There is a lot of kitsch around us and at times it sprays our being and engulfs us.  The body itself appeals against the kitsch in a relentless remorse and threatens to give up.

Today I was wondering whether it was cultural specific! One may feel a lot of enmeshed bounds that enhance the blur and my reason could see that entrapped figurines of my own self but that I could see this was a solace and so I started writing. These blurs are like the formless sway of a sweeping wind and would just not let you be and so the airs would beckon you with a devilish laughter to suck you in the `black hole’ you may not suspect. It beckons you with an existential wave of a hand, it `calls’ you. Whether you would take that call or not is your moment of the phenomena, the dark sometimes purple and stark white shimmering squeak of   nothingness. That nothingness when it began and whence it would end, you know not, and you lust that it would never end for you do not know the path. These are the moments of the paths never treaded but you are chosen and elected, whether to your dismay or peril or a beginning , you know not , so you have and you opt for a wanderlust. So this wanderlust could be the Graces weaving a tapestry, and each seam would unfurl and roll a new story. Let it do its work. You be that mermaid, that nymph who waits for the beloved, and you know that, that sailor, that eternal knight is on the way , and you suddenly realize that `this is it’ and you want to be in the eternal longing, the longing that consumes you and the consummation is the fantasy, the mirage you run after, yet you let that be and start weaving a story , a story superior to a song and  a sporadic rebellion.

So you say, let us go then you and I when the evening is spread out like a cat’s stretch and you aim to realize the flex and muscle of the body. You pinch yourself to a valorous second and it dawns upon you that your body is timeless, no space limits it and time is a construct. Time indeed is a construct. And now you are thrown in. What you do of that  is your fathoming and you take the gauntlet, but hang on not yet, not so very soon .

In a moment, yet another, you know you are a woman. You have the reed to write, you have the spindle to weave and you have the colours, your words. So just now, you let the words form a myriad stories. And with this time construct a woman, a nymph `becoming’ a nymphomaniac , you know her moment will never consummate. Yet she must, how will she become one with the flow to `contain’ it to rein it in, and to rein in many more to `show’ themselves. This woman becomes a warrior, and lo and behold the war of destruction is itself smitten by  the spindle and the reed , for the brick and the mortar, the nails and the shrapnel are but a laughable trickery of a wayward spoof she will deconstruct to their own peril .

So this is flurry , first like candy floss , a snow flake melting on her collar,  cotton flowing into the air, like shinning silk and making you a zillion promises, and you run after. This is a chase of deciphering the moment of existential trappings and so you are game for she is the overarching glimpse that you must have and lo and behold you are a part of the `becoming’ . This `Becoming’ you must be beckoned to.

Here is some poetry I created to save the Moment that will never end, for the moment is eternal and  beyond the constructs of Time, Time that spooky fellow that teases us now and then. So here ‘IS’

Let us go then you and I
To catch the headless spy
And I am the ever enchanting Matahari
That sometime in and on the periphery
My  enchant and the moment triumph
Will swallow the night and that lump
So you have to act the camouflage
And let them chase me as mirage
For I  never will be at hand and stand
Even if you take the position  and band
The longing and the thirst screaming
From the cliff and the moon beaming
Am I for real or only for the seeming
`I am’ there for fantasy and dreaming
In a couplet one or two of glory
Perchance to weave and tell a story
So I will hang on merrily galore
I so much more in steps and store
Matahari never quits
Even in starts and fits
The story will never end
I will never ever be spent

Words always give reason a fillip to brandish a reed, a pen where they say that a pen is mightier than a sword, a cliché .! No . Not a cliché but a word talking to the Faustian Man who may just sign a pact with the Devil.  Or just `make’ a trap for all of us to fall in, but merrily the reed, the pen writes. This dialogue must go on and never end

– Pratibha Chopra