Some ancestor might have missed a day or so in counting days and as well missed a few seconds or more in a freezing time. So this might not even be friday and the hour might be some other. But why do I worry about that because no matter which day or what time, I am still stolen and lost and myself being lost and my thoughts being read elsewhere still remain the same.
As I wait a few moments to think, the screen of my notebook took a nap and suddenly I saw the robber light from outside creeping slowly through the sleeping sheers of the window. I think she plans to rob myself from my thoughts. It is dark inside the room and I am hiding from her who slowly passed unnoticed and crawled creeping on the few surfaces where she touched as she went and lay her full beauty on the warm wooden clad wall in front of my bed. I almost felt that warmth and nearly fell asleep. As if loosing all hope she shook her entire self and at that very moment the whole space seemed rippling like a mirage as if no shape existed in a space of volume in the room. Finally she reached me, stood at a breathe apart and I seem paralyzed like in a coma or more like a near last moment but I could feel her entire self. She did not say a word but stood there at that close distance only staring and it was then that I noticed the faint smile on her eyes. I knew that I did blink only once but that once was just enough for her to escape taking what she came to steal.
I was taken by the beautiful robber light that crawled in through my sleeping window sheers. You just sipped only these; my thoughts, that is all there is left from a lost cup that was me.

letter to my soul - 2

To: My S.
April is leaving today and before she leave, I told her to laden herself with my many what's, oh's and hmm's to give to you my S. She was happy it rained this morning for she could smell the sighing wind for one last time. There she was, gazing into the distant mist that fell adrift in the drunken wind like a mystic wandering here and there. A mystic once herself she told, until one similar morning she knew that her tummy tinkled and dizzy went her dreaming head. For nine moons that followed she had one smile and dreamt one song, the song of the pupurupus. There I was, a mysterious little one learning how to relate myself to you. All the time we lived together but yet kept untold secrets and many hidden clothes in our closets.
If April knew what I write to you, her journey has a reason and her going has a meaning. But she always tells me why I send these letters to you, within someone else to carry, when you can be within myself as always. April is so curious as life begins with her, and I learn to play in the sand with her. She brings abundance of water from the heavens and grows my food from within that barren land that stretches. April she is my "nine moon carrier" with whom aligns myself, the stars and the rest.
If not for me would you still be there i wonder my warmth my S. I long for the meeting with you someday, a journey of many passing stars and many flowing oceans. That day I no longer need to write to you but hope to speak in person. Asking why now and not then, and all my untold stories. And most enchanting will be to hear you speak to me with your beautiful unheard voice. I cannot imagine how I shall weep listening to your song of silence. Your eyes shall speak to me that day of how you journeyed along my entire life trying to reach me and yet the distance that kept growing in between.
And when April reach you tomorrow with my letter, you shall know that my words are still warm like how I feel you within myself. My letter is like a glass of water, from these words you drink my sorrow and leave the glass not empty but full of your warm breath of hope.

loosing yesterday

Friday normally is quite quiet and slow. In the afternoon I went to a nearby island and stayed on a boat until late night. When I went the sun was up and warm and the many that I see are brightly lit by the warm glow of the burning yellows. Since now I shoot on film I hurried capturing the interesting play of light and shadow around me. The warmth on the anchored boats in the harbor is beautiful and the golden little glows in the sea seem to dance in the wet waters. Repetition of a set of few boats anchored little far had my attention for sometime as the light and shadow that was skipping from one boat to the other was captivating. From a golden yellow the colour soon changed to a warm orange and then to a deep red and started to diminish her passion.

I kept the camera, changed to a swim shorts and jumped into the sea. The water was warm and deep blue since the boat was anchored in the deep side of the lagoon. It was fun to have a swim at sunset. The sun was not yet fully set as I jumped and I could see the deep scarlet frill of her dress as if she was falling down and vanishing to my eyes when I depart from the endless horizon. And as if her many little children water skiing in the vast waters follows her down the far distance and slowly diminish their glow and vanish beyond the ocean.

I came out of the waters when it was totally dark and only the light from the boat kept me known in the vast deep blue. The distant islands are a play of light in the dark of the night. Many tiny yellow orange and red lights glow and twinkle from the far distance reminding of life on the scattered islands. Coming out of the city is one simple way to read the many stories of the stars above myself. I read the story of myself, the story of you and the stories of them who dream far faraway. From the library of the heavens I could read only a few pages of a few books that I could not even lift or move. The night was still, empty, dark and deaf for it could not reply my many mysterious questions that I kept on asking. Numb stood the wind not dancing for there were no music that the seas could play today.

I kept wondering the loosing of yesterday’s somber hiss that dissolved slowly into the depths of the ocean.

a road less travelled

How many stones must one step, to go ahead, to walk and go from where life leads from a nameless address ending your stay soon to walk on a flawless floorless place of dimensionless unfelt stone? All you begin is stepping on tiny little specks of sand on the ground, and feel the many little worlds trodden beneath your tiny feet. Some often step on airy limestone which looks like a shadow on the ground, having no surface other than that of the uneven sand beneath the cold felt surface like walking on a shallow sea.

Now when the surface hides from the brightly lit colours and the seeing is hidden from the physical self, take a road less travelled along the extra dimension of the untouched endless boundary. Feel the unseen tease under your barefoot walking on nowhere that never touches between your mind and soul. Walk on a road that never ends and a pace that is never slow leading a forever of uncertain miles. There seems no beginning or end but a seamless always of hazy moments and through reflections in a wringing rain is the only means you feel a passerby, who is but anyone else.

Along this road you meet me once when you traverse over your unobserved self. How one knows me is not by chance but as if though travelling the whole way together along as one. What if I am you and the stone you step is again the same one concealed within yourself. Have you ever felt amity linking you and the one you step on? They mimic just like the ink between the seal and the paper that entraps you, unnoticed ignored and most of the time invisible to the other side.

A reverie seldom seen is the road less travelled but real are us who live in each other forever as one and fancy a cuddle whenever the wind chuckles.

My First Flight

This writing is taken from a very early sketch book of mine.

15th Oct 1990 Tuesday 12.10pm Hithadhoo (Addu Atoll, Southern tip of Maldives).
I woke up at 6.15am, but was quite tired. Went to the toilet to relax my stomach and had a clean shave. Went to the bathroom and had a cold bath. Came back to the room and dressed as soon as I could. But it was already 7.20. Had an omelette and a mug of milo. Tried to get a camera but couldn't. Went to the office at 7.30 and came back home at 7.45. Got my suitcase and called a taxi. Went to my dad's office, got the ticket and went to the airport at 8.00am. I was nervous because I didn't know what to do at the airport. This was my first flight. Went into the terminal and showed my ticket at the Air Maldives counter. He gave the boarding pass and asked to check in at 8.45. I walked out and sat on a bench outside terminal. I noticed that the Maldivians seated around were from this atoll and thought following them while checking in. It was a lucky guess, and I did the same. I checked in and waited at the lounge. At 9.00 a young man called for the passengers travelling in Gan flight. I walked right behind them. While walking to the plane a person from Feydhoo talked to me (Feydhoo is an Island in Addu Atoll, he said he was from that island). I climbed up the stairs and an air hostess showed me the seat. It was a narrow plane seated at both sides.
There were around fifteen people on the plane. The engine started and it was so loud that I felt headache. Slowly it moved, went straight and took a full turn and accelerated. Came along the runway and took off at 9.10. This was a new experience for me, to leave off the ground so white and the sea so blue beneath. As it rose higher through the clouds smoke entered the plane. Maybe that it's the cloud's moist. I stared through the window and saw the islands shattered in the ocean. Looks like a huge drawing of a map.
An hour went by while seeing the image-less spots of each and every atoll. And suddenly I recognized Laamu Atoll, maybe because of the recent map I was drawing. Then counted on through Gaafu Alifu and Gaafu Dhaalu and again came the blank ocean. I stared at a rough angle where Gnaviyani would be. I was lucky again to see Fuvahmulah pass before my eyes. Went a gap and came Seenu Atoll (Addu Atoll). I saw the flaps came out and the wheels too. The plane took a right turn slowed down and came parallel to the runway and it landed at 10.45. The plane stopped at the arrival building. The steps went down and everyone came out. I waited for my luggage. I felt sad to see that nobody came to fetch me. So I took a taxi and came to HIthadhoo from Gan; and to the Seenu Atoll Office. The cab driver charged Maldivian Rufiyaa hundred. It was half an hour drive from Gan through Feydhoo and some other islands and long and narrow highways. After I came here I knew that the team was at site from 11.30 till now (12.55). I'm waiting with hunger.

Remembering Myself

I almost died several times.
FIRST walk on the rim happened when i was about one and half months old. My mother relates this story. She says that I am always quiet throughout my childhood. This particular day she kept me on bed and i was asleep. She was busy with my elder brother and sister and with other daily routine of the house. When she checked on noon I was still sleeping. And in the afternoon my maternal aunt (mom's eldest sister) came in for a visit and as usual checked on me first and said to my mom that I was unusually warm and really heated up like fire. And later they knew that for the whole day I was unconscious.
SECOND try was when i was five months old. She says that I was again having this high fever and vomit a lot and nothing else but blood came a lot from my mouth and my family and relatives thought that I almost died. she said that later when a relative visited, saw me and said; oh! this is the one who almost died.
THIRD time I remember well. I went to the sea with my brother and some relatives and friends. This time we went to the then newly dredging south west harbour area. After a deep area there was a shallow area formed by the dredged sand. My brother began to swim there and I followed. When he landed there he realized that the sand was muddy and almost the same instant i landed there after crossing the very deep area. We both tried to hold onto each other and due to the struggle both almost drowned. I do not clearly remember what happened next. Maybe someone came and rescued us or we struggled back. I think my brother would remember this more clearly.
I do remember having that very high fever in my early life again for two or three times. But after that, except for having a fever for very few times, I do not remember getting ill again ever later. I do not remember getting hospitalized either.
FOURTH try was when I fell from the attic about seven or eight years ago. I was trying to come down from a ladder from the attic. When i put one foot on the ladder and left the other from the floor of the attic the ladder slipped and I fell. Hit the railing below and landed on the first floor. My chest hit a 1.5 litre empty water bottle which was standing vertical. She was standing about three meters away. I stood up suddenly and the water bottle was totally crushed but there was no visible injury to the chest. She was laughing and later she said that she could not hold the laugh. At the same time my left foot just above the fingers was swelling. So went to the doctor but he said there was no fracture and its only a minor hairline crack and put plaster. Doctor said there was nothing wrong with the chest or any other bone.
Maybe four times are too less to reach the other side. Or maybe I did not try hard enough to reach to the other side or maybe I was not allowed to enter the other side. Or simply maybe I am on the other side and unable to reach the side from which I came from.

remembering moments

Remembering late Maizan Hassan Maniku
The final presentation of the photojournalism workshop organised by him in 2002.
Three prints of all participants were on open display in the final presentation day.

I chose these three (faces in the studio portrait category):

1 - The changing little girl (Aimi). She is changing clothes to pose for us. I deliberately did not want to display a neatly posed photo and instead chose to tell the story of the moments in between the shoots which was the live event. And  it was the movement that i captured and not the sharp detail of the face.

2 - White moment. A high key portrait of one of the participants. I wanted to present the blankness of a moment and the thinking mind at the same time and shot in high key to eliminate all around the subject. After shooting i realized that the stand of a light is visible but i liked the accent of the studio quality and kept without cropping.

3 - Relaxing. Maizan Hassanbe relaxing in between shoots. Yes he posed on one session and it was fun too. I had very sharp shots too but again did not want to show precision of photography but instead wanted to be in the moment and present the in between shot of a relaxed moment. I also liked the blur on this picture because he was constantly moving and talking at the same time.

colours of nature

remembering late Maizan Hassan Maniku
I made this document for an assignment of a workshop on photojournalism he organised in 2002.
When presented he liked, requested having it with him and i gave the original print.

White

Hmm … and my mind begins to mêlée!!

The morning is here, as lithe as the ever changing light that slither around me. From dark to darker and slowly change to smell the distant colours of the cityscape. Awake in the silent early morning to write of the many colourless thoughts that foster inside of me. How can I write why I did not wake up yesterday morning? After so many needless answers a feeble reminder tells that to wake one need to sleep. If my mind is colourless like the mirage in a reflection, then my hand holds the ink of which I am the printing press. Remembering my old pressed notes like “she is dressed in white until pierced and flow a scarlet vase”.

After all those impatient thoughts in my mind, finally I decide to write. Pouring all those thoughts to a visible surface to see nothing is visible anymore. The fluid thoughts wash away the words as quickly as they settle. Seems like the pigment of the pencil, ink of the pen and the paper to write are all in white.

burunu

Soon after the westerly wind blows

And into another world I creep

Neither own nor ever seen the reality of time

Let pass I see the moments go by

The hidden burunu¹ that gaily shines

New life begins and toil the land

A seafarer’s journey it is I travel

Where there are no roads that lead

Led by a wandering wind by day

And follow a lost stellar by night

Remember what it is that makes a smile

And use it as an umbrella in times of rain

And as a shade in sunny days that follow

But keep it till the monsoon, which is sure to come

It’s hard to predict a gleaming smile

Naively it arrive at unusual moments

So hold on to the luster of the funnel

^{1 the constellation of Taurus}

1 & i

Is value a number on a coin? Or is it how a person values that coin? For some time now, my mind ripples unnecessarily floating afar the idea of how one cent relates to me.

From antiquity we dig the earth, bring out from within many kinds of minerals. Crush burn and hammer them to make a happy go round and press a hot plate to inscribe a sign. Proudly naming it and even labeling it a value for exchange. What you get there for that one cent is not what I get here. But do we not cover ourselves similarly or do we not eat in similar ways and most interestingly do we not “drop mangoes” exactly with the same smell? In fact do we not sit on the same thing to drop them? Some even sit on a Philippe Starck to drop the same (I do like Starck design that is why am mentioning the name). The romanticism of sitting on a designer toilet fitting is totally different and what I worry is only the economic nonsense it makes to do so. I do believe that human back have not changed since we learned to walk upright, or maybe even since long before that. Hence a functional object to fit our back need not change. Form of almost all toilet seats are similar including that of Starck. Only the object itself is fancifully elaborated. Whenever I start the story of the toilet I get a transit flight with delayed timings so will stop this subject and might write about it later.

Now where was i? I am here. Only thing missing is 1. How do 1 relate to i? hmm…? Today I propose a life without a single coin. Not only because I got robbed early Friday morning. But I do believe that it is possible. Imagine this!!! Or in reality think deeply about this!!!

I propose to offer my service free of charge. Why not? Yes it is possible. I simply have to do the things I do, and keep on doing and yet not bill my clients and even tell my clients not to pay. That is how I can do it. Now it is done and so how to proceed. When I do not get paid for the work I do and in fact the only income is no longer claimed then how do I settle my utility bills or get the food I eat or how do I cover my body with a descent cloth. This is the point where others come in to the newly formed thinking. As I begin to work for no return, simply I want a cloth manufacturer to give away some clothes for no cost at all, and a farmer to give their produce for no return at this moment. But now you will wonder then how do the cloth manufacturer and the farmer live on. They will have more than enough for them to wear and feed for themselves. If this is going little awkward to understand let me put it in a simpler way.

If everyone offers to give their own produce and/or service at no cost at all, then no one will ever need to purchase anything. I will offer my service free and my basic necessity (don’t even think about it … what I mean here is descent basic necessity like food, clothing and in today’s words utility and other bills and so on) fulfilled by you at no cost.

Let us erase the concept of money and our smile shall come back. A world without a demand and supply tension that already has reached a limit state. (I cannot explain limit state in tensile structures, an engineer can answer that). Imagine a people without greed and hatred. Feel a hug that will not cost you anything. Sense a handshake that will not lead to a wallet. Knowing how worried someone is will never cost you a hidden communication package.

Seriously I am proposing this and as you might be wondering, yes I am ready to begin. Are you ready to walk with me? I honour my droppings and that does not cost me anything but gain free ideas by losing some weight.

twitchy like a tot

Twitchy like a tot, the little specks jazz in the afternoon light which enters, without my blessing, through the window in the loft. The two analogous rays foil the concept that I sketch and the startling glow tempt to play with them. They begin from a bright white, spread out wide and seem more as they come close to disappear into the dark to nowhere. Yes invisible as they come closer to tickle me and giggling they go visible back to where they come. I tell the naughty little ones how I fancy catching them if they come to do that again. They never hear me but keep on playing tick trail until their watchful mother leisurely lay one by one to sleep.

veiled in colourless quill

As my shutter lazily closes after a last click, I faintly sketch your portrait at the back of my mind. It is your story I capture every night of my childhood sleep. The ones who put me to sleep tell of so many stories and my sleep takes me to where you are.

There fly in white wings a wind invisible. My shutter need not open to capture you nor can any mirror ever reflect your smile. No light need ever pass through your lucid crystal eyes that lightly gaze in tranquil yet bizarre way. There are no mountains to block any light thus any shadow to sleep on ground. No need to walk anymore and no footsteps to lament by.

The time I spent in the angel’s home by myself seems like a togetherness of a lifetime of a misplaced moment with a company of many a young days. It is the only place I see a smile, a smile that kept me smiling by. A smile I inherit a thousand miles. It is there where I learned the many I come to know. How the wind hold me nowhere. Those white wings carry me over greenery where no craven boundary defines me.

Floating in the air, my veiled colourless quill carries me over nowhere. The place is deep within me, where someone someday can fly through. Come my wind in white wings and carry me over that same place where I once flew. Come my bright angel in serene light and steer me over greenery once again. Flap those invisible wings and arrive at this moment so still to sketch your smile once again.

a page written in invisible ink

I am to myself like the wind is to the trees, invisible to each other, yet rarely leaves to lone. That walk today seems quite ordinary along the same roads I always pass. But the difference is obvious as no shadow peek behind for my whereabouts. Like the night is to the day I hid from myself to read the pages off the road. The book is old and these pages I flip everyday not reading them but only faintly remembering hints of the pictures. I walk along these roads for almost seventeen and half years and yet never read a road as I do today.

It is a hard back in a bluish green cloth cover and as I open I hear a creak like an old rusty hinge. The first page is hand painted in a deep red with the words, red banana, written above in an unusually large font. But the strange thing is that there is no banana on this page but oranges, apples, some faded vegetables and some other people’s delusion written all over it. As I stared strangely at this page for some few moments, the many tiny things on this page changed. There came a figurine, took the beautifully drawn still life then threw some tiny paper and disappeared like the dust. That tiny paper had intricate patterns drawn in a monotonous fine print that resembles the craftsmanship of our ancestors.

Turning that page and wondering about that tiny paper I slowly turned left to read the next page. Stunned and still like a stone I had to close the next page before I could see even the edge. There came a dragon wisp through the pages and almost blew a fire that nearly burned the book. It went faster than it came and when I turned I could only see the tail. Relieved that I am still able to read I turned the page and this time quickly before another speedy comes along. The second page is filled with many colours, shapes and a long text to read. On the left are many horizontally written lines of how to do’s and reminding me of the toilet. To the right I now see a new picture pasted over one of my very favourite old ones. I like the old one because it was a natural wood in a clear matt finish. Now it is all painted green but I think that painting a green colour cannot make a place green. A complementing colour to the first page of red this green is surely competing to be read more than the first. Then along the corner of the page is a little big note more airy, transparent and in two blues that resembles the sea. No wonder why I had a second look, yes because it is some many sketches from the sea. Although I like the sea it is sad to see my friends from the ocean lying so still on a page and knowing that they can never see their loved ones again. As I read along this long and ever changing page I came across changing colour. There is no sun to see the changes clearly but these rising pigments mixed in water will surely change this page in few more months. On other days and especially when the warm sun heats my back I surely cannot read these pages as slow as I am now. And I am still on the second page and yet it seems like I already read the whole book not knowing what, why and how someone ever wrote it. 

Brink

My beach sandals shall come to know of a day when they cannot press the sand anymore. They do not know why they hurt the sand and anyone who comes in between. Each step hears the cry of many whom they never ever met before. And they simply stamp a relic like the ink between a block print. The burden left a mark so deep that their weep dripped a salt strained in a sieve unforgiving. If they had the will they can fly aloft where the sweet winds can carry the cold smile of them. Like why we do the things we do there are so many reasons that neither they nor I may ever know and yet we do and they remain with us.

Then come a day, a day as close as the light that touches me, when my sandals will step on a rim. That is when they shall say, “Oh! The one who holds the press, try if you can, and print a mark with me. For now we have come at the edge of the storm, where the thunder deafens my ears and I can hear you no more. And now we have come to a point of no return, and the lightening blinds my sight so guide me if you can. Now that we have climbed up the tall smooth and shiny bottle, a fragile one that is slippery yet colourful and reflects that we do. We made it halfway up the neck and still not enough and here we are today almost about to step on the lip.”

Imagine the moment on the brink from where we shall journey all the way again but on the other side. Like a fairy we shall fly and like a firefly we shall glow. Before our reflections were smaller since we were crawling along the outer surface of the bubble. And if we ever pass through we shall see ourselves no matter which way we turn.

My sandals shall come to know of this day and that moment when I can no more lay my burdens on them. I cannot imagine the everlasting floating selflessness that I shall be when passing through the rim. And it is when I shall leave my sandals at the threshold of myself.

National Day

As we celebrate National Day remember that we, "the people", is the nation. We are like a tree, from a seed we grow and spread and bear fruit and continue to grow. We branch in many directions and in varying sizes. Sometimes we shed leaves, but only to give way for new leaves to grow. Although very true that the young leaves collect the source of food from the sun necessary for survival, without the roots, which hold a tree firmly in all extreme conditions, those food from the leaves are but only a falling dream.

Though we are a mix of peoples, with differing thoughts and ideas, it is together that we can become the nation we dream. Like our olden boats, having no engine at all, they cross great oceans. They knew that if they made a sail to catch the wind, which even if they never saw, could take them to greater distances. The only condition was to go along with the wind, together our ancestors, the boat they made and the wind they made history in maritime culture.

Where is “my country” which I cannot see and yet I dream about? Where is “my nation” which I cannot touch and yet her warm embrace shelters me? Where is “my mother-tongue” which I cannot spell and yet her whisper is like a spell on me? Where is “my national anthem” which I cannot hear and yet she cries aloud? Where is “my mother-land” which I cannot smell and yet spreads her sweet scent on me? Where is “my people” whom I never felt and yet all around me?

Today we must not forget the socio economic problems that sleep with us today. I hear all concerned talk of the problems day and night and on voice, picture and paper. Talking is good that it is a beginning. And more, today we must talk, yes talk but about the solution and not the problem. There are different walks of life that people pursue today. For simply an economic benefit if they keep on talking until a next offer is at their hand we shall keep on talking.

I am putting a pencil on my table and I want you to tell me how to take that pencil from the table. Although when tomorrow realizes actually to become a today, there will surely be many thoughts and ideas of how to take that pencil. Some might even present beautiful presentations on how to take that pencil. Others will surely submit detailed technical reports with facts and calculations. Interesting suggestions might even be given to bring in expert help and heavy machinery to lift that pencil. Days might pass simply filling my mind and my desk too with “how to take a pencil” research data.

But I simply forward my hand and lift the pencil. To do that it took me only a second. It is the will to do what I want to do with what I have and in limited time for the benefit of everyone.

I wish all a smiling future.

the ant

Waiting around me is a vast stillness that gently breathes to faintly please me. And as I washed my hand with soap, it is a heavy rain for the ant that almost drowned in it. Crippled but struggled a few steps then fell upside down and stood as still as the stillness around me. I stood still only to hear someone so still that even the stillness played a silent whisper.

I took the ant, dipped in fresh water and kept on a soft white tissue. The water soaked quickly in the foggy softness of the paper and it shines on its smooth black surface that I almost saw myself in it. I breathed warmth into the little thing and again I did as if it felt a warm gentle breeze from a misty ocean on a warm sunny afternoon.

I moved it to a drier place on the white surface of the soft paper. Again I kept it warm until it slowly moved its legs for the second time with great expression and almost on the eleventh hour like the beautiful notes of Beethoven’s “con molt’ espressione” (sonata no. 11, 2^nd movement). After a while it turned on its legs and slowly gained bearings to turn as if to look at me. None of us moved in the next few moments listening to the stillness of the sonata. The music felt like an unplayable debt of thankfulness dressed in a white one that is layered a little more than a dozen times.

Note:           I read about the ant and how they live for the betterment of togetherness rather than the self. A self which is so weak that even a falling drop can bring an end to oneself. How they communicate, cooperate and even guide one another to at times of survival. This little creature survived through millennia only by the strong cooperative principles of strength of unity. Togetherness and understanding within one’s own community and those who surround them. Together they build great nesting places and together they inherited a tradition of survival and beauty that very few can master like the great master who play the sound of stillness.

sensation

I open my eyes. I close my eyes. Again I open my eyes. Now I know that, after many hours of sleep, I am simply awake. But no matter how wide I open or how much I close, I am not seeing anything. My mind tells me that the time gone is far better. At least through the dark darkness of my sleep, I pass those unseen unreal yet beautiful landscapes. Now I realize that, after playing with my friend, even the bright burning chubby one is still smiling deep in memories of yesterday.

I slowly went and sat out on the deck. From far away I smell the waking of that plump little one. Though my sight is low and almost asleep, I smell the dawn as freshly as how I smell the half eaten mangoes left by the bats. Now I smell the mist of the morning fog and slowly yet deeply I breathe. Feeling cold inside myself I gently hiss to that yawning round one to wake up and let me smell my skin.

I look once again and now I hear the song of the bamboo so pale and colourless in early dawn. They play softly in wild like Beethoven’s “Quasi una Fantasia”. Only the leaves can play so gently with the softness of their flesh. This music made my eyes close again for a while only to feel the liquid sound to pour inside of me.

I wake again in a silent surprise to quench my thirst from the falling little drops. It tasted like “Gnossienne in Painted Veil”.

I felt a sensation of an unseen touch. With the round one half awake I now see the trees dancing at that very moment. From where does this feeling of touch come from, I wonder. Along she comes happily to ballet with the trees then hugs me gently and tip toes through the bamboo. I never see the wind with wings that flies over me to humour the beauty of a moment so still.

a mother

A smile is the only thing she offers, and yet everything I ever need. It is a welcome so captive in my thoughts. Her voice is low and soft, short but aversive. She is a simple human with a diverse worry.

Sad is not appropriate for the caravan of rituals I see. Like the many, I believe in an unseen and unknown. That is how I come to know about a soul we inherit. It comes and goes without a smile at all.

When the unseen depart, that which is left is washed. Dressed in unpick white cotton filled with sandalwood and camphor. The cherished ones glimpse for that one last moment and pack like a gift that I never open. I pray forgiveness for the unknown who left to journey the eternity. I pray for eternal paradise, the place the unseen left us for. The gift is then taken on the hands of mine and others who walk slowly to the place. The place is sand; dust and earth, widely open to receive that present which was once hers. Slowly they give up on the gift that once belonged to them. And I throw three handful of fine pure white sand just as the others did. And soon the earth closes above taking that which belonged to her.

I walked away with the many faces that turned and left. Turning back I leave behind again who once smiled at me. How strange it is that in time even that smile will fade like how that precious gift turns into dust and scatter. How strange it is indeed that even those thoughts so enslaved will someday be forgotten like a memoir inked on paper that’s washed away slowly in sea, sun and rain.

The Potter’s Wheel

I am on a journey to find a potter who turns clay that sounds my song. It is in this particular pottery that I can happily share my soul. Since pottery is an ancient art form my journeys are endless. Potteries are many like the many towns and potters too like those many that dwell. Likewise clay is here and there like the many flowers that grow of many colours, some lucid and others obscure.

I carry this soul within myself to share someday if I wish. And this desire is my journey along the waters carrying the earth. It shares my body for a while like a traveler in a lodge. Neither the traveler nor the lodge owns one other.  This being and place hold in each other a selfless nothingness and yet fulfill each other’s need perfectly.

Where shall I journey to find that one potter? Is that one among the ones gone long ago? Is that one still waiting among the ones to come after? Or is my potter simply here refining the clay until I come? I wonder if my potter is waiting too. Or I wonder if we may ever feel the presence in times of contact. Or do I simply journey until my desire to share is over or that which I need to share is no more with me.

One last wish I may have is my zeal to journey. Though I find my potter or may never, this journey that I travel carries a shadow by day and a dream by night along with the sounding clay of my body and the song of my soul.

waiting by the sea

Do I walk into the sea up to where I can walk no more and swim far beyond the unseen horizon to reach where hope floats adrift? Or do I simply wait here by the sea until the monsoon changes bringing in those distant dreams onto my shores?

a walk with you

Why am I walking? As my one foot touch the many little specks of sand the other leaves as much. I usually pass untouched even more sand than I can ever step on. Repeatedly I am doing so, saying hello to some and passing by others I know not. No one knows why I walk or where I go. Where can I go? To the places I go everyday or to those places I have never been to at all. Sometimes why I walk is of no importance just as the sand that I pass by. Only the few tiny specks stuck on my feet know what happened along the way. The walk is soon forgotten by the many little things that happen around.

Today I walk with you. Along a white sandy beach that stretch a long way. On one side are bushes and trees of many greens. The other side is a sea of many blues. The beach is sloping slightly towards the sea. The bushes and trees in front are bent slightly over to the beach. And the sea becomes opaque and darker as it goes afar. The beach narrows as it stretch away and vanish at distance. The sky is deep in blue with some white patches of cotton like clouds moving slowly with us.

If you look back you can see our footsteps being slowly washed away by the waves. As if no one ever walked along these shores. The sea is never tiring and sweep off the moments faithfully so that we have no regrets left ashore. Together we walk slowly along the music of the waves that wash ashore like a jazz quartet. Each wave, like each player, is so unique and improvises yet together makes a soothing music like one sea flowing into the lagoon.

Look at the sand where we walk. Where the wave wash the sand is a bit hard, wet, smooth and shiny with reflections of us on it for a moment at least. But the rest above that is dry, irregular and uneven soft sand. In between is the place I want you to squat for a moment. This is another universe that you can wait a lifetime. This is the place where many tiny and colourful shells are left ashore. You are staring at the many different shapes, patterns and types of perfectly beautiful or sadly broken pieces that are left paralyzed. Once they were shelter to many lives and now abandoned for at least better or otherwise mistakenly unfamiliar homes. Are they being thrown away as unused objects of the marine kingdom so that someone from the surface can make a different use?

We walk along exploring this irregular never ending line carrying so many inspiring geometry and colour. At this moment you realize that it is true why I forget to know why I walk. So much happen in between that the walk is simply forgotten as a simple regular means to all the possibilities that lies ahead. It is not too late to realize that without this walk that which lies ahead will only remain there unless we reach ahead for it. Or do you want to sit and wait here for the sandy beach to roll under us so that all the possible specks of sand pass through us. In that case a lot of sand making a huge pile will surely stop at us unable to move across and finally burying us beneath the load of it.

Why I walk is simply to explore the possibilities that lie ahead. I usually do not walk backwards, unless it is the deep roots of an ancient tree, and hence it is ahead that I walk. The steps I left behind taught me when to move up along the sloping shore without getting my feet wet from the waves that wash ashore. And my foot prints along the path that I came taught me a lot more than I ever knew about the many shapes and colours of all I met along. If I walk along this same shore I am sure I can presumably figure the possible combinations of the patterns and colours that I shall come across.

Why I walk has no meaning unless you come along, without whose smiling eyes this walk is simply a walk along a beach.