Home – the journey

This post was written by Souvik during his feverish recovery from an infection. It speaks to the soul.

Genesis and a glimpse into the future

When did my journey start – perhaps it was twenty-five years back when my father found his better half and finally became whole as he whispered sweet nothings in my mother’s ear. Or was it even earlier – thousands of years back when the Homo sapiens first appeared on this lush green earth to rob her, to enjoy her, to make her their own. Or perhaps it started from nothing, when time herself was being conceived, when all that existed was the all-encompassing nothingness. Yes, perhaps that is when my journey began. And it will continue. As long as the homo sentimentalists wonder, the journey continues.

Loss

When did I first become conscious of being home;- I remember being protected by my mother’s love, buried in her, swimming in the amniotic fluid, there was I; when the man in the white coat dragged me out of my shelter to this strange, never-before-seen world. A sense of belonging was taken away from me – I was not ready.

Or was it even before then. The first time, I was disenfranchised in my own country, when I was not allowed to vote in my own country, perhaps then?

Or perhaps when I was slaughtered like animals in my own island that I first knew what home was.

Or even before then when nothing gave way to – me, us, these trees, her, my father, my brother, my mother, that rock, my friend. The candles burned deep inside all of us. However, it burned out. The essence, cosmic vibration that played the same note on everyone’s soul, the wave that rippled in all our hearts was lost. With time.

The search

Perhaps then, lost in a vast space, the search, my journey begins; home, sweet home, where lies the promise of warmth and security, a blanket to keep me safe and stories to pass the cold nights, someone to snuggle with, someone to caress, a place where fundamental rights are exactly that, a place where differences are celebrated, where you and me write our stories that will be forever be known as The Story, where you are in me and I am in you and we are not either of us, where if we want the carnival lights will be all the lights in our life, where the sun goes down but there is never darkness and where we are always there regardless of whether we are there or not.

Mine is an eternal search – where is it? Who will guide me? Am I ready? Are we ready? Is home simply being? The waves that lick the shoreline, sometimes tender, often violent only to recede, how do they know when they are home? The majestic clouds that form only to be obliterated in innumerable tiny droplets acquiescing to alleviate our perched throats, do they care about going home?

I am walking. Dark sky. Scattered stars. Distant milky wave beckons. The ghost star sends me wishes. I am being. Am I home?

Her hair flows. Under the orange glow of the sunset – ethereal her. My other half or just me? Will she complete me or will I realize her within me. I run away. Running to and away, at the same time, my tears trickle down and form pearls in a different universe, my heart bleeds endless salt water while my soul is sold to the one with most cosmetic cream. And I. And I. And I. I never become him or her.

Water or fire. Water can fit into any mold or shape. It can even erode the mighty mountain. I have always wanted to be fire. To burn, burn, burn, burn. Squeezing each and every moment, drinking the poison and the elixir of life until I am completely overwhelmed with the sweet pain and the agony of life, the beautiful life. Do I want to go home?

We shall overcome – the song reminds me of a time when I was greater than myself, when I overreached and got for myself a little rainbow. I wanted to make my own universe, with small cute galaxies, few billion stars. Colorful planets, kind of like the one we have here. But this one would have had a better communication system.

The road long forgotten, under the leafy shadows of the mighty poplar, I walk hand in hand with myself. As I recount Neruda in my mind, I get closer and closer to home. But then a metal bird brings down a mighty empire and my pieces shatter. I am the American soldier killing and I am the Afghani civilian dying. I am the rocket launcher as well as the bullet piercing the heart of the little girl. She had bright blue eyes.

Then evening sets. She smiles. Under the vast expanse of the sky it is me and her. A songbird reminds me of long lost promises. As the sun disappears and a somber lonely evening descends, we are reunited. I can hear my lady calling. And then she is gone. Gone like the dewdrop on the flower that I never cared to find out the name of. Gone. Accolades and all, perhaps a standing ovation and now she is gone, gone like that rainbow of yesteryears. She is not there as I am gone.

The show must go on.

I burn, burn, burn with unfathomable love, with unquenchable lust, with undying hate, with poison in my veins and Gandhi in my heart, I burn. I burn with the promise of the days to come, of a continual cycle of being born and rebirth. Yes, I never die. I never die. I will be going home.

One day. I will realize home within me. One day home will be being. One day she will come. One day the sky will fall. One day I will roll over the edge of the earth. One day we will all laugh. One day Lenon will not be killed. One day we will not need god. One day I will be her and she will be me and we all will be one again. Back to nothingness.

Perhaps nothingness is the only home we have ever had.

Desert


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