single-track running

Today, I ran on single-track trails for the first time. These trails are narrow and one has to run in 'single-file'. I think the elevation varied between 900 and 400 feet.
Running on such trails is quite challenging. The constant undulations made it very difficult for me to settle into any sort of rhythm. I found that I had to concentrate intensely to avoid tripping on roots and branches, stumbling on large stones and slipping off the trail. No more can one allow one's thoughts to wander.
I was never able to completely shrug off the fear of mountain lions, the uneasiness induced by the damp, dark trees and the frustration at my pace. At certain times, I experienced a distinct sense of happiness that could simply be a product of physical exertion.
The idea is to attempt the same run again and evaluate my 'emotional fitness'.

the art of creation

The poet absorbs the formlessness of the girl ahead. He spies her hair as a flowing cataract;

the gentle susurrations as it strains to unleash itself and wander the sleepy night with the wind, he moulds into the whispered promises of hidden lovers. The cataract metamorphoses, in defiance of rationale, into an intangible softness, a softness that is the essence of the night that the poet has allowed to withdraw.

Sometimes the fertile and the febrile blur indistinguishably when the poet experiences transports of emotion. The permanence of his present self lies discarded along with the carcasses of other poets - others who incessantly metamorphose, for who is inclined to disabuse them of the frailty of their notions - while reality deliquesces.

The poet outlines a face framed in these dark waves; embroiders it with amorphous features - features that shy away from the light of enumeration. They are as vague as the flow of these words, demurring to reveal; the wind buffets their expressions away as letters stumble and collapse.

in conversation

"I smoke six cigarettes a day. I wasn't smoking so many earlier; now after befriending that Russian lady I seem to have lost a bit of control. Russians, you know, they smoke as with a ravenous appetite. "
I smiled understandingly. Atleast, I hoped it appeared to her thus. For I had realised, amidst the incessant chirping of the birds and the impassioned narration of my companion, that the cigarette in my hand was the third of the day. I watched the thing slowly dying in my fingers; the wind flicking the ashes onto the concrete bench...
"....my father maintains a large garden here. I remember when I was young that he and mum used to dislike the fact that I often smoked with my brother. But I declared that if they could puff on the hookah, then I could bloody well smoke. "
I watched with a detached curiosity as she spoke. Sunlight was falling on the leaves behind her head and, in noticing that, I felt a shift in my thoughts. It seemed to me that, for the first time, I really knew what it meant for a leaf to be "dappled". When I returned to her, I found that she was still talking - something about the difficulties of educated girls in Pakistan. Perhaps because of the languor induced by the cigarette-smoke or the sudden elation caused by the presence of the dappled, dancing leaf I cannot say, but I felt a strong sense of compassion for this divorced woman. In retrospect, it might have even been attraction for I recollect thinking, lazily, that her voice is rather delectable.
She holds herself in an erect posture, mildly forbidding. A sparrow sits nervously at the far end of the bench. The sun darts behind a cloud.

thoughts and words

thought is immense strength
thought is shiva.
it creates, it destroys
it confines, it liberates
it forgives, it festers
it recedes, it reforms
it is hesitant, it is relentless..

word is thoughts consort.
word is parvati.
it has beauty, it has poise
it plays, it hides
it completes, it distorts
it veils the nature of thoughts..

Thought tumbles into voids in the world of words, and its self splinters and fragments into various interpretations. Noone but 'shiva' knows the different forms as one, for the net of maya has been drawn by 'parvati' across every mind.

opportunity

Lying on the grass, I watch the smoke curling upwards and caressing your cheeks. The cigarette dangles between the fingers of your left hand. Your eyes are bright behind those serious spectacles and your small lips slightly parted in the aftermath of a smile. The heat of the afternoon is palpable; fatigue is upon both mind and body. Surprisingly, I find myself expounding on Nataraja and his cosmic dance. Your questions are polite, your interest rather reluctant. Perhaps you realise that this is merely a means to prolong the conversation.

I urge you to stand up so that I can show you the pose.

"The left foot must be slightly curved and point to the ground, like this", I demonstrate. "Not like that. Across the right knee! Steady!"

You are going to lose your balance.

Hold her!, I think.

Suddenly, it seems very important that I hold you, touch you. Now, at this moment, when I am standing beside you and my palm is almost on your delicate back. It is the culmination of our conversation. I am convinced that it must be so.

There is a quickening of the pulse. I observe my hand, poised to feel the pressure of your body, trembling. The warm scent of your skin is mingling with the odour of the cigarette. The desire is so intense that it fills my senses. I am consumed by it. Surely, you can sense it. But, surely!

A stops reading and turns towards B. "Well?".

B shrugs her shoulders. "The change of mood is quite rapid. It ought to be more gradual, right?".

"But that's the whole point", says A. "The mood changes in a dramatic fashion for it is not in the control of the rational mind. The desire to touch the girl is upon him in a flash."

"How?"

"Hmm.. Perhaps, the desire is a manifestation of the possibility of that moment of physical proximity. Yes, it is not the presence of the girl that caused this shift in mood rather the opportunity provided by that moment when she was going to lose her balance. She was always there, wasn't she? "

"Are you saying that impulse is governed by opportunity?"

" I don't know, B. But every moment is suffused with possibility, don't you think? Of something happening or, more interestingly, nothing happening. Were it not for that instant, which itself arose out of nothing, the conversation would have continued desultorily. He would not have realised the presence of such emotions within himself. "

"According to your idea, those emotions were also born right then, weren't they?".

"Yes, exactly. I find all this very fascinating. "

the train at the bend

As the train rounds the bend, we watch it with the mild disinterest of youth. We realise that the train is disappearing, will soon be lost to the eyes and ears, but it doesn't really seem to matter. We turn at the sound of a bird and in those fleeting instants that pass before our gaze returns to the bend, the train has vanished as also its muffled clangour. A faint emotion rises in us, or does it? We can feel the rushing wind, observe it, even, in the fluttering leaves of the saplings beside the track. Otherwise, there is silence. It lingers.
We recognise that the intention of this silence is to prolong the moment at which the train disappeared. Perhaps the silence is really a coincidence. But it is charged with an indescribable emotion. We do not attempt to analyse it. The silence deepens and the moment stretches and stretches. We have already forgotten the intention of this silence. There is only an absence of sound, and the absence of the train.
Absence.
That thought brings a heaviness to our hearts. We know this emotion. We do not have to anaylse it. We know it. It is the feeling of loss.

dialogue

"Sir, here is your dialogue".

"i remember the day we went to that temple in mylapore on your scooty. the morning was just beginning to grow warm when we reached it. i don't remember the name, but i remember i wanted you to buy some flowers for your hair. and then we walked out of the courtyard, and the air was already hot; and the smell of oil and dust wrapped itself around us as we moved away from the old women calling out to us to buy some of the portraits. your black hair kept flying away with the wind as you tried to push it into place....Hmm... I don't remember the name, but I remember... such drivel! "

"But, sir, this line is essential. It begins on a mildly apologetic note - I don't remember the name - and then proceeds to inform the girl that you can recollect everything else precisely. Perhaps then, she will forgive this lapse on your part. If you observe closely, sir, there is an undercurrent of desperation ..."

"I can observe no such thing. Change it, change it. The whole dialogue is too feeble, effeminate. Nostalgia isn't a virtue, my dear fellow, rather the sign of an infirm mind. "

Silence.

"Yes, sir"