Many are times when my ego stutters and stammers between gloating, self -aggrandizement, and pitiful morbidity. Often, I find myself viciously fighting the,”I am always right ” syndrome. It’s an effort to bite my lower lip and keep that horrible phrase “ I told you so !” under wraps.
The pompous feeling of the” Miss Know All ”is often at loggerheads with the humble, befuddled brain, that wishes it knew much more than it actually does. This ping-pong battle inside has a high decibel,deafening sound. It screeches in shrill tones to explain to me ,that it is not ‘okay’ to flare one’s nostrils with puffed up pride .The synonyms learnt in Hindi grammar classes flash ominously.”Abhimaan ‘as opposed to’ghamand’never truly registered, methinks.
Mai (me)
Spitting fire
Spewing smoke
Looking daggers at the world
No , it’s not the auspicious dragon
It’s the demon of EGO
Screeching in grating tones
Preening in peacock regalia
Strutting in cowboy boots
Swaggering into rooms
Parading on the catwalk
Puffing up its feathers
Glancing into mirrors
To check its cocky nose
Repeating it’s favourite mantras
I , Me , Mine
Again and again
In a refrain
In a refrain
The choral sound of vanity
Hammering into unsuspecting heads
Bloated with hot air
Could vanish into the ether
The moment the Lord lets it go
Out of sight , out of mind
The goat like Mai Mai(me )
Silenced for ever
Flesh , bones , skin
Whatever was there in the body
Buried, burnt , crushed ,
Sold in the bazaars
Lilies may or may not choose
To bloom over such graves …
“Fareeda, je tu akal lateef , kaale likh na lekh,aapanade giribaan mein sirr nivaan kar dekh”said Baba Farid .When the preening and pouting start tormenting , its easy to understand Bhagat Kabir’s wise quip’….’Kabir garv na keejiye,ooncha dekh aavaas ,/kaal paron, punyah letna, oopar jamsi ghaas”.
My Story
I write about a lump of clay
that pretends to be something more
Loitering in halls of munificence
Without a stitch of knowledge
Bumbling and falling clumsily
into pits of depression and lows
This well-crafted body,
This chiseled to perfection countenance
This gloating pompous tub of lard
that thinks no end of itself
Pretentious stance of brusque attitudes
Patronizing loftily
This squeamish terror-stricken
wide-eyed lost soul
Scoffing at its own limitations
and fist fighting its dejections
Blundering into arenas
never trodden before
In tight jeans
That brings the bulges into focus
This holier-than-thou image
Tightly wrapping the imp beneath
This diva that launched a thousand loves
This heart searching for a lost beloved
Through umpteen life cycles
This thirsty mind parched for spiritual salvation
Wandering in realms of bewildered chanting
The fly-away hair never gelled or straightened
Like a Fakir in the Lord’s mansions
A Baul, a Sufi , a mendicant
Traveling in circles of dervishes
It could be my story or yours
You decide my friends
For stories are written in heaven
Only to rot in hell.
I feel Ghalib’s angst when he says
.” Har ik baat pe kehte ho tum , ke tu kya hai
tumhi kaho ke yeh andaaz e guftagu kya hai!!”.
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