...the hopes and despair

depth and insights of feelings...

Amidst the fears, the doubts, the conflicts, the frustrations... were such musings and reflections - written around the age of 18-20, indicative of a latent ability to withdraw, to stand aside and look at life and its happenings from a distance....

Loneliness is a relative concept - a vague feeling - a feeling that you cannot share with anyone - lonely joys, lonely sorrows, lonely love, lonely hate.... joys which you have to sit and experience by yourself, without being able to tell anyone that you are feeling happy...

And lonely wishes - wishes that you dare not express in words because of the nagging fears of misunderstanding and dislocation...

Loneliness is perhaps most strongly felt in a crowd, than when one is alone, because in a crowd you must identify with others with whom you have nothing in common with, while when alone, all you must do for your own satisfaction is to identify with one of your images - and you can change the images at will...

Lonely feelings are to be cherished lovingly...




Rivers in spate have a habit - a compulsive quality of rushing on incessantly and sweeping away all the obstacles in their path...

Rivers in spate gush on without stopping and whenever they find a huge rock in their course, they dash themselves against it - until it is either displaced, or broken into small pieces...

And since rivers, while gathering speed and collecting the waters from numerous sources, inevitably collect some huge rock also, against which to dash themselves, even if there is no need for it...

But rivers are different from stagnant pools and ponds and lakes which present only a superficial blueness...

Rivers have new ripples every second...

Rivers give life to their thousands of tributaries, and they do not mingle with any wayside expanse of water - they give themselves to the mightiest of them all, the vast sea...

And they absorb in themselves the thousand wayside waters... They have precious stones in their hearts, but these are not always obvious... to common people.




Pain is not only a sort of full time occupation, but also a waiting for some deliverance - waiting in orange and red flames of bitter agony - flames that have set alight the rest of the world for you. You are occupied by it all the day and writhe to get into a more comfortable position but you fail... and actually if did succeed, it would be failure - what no pain? Nothing to do, nothing to wait for any more? When you�re not in physical pain, the world burns with blue flame. It burns whitely whn you are lonely and waiting and hoping for someone to come and talk to you, but you know in your inner heart that nobody will come...

During pain you are waiting - indefinitely, for a darkness to overpower you, to succour you...




Call it what you will... writing a poem is almost like stripping of all your clothes for a time... a peep into your mind for a little time... like a peep at yourself, naked, in a mirror... both self-satisfying and warming, catering to shelter your ego and to give a sense of completeness and knowledge, and suggesting newer things... until the reflection is seen by somebody else. Then it becomes embarrassing and gives nothing but a sense of incompleteness, a realisation that you are nude while others are not, shattering the defenses of your ego and stagnating your inner persona. So that necessary is to hide yourself, to wear smiling ego defenses on your outer self, to wear expensive and beautiful clothes that make others forget about the inner view?

{the bundle of raw nerves} (a world she felt responsible for} {her prison}
{the inexplicable fears} {her self-doubts} {her resentments} {the inner life}
{the flapping of wings} {the cold as steel in her} {her intense independence}
{her romantic self} {the seeds to unfold} {the hurts and pain}

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Geeta's Poems

Stories She Wrote

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Poems for Manasi

About Geeta

• refelction, churnings and insights
• the point of it all
• remembering Geeta
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