JON VOIGHT - MY SUPERSTAR

My eyes are still puffy, my heart is broken and I am importunately trying to make up my grievance for my little one's loss today..Pale, cold and alone as I would have never wanted him to die..and I really did try hard.

Jon Voight our flowerhorn came into our lives two years back on my brother's 23rd birthday as a precious gift and from thereon he just lightened up our lives with his cute disposition and vivid colors. If there was a fish like a dog, which could give you unconditional attention, it had to be Voightsan, as we fondly called him.

After a year of constant travelling and pampering by my baby brother, Voight came into my hands. And needless I say, I over pampered him. With food, love, mimicry, dances and different versions of his name sung in different intonations, my Voight was constantly the star of our home. My husband and I cherished in revealing to our guests the intricate details of this fish and how it was considered a luck to even possess a breed like Voight.

A tedious process of maintaining his health was never a possibly considered nuisance because we just wanted him happy. And happy he was. He swum to dance and danced to swim and did little bit of head banging to get our atttention. His big human like poops were funny fascinations which would have normally looked obnoxious, but hey, this is Voightsan's poop! He'd frolick and flap his forefins when he needed more food and would go to the far end of the tank and give me stealthy glances if he was done.

He was my constant companion in times of loneliness, my study partner during these months of night outs for my exams and the only creature that couldn't sustain without me. And when I needed that little bit of extra love from him, I'd just open his tank overhead and almost intuitionally he'd surface his big red head up for me to pet. And then of course, he'd playfully jump for my finger. But now that's all over. This is not a tribute or an obit. It's just a way of myself recounting and rejoicing and at the same time washing my wounds over a small fish that gave me loads of happiness. Good things always come in small packages. Couldn't be better said! Owner's pride, neighbour's envy.. Will always miss you Voight..

The Unseen

The fumes..

They arise  from 

the cold underbellies

of monsters and gods, 

In the valleys of deep dark myst'

The mist, 

The maze of concoctions

of hilarity, trance and love

divine , profuse, enchanting

ravines 

Home to unknown ghosts

Of similar kinds..

Delicate lilies have been thro' this wind

but not flesh, blood and bones

A spirit indomitable in a small thing

as this

never us, never will it be.

Even the lights couldnt see thro' them

fathomless depths of clouds on earth.

What lies beneath

I want to know,

but I will close my eyes

knowing my farce

When my 'beat gives up,

but my thirst will not

eternally to know 

the stories untold

and whispered in the winds

of the mountains and sky.

Odina' O' Sylvia!

“Kiss me, and you will see how important I am.” 
--Sylvia Plath


Two days back I chanced upon this profoundly beautiful yet lingeringly melancholic quote by a woman who chronicled her pains into one of literature's finest pieces. 
Someone, a stranger, in a random chat, once said, " Even gold becomes the purest when it goes through fire."
Pain. It creates us. It moulds us. We become children of fire. Of desire. The same desire which gave us the same pain. The same strength. To love and to be reborn.
Rumi had once said, " It's a human's continual pleasure to be mesmerised by the confusing pain that the joy of love gives us." A woman as Sylvia who saw a replica of her much beloved father in a man who would later on drive her to the zenith point of depression enough to place her head in an oven and thereby intoxicate the deepest language a soul could speak, never knew how naive a human temperament could get when fondled in the embrace of a huge feather, such as love. For it is light, it is soft, it makes us feel good but will it always be there when the strongest gusts of wind blows by. Equal respect given to the situation on either sides of the line of love, it could be a feather, it has also been iron. But would we humans know when we are in bliss, what danger really lies ahead? Danger of desperation, danger of heartbreak, danger of trust being or not misplaced. Yet how comfortably we ensconce ourselves into this crevice never knowing how deep the gorge actually is. 
Great are those who have given themselves into every tumult love and its despair has caused and immortals are the ones who have died with the same love in their hearts. What we make of ourselves with the other person, accounts for what conviction we hold in the affairs of heart. With a lover, with a friend, with a parent, with a child. 
To kill oneself in love would have been an easier way, but to die in love is no small feat. 
Countless sleepless nights, unending streams of tears and a solemn bidding goodbye to all the rosy moments till now, only to enter into a hemisphere of darkness and a not so fastidious strength of heart, succumbs the creative intellect and man's mind's ability to perceive happiness. 
But do we care?
We still place this fragile thing called heart in another human's powerful fist yet again, the deep dark recesses of whose minds we have yet found unfathomable. 
Pain and joy are sisters. Their mother being love. They love each another. They resemble each another. But they are born for different purposes. To sulk. To live. 
Let the mother therefore decide, how the bearer seeds in his beliefs for each of her child, for no good human ever known has not gone through pain to attain the joy of realisation. The joy of life. Let everyone learn from Sylvia, never to wallow and drown in the whirlpool of love, but to struggle and swim this rough ocean to reach the shore of life and certain meanings it might teach you. For which love has ever been there for a reason, unless fallen in and found out!

Rainbow

And she stood there

This little angel,

The magic of the stars 

Across the sky,

With her in

Every charm.

She once wore 

A frock ,

As colorful as the rainbows,

Such as
You and I never saw.

A yellow for her smile

A blue for her eyes

A vivid pink for her,

Everflowing heart.

A red for the ones

Who'd cry without her,

A green for every 

Land she awed upon,

A violet for all the 

Flowers she knew

Should have some colour on,
An orange for
All the merry times
She will once cherish
When the rains fall on a slate gray day.
But she for one
Born of a million brilliant lights,
Never kept them in her bag,
For a  smile passed on to her
From every vagabond ,
She stripped and lay the colors
On road,
Bare and running.
And they picked and smiled and waved and vanished,
Into lands she thought were her homes,
Luring colors with flowers that were never fragrant,
A wistful smile upon a wishful face.
Alas! the girl in the rainbow dress
She is left with nothing but
Shadows of colors
Beckoning ghosts of
That were hers
Once!


Image courtesy: www.jwestphotography.com ( Joanne West photography)