The Grove (1)

Today, May 23, 2014.

A bit of the late night still remains . . .
The wind's heart is heavy today; why, there's no time yet to think. What terrible rain—
the sky's heart bleeds, mixing silently into the drizzling breeze, when moonlight tears apart, a night gathers itself . . .
Here in the deep night the woodpecker calls, from tree to tree its solitude's hymn rings leaf by leaf!

May 25, 2014.

From six in the morning to six in the evening, another long day of my frail life in light and air.
The bag on my shoulder never felt heavy, rather my head always stayed light; because it held not just books and notebooks, but a bagful of my love!

Love is never heavy, love is like white feathers; whose touch gives a caress, not madness.

July 1, 2014

Ugh, today I won't write time's proper address.
Time... time is such a wayward non-time—fish head or what, pumpkin stems!
...time's worship is becoming gradual, causeless torment.
Time's address today has drowned in non-time's abyss.

Days, dates, phone numbers... in short, I can't remember anything numerical.
This seems like terribly exhausting mental labor to me!
Friends often make merry jokes about this. Laughingly they never fail to say,
you'll never fall in love... to love, you have to carefully hang birthdays of beloved ones, first meeting days, love declaration days like signboards on memory's gate.

What torture! Can one live carrying such responsibilities!
I never learned grammar by reading rules in life, and now at this age I'll love by following rules!
No one sprinkles ghee on fried bottle gourd, friend! I'd rather flee...

Falling in love is nothing but useless work... Yes, this is entirely my principle.
Love—in each one's philosophy, each one's flavor. My taste or distaste in this isn't important.
I won't do that kind of love; I'd rather simply love... love with affection and tenderness, rolling around.

Rather, I'll love from afar. You don't have to go very close to the beloved, just secretly hide in their depths.
Then you'll see, lifelong love never grows stale.
Because I love, I mustn't clutch the beloved, I must stand touching finger to finger, let them live in joy;
you'll see, how love will sing songs of lifelong continuity, awaken melodies.
People don't get lost, only the heart gets lost.

Why must love be measured by days? That's not like scripture reading!
Scripture reading has devotion, has fear, has demands and obligations too... does that have love?
Love is simple, transparent. It needs no inventory.
They don't know, not everyone puts yogurt and chili on the same plate.
If I ever love, I'll love someone like my own child.

Let it be!
Today was a special day, which silently, unknowingly just fizzled out. No, perhaps this day hasn't yet impressed its specialness on me;
the bugs in my head are rampaging about quite vigorously—despite thinking so hard, I couldn't construct any logical explanation for this.

Something becoming special depends mainly on a person's relationship with it.
For instance,
someone appeals to you, seeing their joy on their special day also feels good; but that leaves no mark of specialness for me.
Or, so-and-so doesn't appeal to me, their special day doesn't even enter my calculations.
Again, someone else, who falls neither in my good nor bad books, that they too might have special days doesn't even occur to me.
And the one I especially like, somewhere in some fold or groove of my own life their place is quite deep;
whose importance weighs heavier than anything else, every single day of theirs seems like a special day, even when they say very ordinary things, it seems there's something special in that too!

No, no, what you're thinking... I mean it doesn't have to be like that, but of course that's not important.
Every special person isn't necessarily a lover or beloved.
Really, how do such mustard-oil-soaked pungent thoughts arise!
Sometimes you have to see life even after removing the veil!

You'll see, many lovers aren't special to their beloved.
Their pet cat, the quail's newborn chick,
the fresh jasmine bud in the garden, the favorite book are rather more important than the beloved person! And this has all the touches of naturalness, so it looks quite beautiful.

Let love rather be simple, let there be nothing to hide in love.
Let the beloved rather be home.

Whatever it is, who gave me the responsibility of poking and breaking through all these equations!
Why am I thinking what I'm not the person to think!
Today's special day's person, I especially like them, such a one.
The person is my...
No, when I've sat down to write... the most beautiful something or just... home, then
I've kept aside the most affection-soaked word for them... grove!

November 12, 2014.

Studies seem to have lodged in brain and mind. Moving by time's every tick is one part of my mechanical life.
No, I have no trouble living this mechanical life, rather I like it quite well.
Mechanical life has several medicinal qualities;
for instance, people don't get too close to mechanical people, basically find no satisfaction in getting close.
What most people want is—to describe in detail the trash of their personal lives along with neighborhood gossip and to ornament the judge's seat themselves; precisely this place they don't get with mechanical people.

Apparently all mechanical people aren't really mechanical; the difference is that they have a specific personal lifestyle, a private world.
They have one or two very dear people, one or two priceless relationships—which people don't get even after lifetimes of effort.
They have some quite strange hobbies, their desires are also somewhat strange.
You'll often see, their work, their way of working—you can't match it with anyone else's.

The first thing that will come to your mind is, "This one's surely mad!"
Every creative person is mad, every creative person is mechanical, there's no disagreement about this.
Their thought process, thinking levels are quite clear and free of cunning, though somewhat complex too!
And they can say 'no' very well, this certainly holds special dimensions for thought.

Another way to recognize mechanical people is, they know how to speak very measuredly, don't cross the line of commas and periods. Impossibly impenetrable gravity's poster covers eyes-face, movement-speech.
But the person who is their soul's person, to them they know how to be most talkative; know how to be most simple, just like some underage child.

The reason for this could be—beautiful cat Luna Pasteur wanting to become the second wife of her lord Mr. Sniffen Bat,
or mother bird secretly feeding her chicks soaked forest biscuits in tree gaps and holes,
tearing petals of love-offered flowers, putting them between two teeth and chewing to become a connoisseur of taste,
picking up a few fluffy sweets soaked in sugar syrup, dipping them in a glass of water, bidding farewell to even sugar's last particle-member... only then eating!