Cogitation of a Solitary Soul

Solitude! Ah, that wonderful feeling, which has always been my companion,
Been with me through weather and storm, never displaying fair-weatheredness like people or possession.
Books, require money, to buy and people, require money, to keep,
But true solitude shall never pretend oblivion, whatever the circumstance might be.
It is said that no man is an island, but how many people can I take?
For every time I trust a person, another mistake do I make.
People, are ambitious, worldly, and vain sometimes too,
Little do they realize that something as simple as butterflies hold happiness true.

Humans are accustomed to think of the future ahead,
Forgetting the Now, The Present, whose importance has been relayed from the godhead.
Humour hath been drained out from today’s youth too,
Dreary monotony and not knowing which path to take is all that they are left with.
If love comes into their lives, then that is taken too,
Torn and ripped apart until the soul’s heart-rending cries can be heard.
An age of paradox this surely is,
When one is discoursed about Free Will and the like,
But always reminded, rather sternly warned, about the consequences of an action one might take.
Adults, thinking that they have the world figured out,
Ever concerned, put the fire of their children out.

And gloat then on, believing they have done a greater good for all of mankind,
Providing the world a lawyer, scientist, philosopher who might have otherwise gone astray.
Instead, they have becoming stumbling blocks for a life
That might have added delight in its own way.
But no! Even in this day, it is dishonourable to be an artist or a playwright,
‘Cause the pay is never right;
It’s either too less, or too demeaning to say that your child
Has below average holdings.
“Beta”, the mother says, when the child looks in disbelief,
After having been promised all this while that she would always stand by her,
No matter what,
Only to be met with the dreaded message disguised in a kind tone and a soft note.
She then gives up, knowing no other option,
And with this decision, her Free Will and all her dreams meet with evaporation.

Her friends, when they hear the news, are quick in consolation,
But soon, even they have to get on with their lives,
And alone has she to cope with her desolation.
Stripped of her joy, her desire,
All because she had none of the fighting spirit left inside her.
She succumbed to the vagaries of life,
Entitling herself to nothing but a little hope here and there.
Disillusioned with the way the world has treated her,
She finds solace in the solitude which in the beginning itself readily accepted her.
How, she wonders, did I push all this away?
Putting myself in the company of the people to whose tunes I was made to sway.
As the days passed by, more and more insight did solitude give her,
That she realized that it was time to reclaim the life that had always been hers.

Alas!, her mind said, the time is too late,
Your youth has passed and closed is the Gate.
But her soul whispered, There is still enough time, you can make it,
All you need is the belief in yourself that when life passes you a bleak prospect, you can take it.
Solitude had taught her to look at Her Truth in the truest fashion,
That she just listened to her heart and followed it with all passion.
Where she reached finally is now not the question,
But how she reached there is all that must come under our comprehension.

It was Solitude, one of the greatest teachers out there,
Who enabled this little anomaly in the eyes of non-believers,
And facilitated this miracle in the eyes of those who believe.
It is all a matter of perception, I should say.
Solitude let her see and also lets me see what I really am,
As when we are amongst people, all we experience is bedlam.
Caught in the melee, little do we know what to do,
Mostly we go with the flow, not recognizing, we lose our selves true.
In Solitude, we have nothing but ourselves,
Our thoughts, our emotions which are a compendium of our personal Legend.
There is always a part of that girl in all of us,
We have braved and faced the same difficulties,
Succumbed to the same injuries.
We protest to God, informing Her of the injustices meted out to us,
At the same time not taking cognizance of the extent to which we have allowed others to influence us.

If only we turn to Solitude once in a while,
Take time off for the poor little governess who lies in wait,
Remember, neither is she strict nor is she judgmental,
All too caring, nice and gentle.
She is all you want her to be,
A listener, custodian, nurturer and mentor,
So why don’t you visit, and for yourself see her?

The Looking Glass

Every morning awoke she,
Be it hot, damn or wintry.
All she wanted to do,
Was to look into the looking glass for a glimpse or two,
For the blossoming woman thought,
When compared to her, others were naught.
So proudly trotted she,
The Lady of Swansea.

Little did she know,
When she went in the carriage with her kittens in tow,
That Destinies were looking at her below.
Said they, "A vain maid is she,
Full of impropriety,
It is our duty to show this woman snooty,
What the meaning is of true beauty."

Saying so, Lachesis got out the tapestry,
Of the woman's life she had sewn in all glory.
Atropos started weaving in haste,
For she had no time to waste.
Clotho just stood there watching,
Cackling and hoping the maid would realise what she is lacking.

The Lady came back from her evening outing,
And stood before the looking glass, pouting.
Before she knew what was happening,
Into space was she falling.
She moaned and cried for help,
Hoping that a knight would come to save her,
But no one came,
Though she called each by his name.

I am doomed, thought she,
However, such was the extent of her vanity,
That all she could think of was her beauty.
She thought of the praises she would never receive,
Of the thousands of people who would never her beauty perceive.
She had to soon forget about her quandary,
As a thud shook her from her reverie.

Was she dead? Was she hurt?
For all she could see around her was dirt.
There was only barren land everywhere;
And her eyes unaccustomed to such fare,
Were fixed in an empty stare.
In the far distance she spotted,
A boy with his hair knotted.
As her drew near, she drew back,
For she had not seen a more repulsive being
Since the one she had seen seven years back.

She walked on, huffing and puffing,
Quickening her pace even though it was she the boy was following.
"What an ugly place this is!", she ranted,
And at her own Fate she lamented.
With outright defiance did she ignore,
Every person, child or manticore,
Who foretold of the dangers awaiting her beyond this land,
The land of Sycamore.

She would have listened to them,
If only they had been charming, blessed by Beauty and favoured by Fortune.
But they were not so and by that she thought them very low,
And continued haughtily on the path to the Land of Bellow,
Not knowing she would be killed before she could say 'hello'.

The people of Sycamore grieved thus,
For it was not their nature to let a maiden fall into the abyss.
They were wise, the people of Sycamore,
Knowing full well that it was the looking glass
Which had made this lady forget that outer beauty does not last.
So they followed her,
Surely in a very subtle manner.

Meanwhile the Lady of Swansea,
Had reached the Land of Bellow and could not believe what she could see.
Knights strode in shining armour,
Knights far more handsome than Lancelot in all his honour.
And there were maids too,
Just like her, walking in twos.
So mesmerised was she by the land's glamour,
That she did not see that their eyes were filled with rancour.
For it was the rule of the land to devour,
People from countries afar.

There were looking glasses everywhere too,
In which you could see yourself from hat to shoe.
At once the Lady ran to see,
If her bonnet was in place, and
She looked at her reflection in utter glee.
When she looked back,
She saw the people readying a huge sack.
She knew not what it was for,
And in all her authority she demanded she know its purpose.
In response, she was pushed and shoved,
Taunted and chivied,
Right into the sack, which was already disheveled.

She got to know that,
She was going to be cooked in a cauldron,
With her dress and hat.
The Lady cried and screamed,
Soon the realisation of how misleading
Outer beauty can be dawned upon her it seemed.
She cursed the looking glass,
For it seemed to be the start of her troubles;
Then cursed herself as she had let herself be carried away.
Thus, she burst her bubble.

Help was at hand, she did not know that,
For people of Sycamore had followed her to this unseemly land.
A battle ensued,
Oh! One that was so crude,
That even a saint would have been moved.
All the Lady heard were war-cries,
And the sounds a person makes when he dies.

So terrified was she,
That, when released from the sack,
She screamed hysterically till her world went black.
When revived, she thanked the people of Sycamore profusely.
The King of Sycamore escorted her to his palace,
Back to his land which was void of malice.
The Lady recovered in days three,
When she was told that this was the Destinies' Decree.

So came down Lachesis, Clotho and Atropos,
Holding the Lady's tapestry and some scrolls.
Said they, Lady of Swansea,
What you just underwent was our decree.
We saw you getting proud and haughty day by day,
So much so that we decided to have our say.
We were the ones who made you fall through the looking glass,
Not to find Wonderland like Alice, that was never the case.
But, to find yourself as you were lost in the maze,
The maze of outer beauty and superficiality,
One that has no escape as you can see.

At this point, the Lady
Nodded as if to say she agreed.
Before she could open her mouth,
She found herself back in front of her hearth.
From that day, the Lady
Valued inner beauty.
No longer did she look at her reflection,
Instead she spent her days in contemplation.

They say when the Lady of Swansea
Finally passed on,
Her soul broke into a thousand fragments
And every woman received a small part.
And to this day you can see,
How much a pure heart and an innocent soul are valued at Swansea.