The best way to know the self is feeling oneself at the moments of reckoning. The feeling of being alone, just with your senses, may lead you to think more consciously. More and more of such moments may sensitize ‘you towards you’, towards others. We become regular with introspection and retrospection. We get ‘the’ gradual connect to the higher self we may name Spirituality or God or just a Humane Conscious. We tend to get a rhythm again in life. We need to learn the art of being lonely in crowd while being part of the crowd. A multitude of loneliness in mosaic of relations! One needs to feel it severally, with conscience, before making it a way of life. One needs to live several such lonely moments. One needs to live severallyalone.

Wednesday, 14 October 2015


Well, nothing historical like Roman Elegies in this journey,
But it still has a story that stretches back to the days,
When I used to love its amorphous sharpness.

White, or black, or pink, or yellow, colours adored me,
When you were on my lips, playing vivaciously,
Dipping in me with a tippy playfulness.

Today always waited for tomorrow, in jocular anticipation,
When it will be the time of the day of emancipation,
In unison of us, and your piquant acess.

Having you was always complete and the feeling was so intrinsic,
Penetrating deep, melting in my thoughts at the moment,
That I would have you before all caress.

Scalding or piercing, yes, at times you would intently act so,
But then you had become a tale so personified in my soul,
That I would always look beyond, inside me, for address.  

Then suddenly, one day, you told me you had a revelation, for me,
That gone are the days when you used to be mutual with me,
And the piquant was to be bitter now with sullenness.

I didn’t accept that, and like a child’s virtue, I still don’t follow it,
For, what you felt to me, was basic to me, pure and pointed,
Yes, it soured initially, but never in absoluteness.

I know the story is yet to be told, I don’t know how, and when,
The piquant is still not bitter, though is bereft of touch now,
Missing that flavour of life dipped in your playfulness.


©/IPR: Santosh Chaubey -