Back from OBS!

Dear readers,

as usual, it is a joy to be back again, and to write down thoughts of the week before. The poem and essay below are dedicated to the someone(s) i thought of on the OBS night walk, as well as during my quiet time every evening.

"What is a friend? One soul in two bodies" - Aristotle

The Straight Times Editor

Stepping

Stepping forward into the 

unknown, one thinks –

Of beings that fade with
every whim of the darkening forest
into merciless canopies, closing
around one’s timid footsteps
as he threads his wary way
past unfamiliar landmarks.

Nothingness rustles underfoot,
shivers creep up from behind
with every breath of wind in the
trees, sharp intakes that mirror
your own as you wonder why
                            a best friend
or a dad
                                        isn’t with you now.

One presses on
into deep forest, probing with
once-surefooted limbs the
ghosts that lie beneath the leaves,
expecting a clearing beyond every
                         corner, yet
finding none.

But striving not
to be shut out by waves of
shifting branches is that
solitary star, hanging by
thread of harrowed consciousness
on the limb of the highest tree –

Glimmering from afar,
reflected in the light of moons,
watching your anxious path as
you slip,
unknowing,
                    between knotted roots
that appear underfoot and shrivel
as you pass them –

A soul that ponders on your
existence, praying through the
watches of the night for each
hesitant choice you make,
hoping for your
                          voice.

Stepping forward into the
unknown, one thinks –

to each his guardian angel.

-------------------------------------------------

Quiet Time

It is night.

And it is an unfamiliar place.

Within the darkness of the watch, you try to recreate a sense of familiarity, a sense of peace in whose protective bubble you can feel at home. A sense of peace to which you can retreat, upon which you can rest when you are tossed beyond comfort zone, tossed from the clutches of the armchair to the depths of the forest.

You leave the tent behind you, the friends whose feet you have shouldered and whose meals you have cooked lying contentedly within. And you glance over to where others are sleeping – the closer comrades who have fought tide and time with you and pushed your kayak through the waves. In the daytime their presence invigorates you, places you on your feet, and generates activity around you that numbs the nervous tingling you get down your spine, once in awhile. But for now you leave them behind, making their slumbering preparations for the trials of the morning, and you step beyond the camp.

Coming to the seaside, you face where the afterglow of the monsoon sun has left a deep indigo on the inky blackness of night. You stare across the waves to the blinking lights on the distant island, thinking that one of those lights would have been yours, staying up talking to a friend in need, reading to quell the thoughts of day or simply being with oneself.

Here the night breeze is hypnotic. Your heart sways with the grass and the ripples on the water, and thoughts of home engulf you. No, it is not the comforts of the city that call to you, but the people who are there, still, people whom you take for granted on a normal tropical day. Perhaps only one of them at any one time actively remembers you, wondering what you might be doing on the other side of heaven, but it does not matter to you – selfish as it is, the only thing that matters now is that you remember them – their mannerisms and voices spring to mind, the little things that they say or do that prints their presence on the cloth of your everyday life.

For no reason you think of phone-calls that they have made to you – even SMSes – short and sweet ones from a Dad, slightly awkward but extremely loving ones from a Mom, and heartwarming new-year wishes from unexpected friends. And then, for no reason too, you think of movies that you have watched with them – touching/hilarious local hits, uproarious/satirical animations, and the action-packed thrillers caught on plane-trips.

All this is strangely pneumonic, warming and chilling you at the same time, crystallizing each nostalgic puff of your breath before spiraling it into the breeze. Each loved one is a memory, is a thought, is a jewel that you miss, no matter how tiring the day has been or how many new friends you make – some burn brighter than others, like the stars in the sky as you glance upwards, out-glowing the shimmering of city lights.

Maybe you are homesick, you think, and you curse yourself for being too attached to the people around you. But you stop yourself before you utter the words, because your heart wrenches as you contemplate the possibility of living without these treasures.

And then you sigh and breathe a silent prayer for every one of them.