Atmakranti

Living the dream!

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Life has meaning only when we see everything whether good or bad in a new light. Whether an ant or a king purpose is what drives one toward fulfilment and happiness. Thus, searching for meaning and purpose in the smallest to most happening of endeavors we at atmakranti bring you richness in both heart and mind.

  • An Ocean of Nirvana

    I wonder what my life is, fun and frolic
    or solemn and austere!
    Having been all that mankind wants of me,
    I wonder what my life is, dutiful and responsible,
    or feckless and complacent!
    Treading past a million souls and a thousand
    different skies above, I wonder what my life is,
    endless and infinite or limited and fading!


    Walking down the lane surrounded by emptiness, I having left my beloved home seek what all have sought throughout their ephemeral lives. I ask myself in whispers while walking silently in the midst of fields that stretch as far as the horizon; Am I to be rich? Am I to be a king? Am I to be a sage? Or Am I to be like my father who gave everything up for my beloved home?

    Sometimes I believe a life of pleasures and fantasies would be my calling, but alas when faced with the ephemeral I quaver and feel the emptiness I am surrounded with today. Even in countries far beyond my own where messiahs still persist in the hearts, people swirl in the ephemeral groping in the dark with the hope of finding the sun.

    Thus, their shallow lives fade even before the sun rises bereft of all light and illuminance. I have knocked many a door of eminent teachers of both matter and the unseen, but their words failed in their actions leaving me yet again broken and shattered. They called themselves ‘teachers of the great law’ but spit blasphemies against those who never believed them, and ranted words from texts they had never written.

    Turning to love with the hope that the eternal lay in it, I drew smiles across the skies of her eyes and bore children who were to leave behind my legacy. But I remained bereft of joy breaking my back like my father did before. I could see the pain behind all wealth, and all love my father showered on me, and alas asked myself often ‘Am I to be like my father who gave everything up for my beloved home?’

    The tips of the golden paddy swaying in the light of the setting sun broke into whispers that seemed more like the music of the winds, the skies and the disappearing sun. Grazing past the gentle embrace of the crops I too join in their whispers forgetting my worries and concerns for a life filled with bliss. The clouds above roar not to bring rain but to add to the music, and the sky changes its colours in rhythm with the whispers.

    When I look about with an awareness of my breath, sight and hearing the endless expanse of fields become a great ocean of nirvana in whose golden waters I find my soul being bathed in. The shell of my heart breaks and reveals the hidden which though subtle and unseen is what I and any other man has sought throughout this ephemeral existence.

    Thus, delighted I sway along the bobbing heads of the paddy and continue my journey to delve even more into what I have found. The emptiness has receded along with the turmoil that comes with the awareness of the ephemeral. Wearing a smile as profuse as the golden paddy I swim across the golden waters of nirvana, shoreless and infinite, becoming one and the same.


  • Conversations with the Sky

    The sky shifts and revolves,
    as if a dream among dreams,
    reflecting her smile with shades
    of twilight the sky is where the
    heart lives and blooms

    Sitting silent at the top of the world, a woman who has crossed thousands of days and nights hums a song of joy to herself. She once longed for a companion, a lover, a partner in crime — unfortunately all that search she spent half of her youth on, turned out nothing more than in vain. But now she has found her king, whose vastness has no comparison. Every fine day, when dawn breaks turning the world into that of divinity, she rises to her rooftop and holds a dialogue of the heart with the sky.

    Humming new songs, at the first ray of day, she bares her heart to the sky who with its clouds and play of light, shimmer in the river of her emerald eyes. She with glee spread over every part of her being, hums endlessly bringing to life all that lay within. Her mellifluous humming draws birds and squirrels from every corner of the little roof who adorn her living self with the boisterousness of life and its intricacies.

    Her humming filled with joy yet has a tinge of sorrow, subtle and unobtrusive, a cry for peace she intends the shifting sky to hear. There have been many appearing to be fine men and women, who have betrayed her innocence, despised her goodness and sought to destroy her in both body and mind. Unable to discern the truth, they trampled upon her flowery heart that sought to bloom even the weeds that fed on it. Her tears had paved its way across the parched lands of this evil age where material comfort and self-destruction had become the two sides of the same coin.

    But when the sun rose in the sky, spreading far its light of compassion and warmth, her seeming to be ceaseless tears receded to oblivion and a smile as profuse as the light of the sun itself spread across her face. Thus, began her tryst with the skies, where she found hope though surrounded by heartless maniacs!

    The sky perceived the sorrow in the depths of her vibrant humming, and revealed the moon who with its tender light pacified the restlessness within that had been suppressed for aeons. With her gaze that held the glint of a child’s immense pure aura, she conveyed to the sky of her dreams how she had fallen in love with its shapeless clouds, and enriching colours that couldn’t be given any price unlike any other treasure in the world.

    Which man, with his virility, words, chivalry and might can match the vivaciousness of the infinite skies? Her thoughts emanating fragrance though stormed by an endless array of bitter experiences, her song permeating joy though scattered with notes of a broken heart and her eyes—as infinite as the skies reflect colours that have made her rich.

    Who, if not for the skies, has made her see life in a new light! Dreams are realized, and the sky is the king of dreams dreamt by any and all men, thus, the sky is the highest form of realization. Which sage, virtuous or worthy man can be even thought of as a match to the sky ruling the heavens that one dreams of at the approach of the impending end.

    The sky would have been death if not for sunrise, sunset and the tranquil brilliance of the moon whom she adores as if her own family. The sky moved by her pristine love and shaken by the indignities she faced for being who she is, kissed her with rain that brought to life the decaying within countless men, and made them great poets.

    Renting the air with thunder and lightning the sky too sings a symphony with the entire world as its stage. Ah! She heaves a sigh, and spreads her arms as wide as the horizon to embrace the sky. The cool breeze of autumn and spring swirl and whistle at the witness of such embrace where the infinite has become one with a mortal.

    Children moved by such a sight leave behind their merry games and draw smiles across their plump cheeks, for they have seen the truth behind the vast golden-blue. Though there lay a mystery behind the seasons giving way to each other but the day she embraced the sky — winter, spring, summer and autumn shed their veils and manifested instant after instant.

    The monkey-king of a rich epic sought the sun to relinquish his craving for a fruit, and she though as innocent as the monkey-king was as a child made love with the skies to relinquish her craving for a sense of joy unheard and unknown.

    The sky revolved, turned and disappeared bereft of stars; in that void of inexplicable magnificence, she attained what great and famous trysts of superstars and tycoons failed. A hundred years have passed and men today revere her in their little shrines as the goddess of bliss— infinite and noble without beginning or end.      

  • The Journey of a Solitary Feather

    Flying past the magnificent and ruins,
    I seek those wings of lasting freedom,
    amidst all wars, change and death,
    I seek those wings, for the sky is where
    all that majestic remain untouched

    She flew across the skies leaving a trail of rainbow on the path behind. The clouds with their play of shapes as if a shifting dream surrounded her as she leaped higher with a thrust akin to those flying machines. The unseen world of the clouds illuminated by the divine light of the sun welcomed her arrival for she was a queen who pierced her veils after years of blind darkness.

    Her elegant and regal wings of freedom had taken her to the many cities, towns and nations of countless races; flying atop she saw great minarets burn to the ground, mansions demolished by the winds and plump men who were filled with delight at her sight slaughtered by the depraved.

    She had seen castles built from brick to marble and reduced to dust and smoke in the blink of an eye by both man and nature for a reason she could never know. The flying machines that often flew past her in a flash disappeared in the depth of the seas or the dense foliage of the jungles emitting fire and smoke as a mark of its end.  

    She had witnessed it all for ages past, protected by the vast skies where the wreaked earth couldn’t reach. She flew like a shadow from a distance past the setting sun, the crimson twilight and soaring peaks that sometimes kissed the clouds.

    There was a time when as an infant she would chirp for hours as dawn gave in to dusk, with her bowel sizzling with hunger. No one came for her so, she relished the skies hoping to one day own its vastness with her independent wings.

    Now, she is no longer helpless but the queen of her own having conquered the winds with her flight. Soaring and gliding past the reaches and passes still unknown to man; not a soul beside her to comfort and warm her since timeless yet not a hint of despair for which living can match the skies.

    Eagles with sharp eyes and an unrelenting persona likened to a sovereign king cherish her presence from afar, and she with her head held high and eyes across the pathless skies revel at the benign of those uncrowned kings. One’s destiny is to reap, another’s to fight and her destiny is to fly — far above the rivers, the oceans, the mountains, wars, skirmishes, and the changing love and hate of men.

    But she is all not aloof from the earth beneath! When her bowel roars once a day, she dives like her fellow Kingfisher into a river or ocean and gets hold of a fish that allays her hunger boosting her strength to fly for the rest of the journey.

    Flying for aeons, she wishes for nothing much or else but her wings to keep flapping till the sun and moon no longer rise, and the sky is lost. I, a timeless wanderer followed her through ships, cars and planes to know where this magnificent flight is to end.

    I had been let down by many a man and woman, shattered and broken both my faith and will to seek joy. None could give me an answer for none seemed to have known freedom or joy — stifling and stuttering their way out of an endless sea of predicaments.

    But, one day as I sat lost staring at the skies with a deep wish to become one with its light and colours, from the corner of my eye emerging from the eastern skies I saw her — a queen among dreams. She flew on and on past the endless and pathless horizon glowing like the sun yet serene like the moon.

    Thus, I knew my destiny was to seek her to find the source and end of her rare freedom and joy. It has been aeons since I have been following her, sitting and rowing this tiny boat I gaze at her wings and feel helpless with my confounded hands.

    Today I find her not flying across but towards the sun. I know very well that this being her last flight. As she with passing time becomes a shadow of a distant memory I sigh and gaze at the shimmering waters about me. A feather lands on my hair, holding it with my fingers I come to know where all the freedom and joy lay. In this near endless journey of a solitary feather, I too have flown without wings on this earth itself with all its wars and calamities.       

  • The Dog who Forgot to Bark

    Having shed the veil of monotony I for a change lifted the curtains from my window. The world outside to my relief and awe was a dark blue with a tinge of crimson and scarlet bright paving through which shadowy birds flew towards a land man has only dreamt.

    Gazing down from the heavenly skies the streets were impaired with a thousand conflicts where people fought over bargain, petty egoism and sheer sadism with the magnificent sky losing itself to a lost dream. I for a while found myself away from it all and rejoiced in my heart as if those shadowy birds in the prism-like twilight skies.

    All was well until I found that mongrel emerging from the shadows alert yet fearless amidst the blind mob. He made his way through the restless legs not even grazing one as rantings and cacophonous shouts filled the air and corrupted all forms of silence.

    Carts filled with fruits and green, beneath which lay endless filth were his resting spots where he seemed to lay for decades before embarking on his way yet again. Men overwhelmed by spite spit and swayed their legs to kick him but not a sound did he make walking on all fours like a lion of pride and honour.

    A hefty man who seemed to own an insignificant shop in a corner got hold of a stick as long and thick, keen on raining his frustrations on the poor soul who lived off the street through filth, and as rare as the eclipse a kind patron who fed him. The stick fell on his back a thousand times, yet he didn’t squirm or run like a sage keen on expiating all his past sins.

    I pondered whether his skin was that of steel numb to physical pain. As I fixed my gaze on the dog for once and for all shunning all other dramas that unfolded about, the dog made his eyes sparkle for the man at the ice-cream stall to see. The man like any other depraved of his kind swayed his leg and screamed blasphemies as if an outcaste in line to become a king of all Jambudvipa.

    Yet like a lion indifferent to the countless barking foxes and hyenas he briskly moved away with not a tear or scowl on his face. Reaching the door of a slaughterhouse, he sat upright with depth in his eyes suffused in the smell of the carcass.

    A man with beard and blood in his eyes swayed his machete to make him flee like a man with riches turned homeless overnight by invaders; yet not a slight hint of fear for losing his skin, he walked away with a silent roar which those with sixth sense could perceive.

    The tide of the chaos characteristic of many a street was ceasing as the moon took his seat on the throne of the darkness. Men vile and wild had begun to close their shops, push away their carts oblivious to the filth they had proliferated about to the delight of that poor mongrel who rolled himself in it from time to time.

    Though the earth had become silent, and finally a poet could say that the sky and the earth had become one like the heavens of myths but, that brave life who could endure like no other, and if born a man would have been crowned as the lord of sages sat silent and straight with hunger growling within.

    Though I rejoiced as the one who was away from all that filth and chaos, I just couldn’t see myself distinct from that mongrel who had forgot to bark even in the most abysmal of life’s works. Somehow the filth had receded, and I could only see the richness of his relentlessness that failed many a stout heart born with everything on a platter.

    The ugly, the poor, the lost and the famished give in to their fate with bitter tears and violence, but to my awe that mongrel being the most ugliest among the ugly, poorest of the poor, lost since birth and eternally famished snuggled in the filth, and walked about with cares in the wind as if a conqueror of conquerors.

    Under the painted night-sky I fed and brought home a friend from the streets — a dog who forgot to bark yet has made my life anew with trust and camaraderie.    

  • The Burning Pyre of the Ganges

    Whispers of the shadows,
    music to the lost yet breathing,
    the endless days and nights as
    if a mere count on the fingers,
    the time has come to embrace
    the eternal

    Shadows tread on the path unknown, bereft of its body as soon as the raging light is lit on the pyre. These shadows once high and mighty walked the earth with their presence itself the end and beginning of everything. Today, after ages of silent breath and indelible deeds that have left a mark on mankind, all that remains is empty shadows emerging from the raging light.

    Through and past the tear-ridden crowd the shadows cavort on the moonlit waves of the river of life, as if one with the tranquil brilliance away from all the sorrow that comes with death. Though unseen and unknown in the dark of the night, the shadows embrace the obscure yet full light of the moon to which those alive are blind. Stars reveal themselves to the shadows marking a new beginning in the dead of night.

    Thinkers, scholars, poets, saints and priests — all without exception have sought the end of ends where today the shadows stand in glee. The torment of the physical self has become a distant memory of nothingness, and the cosmic self of unparalleled force dances on the moonlit waves. Following the trail of the tranquil brilliance of the moon on the endless waves the shadows strive towards the horizon, where awaits the stars that define infinity to both the poetic and ordinary eyes.

    Once a woman as beautiful as the majestic night sky of the hills and rivers held hands, pressed her vivacious eyes upon those lifeless, and her laugh joyous enough to break stone-hearts that wage war among men. She held the world in her tender fist transcending the sinews and roars of lions, conquerors and kings.

    When alive something meant everything when she allayed the tortured heart with her kiss of divine. The aches of the physical self, and delusions of the indefinite mind seemed bearable, even comfort when she sat beside with her feet touching the cool river on which the shadows today tread guided by the moonlight.

    Being a shadow among shadows who have shed all matter, the only memory that lives and breathes in the thought to be nothingness under the stars is this woman I once held hands and pressed my eyes with. Though a shadow whose source is the ceaselessly burning pyre I stand still and give a last gaze to that woman who knew me both in life and in death.

    As a child I had been loved by my mother and emboldened by my father, who shed tears like a cascading waterfall in front of the pyre of end and beginnings. The distant lands they took me to, and the lessons they taught hold for naught for this shadowy self yet the joy imbued with affection they showered on me from birth till last breath swirls about me not as memory but eternity.

    A friend with whom I shared days of humor and frolic stands still with gaze affixed on the pyre. His face as blank as his lips are speechless. There were those times when we crawled through pipes, flew kites and played games of our own invention. The laughter that rents the monotony of the old and broken still rings in a corner of my shadowy self as I glimpse his lost face.

    A friend, a lover and a son being the roles I played for a while with the world as a stage, and the infinite as the audience. As I pace towards the horizon, the closer I get with the shadows about on the moonlit path of the waves I realize my life itself had been the workings of the eternal that defines all phenomenon whether the universe or the world beneath the river on which I tread.

    A priest who had known me since birth sings songs as stories of the gods who were once mortals striving to lift from the mire of worldly afflictions. The gods were none other than this shadowy self of mine who had become one with the horizon towards which I pick up pace at every passing hour.

    The songs punctuated with wails of piercing cries of those who had loved and cherished my breathing flesh. A million tears trickle and flow into the moonlit river, enriching its waters with memories of my once breathing self. I know not what will happen of my shadowy self, and what the horizon holds but, all that I have left behind lives on even after the moon is lost to the light of the sun, and the skies a mix of crimson, azure blue and gold.