Yin-yang

Yin-yang is the Maoist symbol for two opposing but inseparable forces.

We think of ourselves as 'single' persons when we are actually always a 'double': the yin and yang. There is always a +ve voice in our head and another that urges us on toward the -ve. There is always a battle between the 'yes' and the 'no' in our heart and mind. When the heart gives you the go-ahead but the mind struggles to fit in 'logic' somewhere, fix in 'rationality'.

If you have ever had conversations running in your mind, you know there are two persons, two parts of you, present within a single anatomical shell. There is always an argument going on, always the black versus the white. A part of you urging you to take the step, be bold and say it, do it, act it while the other part holds you back, asks you to dip that toe in the pond before you jump right into it. In the meantime is confusion and tension as the tussle goes on. Sometimes this is momentary but on days when you would rather shut everything out than face anything, the struggle becomes red-hot active. There is so much running through your mind at once that all 'you' do is look around. Maybe put on music to silence the arguing yin and yang, to drown out the voices. Sometimes you succeed too. But it's not always guaranteed.

There is a voice saying that red is the best option: bold, sharp, bright.

There is that other voice saying pink is the better thing: softer, quieter, more subdued.

There is constant war between the two parts. One wants you to slap the person making you angry right away and make your point while the other tries to put a lid on the boiling pot. One asks you to smile when you would rather give someone a snarl. One makes you want to jump up and enjoy and have fun while the other is constantly reminding you that the moment is not permanent. That once it is over, it is back to the same old state.

This two sided version of ourselves is the reason sadness always accompanies happiness and there are occasions when the line between the two is blurred and they merge together.

Sometimes you are looking directly into someone's eyes and the voice makes you forget you shouldn't. The other voice jumps up to caution you but it's too late, the damage is done. The yin has momentarily triumphed yang. This is not supposed to happen. Yin and yang are inseparable, they totally fit in.

But when one trumps the other, that is the start of magic. Pure magic.

The start of mini apocalypses in your head.

The start of stanzas and stories and tales that go down in history.

The Gift

It was a small box. Hand painted. Gathering dust on a shelf in a small, shabby shop on a hillstation.

An unremarkable box, too small to hold much. Painted in hues of the bluest blue and some beige. Swirls of a golden leaf encircled the circumference and a swish of blue petals.

It was indeed a small box and something that would go unnoticed when looking for a handicraft to buy. Something you might just glance at and then shushh away in your mind's eye, rejecting it's potential to be bought for any reason. Move on. Next item please!

But when you are given this tiny thing by someone with perhaps a little something else coiled tidily inside, it begins to take on a whole new meaning.

For a gift is a gift no matter how small or tiny. It is the 'reason' that makes a difference and all of a sudden you feel special, flattered. Like you matter on this planet and that perhaps all is not a lost cause.

You unpack the little box and finger it, enthralled by the gentle bumps of paint as they spell out the painted vines. Bring it up close to your eyes for a better look, admire the sheer labor spent on creating the object of beauty.

Open the box, peer inside. Take out the little something and look in again. It is empty now of course yet you continue staring at the blue inside. Feel it with your finger, trace it with your thumb.

You look at it for a while, smile, and then gently place it back into it's wrapping. You are gentle with it to prevent the smallest abrasion on it's surface. Perhaps it sounds stupid but you save the wrapping as well.

For the sheer goodwill it was given to you with is heart-wrenching.

In that small box is stored a wealth of music and other things melodious, words, poetry, smiles and perhaps a touch of resentment, some stories and webbings. Lots of memories. The expression when it was handed to you.

A gift is the way to make someone feel special.

And that to me is purely beautiful.

Sponge

What does the word remind you of?

Maybe the smiling face of the pretty girl on ScotchBrite®. Or perhaps SpongeBob ® for those of you who like watching cartoons. Both these are smiling reminders.

But if you look at a sponge closely, it is actually a sad little thing.

The way it looks solid at first glance but reveals holes, pockets of air when you zoom in reminds me so much of us, the people. We are just the same: solid and courageous on the outside yet the same cowering beings inside, all of us, shrinking away silently against fear, the feeling of not being 'wanted' and 'needed', of not being 'loved'; the insecurities, the jealousies we try our best to mask during the day keeping in view 'people skills' yet can never fully escape because they WILL resurface no matter, seeking out our darkest moments to become their brightest.

Just like a sponge we absorb what is around us. Hold it's essence only as long as things are proceeding the way we want them, as long as we are masters of the grease we are made to wipe and not it's slaves. We absorb it so much so that we begin to drip the essence.

But along comes either a change of scenario or a bad incident to throw us off balance and we get 'squeezed out'. Back to the original hole-d condition.

Sometimes when you begin to feel things, being reminded of instances and begin to think of something more than you should, it feels like  you literally ARE a sponge: so hollow, so weak and malleable, so dispensable. And why not, since the brain itself is a sponge soaked in blood, the fibres of which are formed of as many neurons as are stars in the universe?

And then sometimes, you feel so light like a sponge too, ready to lift off your feet and fly up into the sky feeling like the luckiest person around.

And the lightness comes also when you feel  horrible, those days you feel like a prisoner trapped inside your own head.

Classic paradox for you.

Just like a sponge you sometimes feel used in a bad way, enough to make you lose respect for either yourself or the other person. Unsure if it was you who was stupid enough to not realize, or the other person just so mean on you.

Life is strange and it is said in modern Biology that biological sponges were among the first living things to come into being in the form we see them in today.

Over the years the human race has switched over to synthetic polymer-based sponges.

But does it mean we give up hope in life, in feeling, emotion and prayer?

I think not.

You only have to look at the cheerful ScotchBrite® girl to see  that synthetic sponges DO come in pretty packaging too and that with care, it can last you a long time.

That is what you have to look for in life. Sustainability.

Moments of happiness. Of ecstasy.

Airborne

Experience travelling by air is as unique as any other travelling experience. Sometimes it is the excitement of a new airport and other times simply the exoticism of the place. And sometimes, just the very feeling of being seated in and 'experiencing' an airplane.

I love the sensation of the airplane lifting off, the grr-grrr-ing as the wheels are withdrawn into the plane's tummy while it simultaneously gains lift. The same way I love the feeling of the plane touching down: the feeling of butterflies fluttering inside your stomach, the gentle closing down of your eardrums and then them popping open upon swallowing, the grrr-grrrr-ing again as the wheels come back out. I love the sensation of passing by the sun, seemingly looking straight at it during the day, and the moon by night. One a beautiful disk of gold and the other a sphere of grey-splotched white. Looking at these somewhat closer than while on ground makes you sort of understand why civilizations of the past found them worshipful. Powerful. And why poets to this day dedicate stanzas to their beauty and use their effect to personify human emotion.

The weather on Tuesday was forecasted to be cloudy and rain was on the cards; turbulence during the flight was expected.

The plane cleared Pakistani airspace without much disturbance but passing over the Gulf waters brought some ups and downs. All of a sudden we found ourselves jolted up, and the interior suddenly became darker than earlier on. A strange fog became visible through the window where before the sunlight has passed through. The lady beside me (we were toward the window-side) literally jumped into the air as much as her fastened seatbelt would allow and then began reciting something under her breath, a prayer for salvation and to keep away from any impending mishap. I should have done the same, my mind kept telling me: all those little precautions and dua's mama had taught me came to mind,  all those episodes of Air Crash Investigation I had watched on NatGeo began a replay in my mind's eye. But I was just too excited to recite anything, too caught up in the moment: for we were passing right through the clouds themselves! The total excitement as we flew through the white cotton looking so yummy it made you want to reach out and eat, like cotton candy. The constant up-and-down motion of the airplane only added to the excitement.

It felt heroic to be part of such turbulence, sort of brave to think of myself as a 'survivor' of something dangerous. The feeling that this was how the story of life had ended for many people in countless air crashes as the pilots lost control of the airplane. Maybe I should be feeling guilty for feeling this way in second-person tense. But I don't.

I understood so much of God and belief in those few seconds.

For, those moments in the cloud were, simply, beautiful.