Monday, January 24, 2011

Monsoon Shadow

He stared at the reflection of his shadow as if that was the only thing that was left with him. Where was he heading to he didnt know and he didnt know whether he existed. He had to prick himself but did not feel the pain and he could not even see his own self reflection in the mirror…….where was he lost. Lost or dead in his own memories, within his own self……he kept staring ….the wind was blowing in his face and all his hair just fell on his face and was fighting for the attention with the reflection but neither the senses nor the memory touched him. And strange as it was, the reflection fell out through the shining floor of his house and the mirror just shunned him, refusing to accept his face. Only his shadows were visible through the reflection. The shadow of a person without a body. He kept staring at the shadow trying to look for his body, tried to find the pain ……..the body having shunned him, senses deserted him he petered out like a river fighting for its existence in the dreary desert slowly swallowed by the sand but merging too at the same time……..his own identity ……the dying shadows lay glaring, cast on the eyes like a spider about to catch its prey…..slowly he was numbing of remembrance of her.
In life he had lived to see, touch and feel love. A love which was not his. The love which was so much outside him for which he groped in deathly silence.  The emptiness which had so much tried to find the inner self and like the roots trying to reach out for its eternal succor in the soil, emptiness just reached the nadirs of his life. The completeness which his life was trying to find through love was to leave him in eternal dark like the dark mountains staring at emptiness, providing spaces for ever widening sorrows. A love which defines itself in the search for the other which tries to merge with the other to create the high seas on which the souls transcend to the end of the horizon always searching for spaces unbound and times unknown. That was he creating spaces for himself and for his existence through his writings, creating and at the same time destroying a virtual world in which he wished to live, creating a hope. Love was vision for him, writing for him, a journey through which he experienced himself, understood his self, destroyed his self and then recreated it too……this process was a continuous explication of a desire of existence itself.


  1. Life, a continuous desire for love and in love we seek completion, but why? Why aren't we complete in ourselves? Besides, what is love? Is there anything beyond media-created images of romance? I don't know...I'm still to find out myself.

  2. it is like reading one's own biography...always in search of a "sii" from the beloved to feel happy in the saddest moments...always waiting for the person to show up on facebook or to send a few lines or just to pass a smile (y)...taking blame for even those things whose root causes were just a series of coincidences and then getting back into our own caves to linger the surprise why Milton wrote, "They also serve who only stand and wait".

  3. by definition not a story.. its an abstract.. while reading i saw a man in a dark tunnel, trying to walk in darkness, looking for light.. and i saw him reflecting in a mirror .. and in that mirror i saw him going places - from than tunnel to a desert, in a jungle looking at a spider then near an ocean.. he is looking for something everywhere .. travelling in solitude travelling with people and then finally settling down in a pile of papers, writing and then finally figuring out the light in the dark tunnel he was in--- Tushar