Nothing Broken, Nothing Thrown

Your breath is warm; your skin is warmer. This cuddle is freaking me out. Let’s get up and have something. It’s still dark, yet I can see your form as you stagger. You don’t look as gorgeous as you did last night. Neither as sober. Oh! you like my taste of music. Well, these CDs belong to my roomy. You should appreciate my taste of roommates instead. What was your name again? Doesn’t really matter though. It is not going to get tattooed on my back.

These walls just witnessed a revelry of instincts. Our bodies, high on the spirit, cruised through a routine of passion. Together, we created pleasure that will last, but only as long as we are up here. And when we get down and the hangover kicks in, we can forget each other and forgive ourselves. Want a smoke?

That too was a night of intoxication. A night of violence, a crusade of morals and will. I was high on my ideals. She was high on her freedom. She pushed the door close and flicked the lights off. Her arm twirled around mine in an impatient, desperate search. Her movements, graceful yet urgent, a projection of the confusion and struggle of her thoughts. In a smooth transition, as our arms unwounded, our bodies entangled in affectionate and hurtful clasp. Shielding and attacking each other at the same time. Man and woman, indistinguishable, in matter, in mind.

This is how we were sold on the altars of emotions. Two more whores sacrificed for Love, mistaking the carnage for the ultimate union. What was her name? Doesn’t really matter now. It is tattooed on my back.

Can you stop drinking? I need you sober and attentive for the rest of your stay. Let’s get back to work, we still have a lot to create. When you’ll walk out of that door, it will be closed on you forever. But, I want you to know, the moment we share is special. It’s so insignificant, cheap, promiscuous and small. Yet, it doesn’t get broken, doesn’t get thrown.

Love of Science

This is an excerpt from an address at the Physical Society, Berlin, on the occasion of  Max Plank’s sixtieth birthday. The words belong to one of the greatest scientists that ever lived on the face of earth. Any guesses? You can see the entire address by the speaker at this link: Principles of Research

IN the temple of science are many mansions, and various indeed are they that dwell therein and the motives that have led them thither. Many take to science out of a joyful sense of superior intellectual power; science is their own special sport to which they look for vivid experience and the satisfaction of ambition; many others are to be found in the temple who have offered the products of their brains on this altar for purely utilitarian purposes. Were an angel of the Lord to come and drive all the people belonging to these two categories out of the temple, the assemblage would be seriously depleted, but there would still be some men, of both present and past times, left inside… let us have another look at those who have found favor with the angel. Most of them are somewhat odd, uncommunicative, solitary fellows, really less like each other, in spite of these common characteristics, than the hosts of the rejected. What has brought them to the temple? That is a difficult question and no single answer will cover it. To begin with, I believe with Schopenhauer that one of the strongest motives that leads men to art and science is escape from everyday life with its painful crudity and hopeless dreariness, from the fetters of one’s own ever shifting desires. A finely tempered nature longs to escape from personal life into the world of objective perception and thought; this desire may be compared with the townsman’s irresistible longing to escape from his noisy, cramped surroundings into the silence of high mountains, where the eye ranges freely through the still, pure air and fondly traces out the restful contours apparently built for eternity.

तेरी आँखें

शोर मचाती है तेरी आँखें,
होंठो से बोल, जो बात है |

ना जाने क्या समझाती हैं ये आँखें,
कुछ तो है, कोई तो बात है |

मत बोल की ये तेरे जज़्बात नहीं,
देखा है मैंने, एक बेकाबू तूफान है |

टूट जा, बिखर जा, खोल दे दिल,
भीगने को नहीं, हम डूबने को तैयार हैं |

आँखों से गर बोल पाता मैं भी,
कह देता वो, जो दिल में छुपा रखा है |

सुनाता तुझे वो लम्हें, वो घड़ियाँ,
जब तू ना थी, फिर भी लगता था मेरे पास है |

बयान करता तुझे मेरी हक़ीकत,
जहाँ तू, ज़िंदगी, मौत और एहसास है |


What I needed was her hand in mine,
What I held onto was my own pain.

And I closed the door behind me,
As a denial to the truth (in vain).

What I needed was her hand in mine,
What I held onto was my own pain.

I waited for her all my life, but,
Never told her, now she can never know.

I wanted to break, I wanted to feel,
But was left with no reason, life or soul.

And then I knew I had finally reached home,
When I felt her fragile grip on my palm.

And saw the rigid lines of her face,
In the crimson pool on the floor.