The Chair

She always sits on the edges of chairs at her home

As if she cannot fully insert herself in a coziness and slowness

As if she needs to be always ready for immediate response

As if to fetch this and that

To frequently empty the chairs and fill in half again

With her mind pulled and diverged towards various points

As if she cannot be converged anywhere to savour anything fully

It's as if she is always aware of a perpetual temporariness of sitting

Her duty bound body making sure of others' permanency in those deep sockets

Then there is her department chair

The only place where she soaked herself up in an illusion of constancy

Where it seemed she is capable of drowning herself in her favourites

Words, conversations, arguments and a lot of brainstorming

Pinpointing this, applauding that, analysing many and cherishing some

The chair where she would forget its perpetual temporariness

With hardly any consequence.

Misplaced

 As a person of melancholic temperament her mind always searches for the darker, the commonly unseen side of things- which makes her a keen observer of whatever is lacking in all aspects of life. She constantly craves for beauty, harmony and absolute authenticity in everything around her. Her mind would be twirling around in deep speculations regarding how a person or a thing associated with her life is not in tune with her inner music, not in pace with her rhythm of living. And the sorrowful feelings arising from her such lamentations would flow like a meandering river culminating into that deep pool of turbulence she carries within her. Her husband would say that it is the fictions that she stuffs her mind with which cause such illusions- that it is necessary to let go of certain dis-harmonies in life- that life is not supposed to be a continuous thread of ideal feelings, people, situations and so on. It would again pain her that he is ignorant of that fact she is already accustomed to such truths like ''life is not supposed to be a continuous....'' a thousand times before he uttered such words. That such truths were devoured by her mind in her constant acquaintance with all kinds of literature that she came across so far. That she has already pondered many times upon the philosophy that it's such a great paradox that sometimes literature can make you seek for the ideal though it rips of all the ideals and shows you the bare in everything. It makes you understand as well as makes you sensitive. Yet she has seen people around her literary circle who are voracious readers and fiction lovers but are capable of utmost indifference -when it comes to life they can temper their sensitivity in such way that they wear the cold cloak of objectivity and rationality. She is amazed by such practicality-but she sighs how she lacks the talent.

              

             She recognizes that it would be quite an effort not to feel certain feelings. It needs rigid attention to caution your mind against feelings of disappointment and disillusionment. Yet sometimes she tiresomely pushes herself to filter out all the unpleasant- all the improper- all the weeds that would hamper her healthy survival. It is like shielding her mind and senses, armouring them not to yield to the cacophony around her. Sometimes when she encounters silent moments with her-like while doing dishes at her kitchen or while walking out alone after a class that she would brush off all the surfacing feelings of some disappointments regarding not being understood properly, or the lack of action from someone's part according to her expectations and so on. She would reaffirm herself that guarding her mind against such expectations would bring peace. Then she would smile- being reminded of how her train of thought came from something like Buddha's advocacy on renunciation of desire or Jiddu Krishnamurti's call for freedom from the known and so on. Such whiff of residual thoughts from her readings of wisdom literature would in fact be her solace for some time till her mind looms back to the former abyss of strong melancholic undercurrents. 'Let me hold myself here to thrive in this a bit' she would pray.