Life, Thou Are an Art!

This week has been a very hectic week with a strange combo of  art, exams, presentations, interviews, shifting, dust, morning blues, concerts,papers, rejections, Mushaiyaras (don’t look aghast — I was not the one  reciting. Just a mute listener and spectator), semester-end blues — in short LIFE itself!  You must have heard the quote, “life is what happens to you when you are busy with other things”. I was in fact trying to figure out which version of life am I leading through this happening journey, almost like Microsoft Service Pack versions!

I could not even find the time to draft a complete article for Iris this week. But a commitment is a commitment: aur jab main kuchh commit karti hoon toh khud ki bhi nahin sunti . On a serious note, came across an old hand-written scribble of my version of ‘life’, written once upon a time. May not actually agree to the  lines today. I am too prosaic these days to accept the challenge of ‘thinking’ poetry. Moreover, am not sure if I have the same innocence that my poetry had once kind of promised in its fragrant closures.

However, whatever…. Here is my version of life for you…written once upon a time in the Garden of Eden

Life! You are a riddle –

An unsolved mystery or a puzzle.

To some,

You are like bubbles of the sea froth,

That glitter, shine, only to burst.

To others,

You are a journey-sometimes joyous and otherwise flat.

But to me, Life, thou are an art.

You are a fresco of strange lines,

For a painter who has got to paint too fine.

You are a jumble of words,

For an author who interprets you too hard.

You are the stage for an actor,

Who performs judging every factor.

But to a poet,

You are a sea of echoes and emotions.

At times you are like a lyric,

Meant for the strings of the lyre.

Sometimes you are a gesture of love,

Meant to be felt and shared.

And at times you are like the little droplets of rain,

That  children try to grab in vain.

Life, you are like the upturned leaves,

Of a book of new verses.

You are the crossroad of morals and impulses,

And a riot of ticks and crosses.

But am I not an emotional fool?

For I judge life, without living it to its full.

So let me live it first,

And then in the end shall I prove

That, Life! Thou are an art.