What is reality, if not a perception,
It is nothing but your judgment’s conception.
You have a reality different than mine,
This too is a reality, not a crime.
You want realities made up of your imagination,
But an obsession with this vision is your narcissism.
Have you ever seen the fuzzy, cluttered mind of a 21 year old? Have you ever seen how it misses every truth of the moment, where it’s going, who is it sitting with in the bus, what does it need to do? Have you felt the anger of not knowing the right from the wrong, the fear of wanting but never possessing, the guilt of being disappointing and the scary transition from the certainity of being only a daughter to the uncertainity of a life never lived? Those are just some of the things that sit in the muddy mind of a 21 year old.
In the stinking, muddy mind of mine, the first few broken pieces of this poem floated above the surface. Like a magnet finds the opposite pole of the other magnet to stick to, it strung itself together.
I didn’t know what it meant then. I can only find it’s meaning in different areas of my life now. That too when it has been 12 years to this poem…
There are a lot of buses from the New Delhi Railway Station to go to the Jhandewalan Extension. I was in one of those buses and the bus was just crossing a cinema hall on my right and a flyover to my left, when this poem carved a sculpture out of the dough that my life was then. The shape didn’t stay long enough in my mind to dry the dough into a hard substance called meaning… but the shape it gave my mind for a few moments was sharp enough to cut through the clutter of my head and show me a glimpse of the beautiful realm of the uncertain and the unknown.
This poem was one of the initial steps on the journey to discover myself. And it has stayed alive in my being in all these years.