Meditation, Poetry, and Writing

(I)

Early in the morning, when the rosy dawn was smeared with the brilliant rays of the golden globe, there appeared, near my home, a young and clever thief.

Being quick footed and nimble in hands she crept along the bushes and entered that region of the house which was barred to everyone save myself. 

There I slept soundly not knowing, even in my heart, that such a thief could exist out there in the bright blue world.

And so I slept, snoring softly on the sweet mattress in which the angel of sleep snuggled next to me caressing my warm skin and pouring golden rays of dreams into the pink cavities of my brain. 

In fancies, I thought of them who fly away on magic carpets holding items in their hands whose worth is more than all the treasures of the world combined.

And so, in such a state, dreaming of things more pleasant than all, I lay on the matress and slept and slept and slept until the wall clock struck twelve and a golden cuckoo dashed out from its wooden door and cuckooed until my eyes snapped open and I found my dreams evaporating away under the light of the sun. 

It was then, with a horror that I realised: That young rascal thief had come and stolen! 

It had come and stolen my own beating heart!  

(II)

I wept, I wept, I wept, and oh how I wept until the bright blue sky outside was not blue anymore and ashen grey clouds covered the universe. 

Then big blobs of muddy water poured from the heavens filling all the ponds with the grief of my vacant heart and yet I found no relief for I found myself incomplete without my essential organ whose job was not limited to just the pumping of blood. 

So, I wept, and sorely I wept until big bags of grey appeared under the skin of my eye and my cheeks were strewn wet with tears. 

That night, the angel of sleep did not come to me nor did she send me her oh so sweet dreams in which white angels on flying carpet could come and take me away to magical lands of enchantments filled with dancing elves and jumping goblins who could give to me, as a gift, a complete set of golden hearts, that could work as a substitute until I found, for myself, my proper one, which the thief of the night had stolen.

But such was my luck, my rotten and miserable luck that no sleep came to me that night, nor did any dream come.

What came to me was a letter folded neatly in an envelope made with skies. 

And in it were embroidered words written, it seemed, with golden tears, and they said:

‘Hark, thou heathen,

Thou cruel, cruel heathen. 

For long did I ask from thee, the brilliance of thy shining heart. 

My nights, even without the sun, shone brilliantly, whenever in my dreams, it came, thy radiant heart, shining more brightly than that orb which is the powerhouse of all those planets that whirl round it endlessly. 

Oh how I asked thee for it, pleading even so that thy could lend it to me, even for once, that which I desired. 

But thy hands, it seems have only learnt to clutch and grasp and not let go or release, due to which thy never parted with the treasure that was thine indeed, but which thou should have incremented by way of sharing. 

Thus, cruel heathen, that golden orb of brilliance, of which thou were so proud, and which gently rested between thy breasts, I have stolen for myself, and once I have satisfied myself by being in its presence, I shall cut it in half and distribute it to all those who are in need of it. 

Such has the disposition of my mind designed this fate for thou golden orb and so such shall come to pass.’

Signed – Your dutiful thief of the night. 

Oh how I shuddered and wailed and wept all night long for the missing organ of my humanity. 

How I prayed and my lips moved in fear for the loss of my heart. 

The thief, which so cruelly has taken from me that which belongs to me, may that thief find mercy.

May that thief find mercy on my soul, for everywhere, be it in the mind of the wise or the stupid, it is very clearly known, that no being, no matter how sweet or cruel, can ever thrive in this world without a heart.

May the heart of the one who has stolen mine find mercy in it.

May I find that which is missing in me.

(III)

Without the presence of that magnificent orb of light that beats between my breast, the whole of the life was barren for me. 

My months turned all unfertile and my intellect remained rooted to the ground.

Late at night, to sooth myself, when I gazed at those doves that learnt to fly, my sore sights became a curse for them, and their wings froze in the sky and they fell like diamonds to the ground. 

My hopes were shattered.

My dreams vanished. 

The flower of future that I had so long nurtured within my soul was unwatered and now it festered threatening to lay waste the garden of dreams that I had for so long bred within myself.

Now poisonous weeds and vile vipers seemed to lurk within.

Oh, how long could I go on, without the presence of my own heart.

How long? 

Just when the soreness of my loss had begun to so seep into the depths of my veins that my blood appeared to turn dark, there came another envelope, sent surely by the thief, and along with the envelope she had also sent a package wrapped neatly with sheets that seemed to be made from the night skies for they were glittering with the rays of diamondlike stars fastened securely on them. 

When I opened the letter, it read: 

‘Heathen. 

Thou has for long suffered and since I carry thy heart with me, I too know the pangs of thy suffering. 

When I stole thy heart, I thought I knew what it would mean to be a thief, but thy heart, being so big, is proving to be a huge thing for me to store. 

There seems no place in my house to contain it, and since thou are now filled with nothing else but grief for the absence of thy missing organ, thy heart is also leaking with tears.

It has poured blobs of cold water into my garden such as one that has caused a great mess for me and my inmates.

Thus, my friends have guided me by telling me to return that which is yours back to thee. 

But I have come to grow fond of that which I stole, and being smitten by the golden orb that I now carry with me, I cannot depart from it

Yet, I cannot not return anything back to thee either, because I wish to cease being a thief as this career has brought me not much profit but only loss and dreary loss which manifests in the form of tears that has wet my garden. 

So, being advised by this sound counsel that has appeared in my mind, I give to thee, in return, that which may fill the absence that’s been caused by your missing organ.

I give to thee: my own heart.’

When I opened the silvery package which glittered gloriously with stars, I found in it, tucked gently the simple and soft heart of the one who had stolen mine one. 

Having no other alternative, I have placed such an organ within my own breast, finding it to be not bad a replacement for my own.

Yet, the heart which I carry within my breast is not mine own and being part of someone else, it forces me to go back in the direction from where it came.

And I know, since the principles governing the matter of the heart are same everywhere, I know the one who has stolen my heart will not be free from the constraint either, and she too, having in her own breasts, heart which belongs to her not, will be prompted by it to come back to me.

Thus, in this way, both of us are now locked by fate with one another, but being distant, are also separated to endure the pangs that long distance causes between us.

Such is our case, and such we must endure.