Despair

It creeps up stealthily, soft-footed
Waiting for a small crack
As soon as it spies it comes out of the shed
Slides in, widening the crack
Engulfing everything in a state of desolation

Crack comes the whip
Stunned and shocked before you recover
It has made a clean sweep
Till there is nothing to run to for cover

Stripped, you stand in its glare
Cowering as it wished
Oh how am I going to fare?
You wonder. Everything is but finished!

Grinning evilly, it enjoys your discomfort
It takes in your state of disarray
Trapped! it triumphs in its conquest
Now I can go in for the slay

Just as it sweeps in to extinguish the last of its prey
A burning searing pain like a sword goes in
Shocked, it cannot fathom this defeat
Just when it was about to savour the sweet taste of win!

Will strong and victorious had reigned high
Refusing the mere rogue to wreck havoc
With a content sigh
You turn and ride away, leaving despair in shock! 

Nomads today and tomorrow...to travel is life and to stay is living!

I was reading an article about the Qashqai nomadic tribe of Iran. For centuries this tribe of nomads have reveled in the fierce nomadic way of life, growing independant, strong and refusing to anchor themselves to the confines of society. Now a dwindling tribe of just 400,000 members, their loyalty to their way of life is reflected in the way they live, their attire and the traditions (or lack thereof).

Strangely I could draw similarities between this nomadic tribe and the cosmopolitan urban society that I've been born into and continue to inhabit.

Strange...isn't it? The irony of the matter doesn't end there...The fact that this nomadic tribe which is a symbol of a independent way of life is dwindling because of traditional ways!

Where I live, my neighbours and the immediate neighbourhood and even the extended city, laments the lack of people to carry on the traditions. Next generations are scattered all over the globe, traditions places are just left to be carried by the older generations. Wrinkled faces, the veined hands and the greying tresses all point to one thing - tradition and old go hand in hand.

Strangely the Quashqai is the suffering from the same pangs of movement. Young blood is drifting away from the nomadic way of life to "settle down." Ironic as this is, the bigger question is why?
Where one rooted way of life becomes the shackles that hold you prisoner, and another free-spirited life is also symbolic of bondage?

Pursuit of the unknown is the perhaps the ingrained nature that refuses to stay put or to travel (as is the case). The need to put down roots is in some ways the same as the need to uproot. To travel is a life...exploring every corner of the world. But, to stay in one place is a respite from always travelling...forming a belonging to the place. One is the life and the other is living...and both changes with what you want!

As a third generation staying in a city while I revel in the familiarity of traditions...the streets where my grandparents have eaten and walked, where my aunts have tasted their "first" dishes and where I too have dipped my spoon savoring the same taste that is so much a part of my ancestry - the beckon of nomadic life is strong. The need to explore and travel, living off the land is so strong that am tempted to leave my roots and go explore.

Perhaps, I will... the key is balance... like the sweet is added to balance the sour travel/staying needs to be balanced delicately! 

The journey

The twin salty lines slowly trickles down the smooth brown cheek, leaving a jagged fast fading trace
The eyes brimming almost sparkling looked at the cold white tiles
The mute sounds echoed around the small space
Caged, grasping for anchor lines

Free as the wind the smell of lightness envelopes in a warm cosy hug
The earthy fragrance embodies the ground, the light crisp of leaves patterned against the golden hues
Reminds of a moment standing still, a small tug
And it would disseminate into the azure blue

Trinkets of sounds bounce off the rocky jagged edge
The lilting tones are a soothing blanket to the numerous voices
Staunch pillars, standing tall, witness to the honor and pledge
High yet so grounded, the stillness of the slightly crisp air echo the peaceful choices

Gushing milky water flows over the murky ledge, sprinkled with mossy green
The sheer force and vitality tumbling across is spellbinding
Sadness, happiness, peace, uncertainty bows before this force unseen
Pulling out every sheer fibre of being from its hiding

Phases

She was a little girl, happy with how the sky smiled
The days spent playing, learning, tripping, falling, and mending skinned knees
Happy to battle monsters that hid behind the dusty corner, beside the abandoned boxes
Or lurked between the pages, or came alive as the wrinkled hands slowly weaved tales of sleep
Living a 1000 years was a happy blissful dream.. almost a treasure

She is a young girl, trying to follow the ebb and flow, the fine meanderings of life
Reveling in the pages that bring the world within her grasp
Soaking in the things new and old, capturing the essence of what she can perceive
Living is not bad, it is not a bliss it is a good thing

She is a lady, trying on her heels, directing the path she follows
Running, stumbling, grasping and pulling she finds herself
Books are her companion - guiding, supporting and pushing her forward
Living is but a existence merely, to live to last and to prove

She is a woman, standing on a vast expanse - should I climb that hill, or rather take the road through the woods
Walk or run...stand or move...pondering and processing
It is a never ending struggle
The pages are now soothing corks blocking the noise
Monsters now are friendly ghosts, whose visit bring on a smile, dark corners are a silent refuge
Living is a mere mechanism of breathing in and out