Love Is NOT Beautiful ( Philosophy)

No human life is untouched by Love and Beauty, yet, if you ask one to explain what Love and Beauty is none can give a definition which is complete in itself.

We all have heard these words since time immemorial, and we all want to feel and possess it. We long for it!

We have used it and often used it frequently. Their use has been so common and used for such a large group of subjects that many a times we use Lovely for a thing which is Beautiful and Beautiful for a thing which is Lovely. In fact, Love and Beauty are used interchangeably, quite often.

To what extent are we true?


Love is something which does not have a physical existence. Love is an ethereal blissful feeling of care, universal togetherness, and personal acceptance in original , natural and non-artificial form. Love makes one feel blissful by ones realization that someone cares for you and in turn makes you return that care, unknowingly. One feels and expects universal togetherness - and hence the use of the phrase: I want to be with you in every life etc - in times of material and emotional ecstasy and adversity. Though you can say that the explanation is not general to the extent it should be, but if you apply the same principles the you can not deny the holistic thought. The physical non-existence of Love is further reinforced by the fact that none of its attributes can be measured and defined by a quantifiable parameter.


On the other hand, Beauty is used only for things that has physical existence. It can be seen. Here again you can argue that Beauty, like Love, cannot be quantified, but you cannot deny its material existence. But it is possible to have a relative quantification of Beauty as we popularly do by organizing contests or votes, though, its absolute quantification is debatable. A group of people can all see the same Beauty in a subject and agree on it but it is not the case with Love. Is there such a thing or or even an attempt of thought to have at least a relative quantification of Love. No.

So, it is clear that Love has evolved only as a result of human ability to feel and does not represent any physical object and we are mistaken we if use it that way. If we do not have the ability to feel things and emotions, still the Beauty would exist. Beauty can exist without Love. But of Love does not depend on any physical object.

Therefore, Love Is NOT Beautiful.

Then, It also justifies that we are wrong in showing a lopsided Love towards something that is Beautiful. Why is it that we associate Beauty with Love? In fact we can argue and show that Love and Beauty are complements of each other. That is, any object or say a person who is Beautiful is not Lovely and what is Lovely is not Beautiful.

Beauty and Love are compliments. Or,

LOVE = Compliment ( BEAUTY )

.....END

She cant hear me; nor can I kiss

10 years of pain....

....when I was in school, I was the poorest student in the class. She was the topper.

She didnt notice me.

I thought I have to study hard, and when I will be at par with her in studies, she will take notice of me. And then, I will tell her how much I love her.

I studied hard. I topped my school. I got into IIT. I got a good job. And when I thought, now I have achieved something and am in a better position to tell her what she is for me, I cannot find her.

She is lost; somewhere, in the past, behind the thick fog of time, and only her memories linger by my side...

I do see her on the roads she used to walk... only she cant hear me, nor can I touch or kiss her.

Walking on Newspaper lines (short story)

I read in todays newspaper that yesterday it had rained heavily in my city, Delhi; thats an unxepected shower to come at the outset of the hot Indian summer, and had filled most of the pebbled roads, causing heavy traffic jams. I didnt knew it -- that it rained yesterday. I didnt notice it. Though the paper read so, I doubted it; and scrampered towards the window, opposite to the wall against which my study table rests.

As I slid aside the cotton green window drapes of my rectangular room, I could only see the bright yellow sunlight on the green tree tops; though, the ground near brown tree trunks were damp, dark, possibly from yesterdays rain. Maybe it rained yesterday! It was unquestionable that its not todays paper, as I had lifted it just minutes ago from the bottom of my room door.

I have been confined to my room for past two days. The lights and the air too. And the only thing that crossed the concrete 3D envelope of my room is the newspaper, which, the newspaper guy slid under the door. As I read, the next article tells in detail of the bomb blast that took place at the railway station thats just across the road to my room, few hundred meters away. I did hear a thud yesterday afternoon, but that was it. I felt that I have started imagining things, and tried to forget it.

Well, whatever the paper reads, it all happened in a different world. A world that has become alien to me in these past two days.

The world has frozen, except, that it still flows in the black printed lines of the newspaper.

I have been trying hard to listen, with my ears pressed against the brick walls of my room, but there is not a single hint of the movement of the world, and the only sound that i can hear through the thick walls is the cowing of ducks in the backyard garden pond.

Now, it feels like those split seconds which appears to be oblivion; when you look for the first time into the eyes of your lover and everything comes to a stop, and it feels like you are dead; like, when you fall from an aeroplane which has just crashed, and you know for sure that you are going to die after hitting the ground, and still you look down as death stares into your eyes. I felt like that. The rope with a noose hung from ceiling fan. There was a letter under the paperweight with circular post stamps, and it took ten days to reach me. There rests a chair under the ceiling fan.

Still something was missing.

I tried hard to find that out. The smiling rope hung, inviting with its wide open mouth, and I wanted to greet it with a similar smile, with a free mind. But something was missing....and it's becoming hard for me to stop myself from fusion with noose. Is it the music? Music that accompanies every ceremony. Music that gives every event a ceremonial touch, and makes that event a history thats remembered.

There was no music! There was no ticking of clock!

The table clock. Yes that is it! The ticking of the watch that ticks louder in such moments was missing.

The battery died down weeks ago. And so did time. I should listen to the music of watch, its ticking, which it plays in these last seconds, when u know for sure that u r going to die.

I must go and buy a pair of new batteries today evening. And I will. Let me step out of the room and walk into the directions of the newspaper lines. The way the newspaper lines flows.. wherever it goes.

The End.

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Comments and Suggestions invited..

Time to Fly

Long long ago, I knew
A kid. Small and plump,
But like a bird he flew.

Have you heard
The story of ass, who
Tied wings and jumped, to fly?
O gal, Have you?

That kid believed in it,
That he could fly.
Tied wings,
Climbed the roof, to try.

He lives somewhere
In the town I come from.
Hand in hand, he still walks
Besides me, when I am there.

He must be waiting
In the town I come from.
Hand in hand, we still walk
We keep mum, he never talks.

He must be waiting
In the town I come from.....

Going to see the kid
I was, yesterday.
I am going home.

Walk out

Behind the transparent shining brittle glass, on the plywood selves, at the level of two-feet-childs-eye, were kept the expensive toys in red and blue and green and yellow. They were not for sale, the instructions read. They were for display, used as a decoration, to entice the beaming eyes of the plump kids of rich ( while their parents bought them ice-crems ), which even an adult could not have overlooked and prevented streak of smile surfacing on his lips, conspicuous to everyone around in the shop. How could I have.

Through the calculated slant angle of trignometry, my eyes stared through the glass at those fur toys and the metal guns, as my friends bought softies for us. There were two ladies close to me, whom I noticed later, on either side of the optical line that travelled from toys to my eyes. Both were dressed in red. One in red top and blue jeans and sports shoes stood beside me, probably married, as indicated by the faded line of hena between her parted brown hairs, but obscure enough to leave doubt. The other lady was dressed in a traditional red salwar-suit, had plaited long black hair which fell behind her shoulders, eyeslids carefuly smeared with black 'kajal' amongst which pearl-like eyes shone, and her white feets rested in the hole carved inside a 'juti', lines of red that ran along the edges of her feet were thick, so that a part of red could still be seen on the marble skin outside the 'juti'.

It would be difficult to say since how long her pearl eyes were watching the lady in red top, who stood ahead of and with her back towards the girl in traditional dress, and I could see the gloom in her eyes growing by every passing second. She watched the girl in red top from head-to-toe stopping in-between at the hips. Slowly, it seemed that all the energy around her, travelled and sank inside her, like a blackhole. Her voise died, her movements died, and for a second I felt that her bright face had also started to become duskier.

As I stood watching her face moving towards the oblivion, maybe she realised that I have been seeing her for sometime, and she said to her elder brother, 'I will wait outside.'

I looked away from her, towards the toys. I tried to behave as if I havent heard her say anything or seen anything and have beeing enjoying the background music. When she had walked out, I looked towards the girl in revealing red top. She was licking the ice-cream cone in her hand.


---------------
Behind silver glass, on plywood selves
at two-feet-childs-eye, rests toys mellow
in red and blue and green and yellow

Not for sale!
only to entice beaming eyes of riches kids, as they drone
while their parents bought them ice-cream cone

Toys
not even an adult could have overlooked
how smile could have escaped

Optical rays travel from toys to my eyes
parting two lady-in-reds' space
hailing from disparate financial face

sorry, too lazy to complete the poem

The Story of Rose

I came across this story on some site, and think everyone should read it.
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Growing older is mandatory, growing up is optional

The first day of school our professor introduced himself and challenged us to get to know someone we didn't already know.
I stood up to look around when a gentle hand touched my shoulder. I turned around to find a wrinkled, little old lady beaming up at me with a smile that lit up her entire being.

She said, "Hi handsome. My name is Rose. I’m 87 years old. Can I give you a hug?"
I laughed and enthusiastically responded,
"Of course you may!" and she gave me a giant squeeze.

"Why are you in college at such a young, innocent age?" I asked.
She jokingly replied, "I’m here to meet a rich husband, get married, have a couple of children, and then retire and travel."
"No seriously," I asked. I was curious what may have motivated her to be taking on this challenge at her age.
"I always dreamed of having a college education and now I’m getting one!" she told me.

After class we walked to the student union building and shared a chocolate milkshake. We became instant friends.
Every day for the next three months we would leave class together and talk non-stop. I was always mesmerized listening to this "time machine” as she shared her wisdom and experience with me.
Over the course of the year, Rose became a campus icon and she easily made friends wherever she went. She loved to dress up and she revelled in the attention bestowed upon her from the other students. She was living it up.

At the end of the semester we invited Rose to speak at our football banquet. I’ll never forget what she taught us. She was introduced and stepped up to the podium.

As she began to deliver her prepared speech, she dropped her three by five cards on the floor. Frustrated and a little embarrassed she leaned into the microphone and simply said,
"I’m sorry I’m so jittery. I gave up beer for Lent and this whiskey is killing me! I’ll never get my speech back in order so let me just tell you what I know."

As we laughed she cleared her throat and began: "We do not stop playing because we are old; we grow old because we stop playing. There are only four secrets to staying young, being happy and achieving success."
"You have to laugh and find humour every day."
"You’ve got to have a dream. When you lose your dreams, you die. We have so many people walking around who are dead and don’t even know it!"
"There is a huge difference between growing older and growing up. If you are nineteen years old and lie in bed for one full year and don’t do one productive thing, you will turn twenty years old. If I am eighty-seven years old and stay in bed for a year and never do anything I will turn eighty-eight. Anybody can grow older. That doesn’t take any talent or ability. The idea is to grow up by always finding the opportunity in change."
"Have no regrets. The elderly usually don’t have regrets for what we did, but rather for things we did not do. The only people who fear death are those with regrets."
She concluded her speech by courageously singing "The Rose." She challenged each of us to study the lyrics and live them out in our daily lives.

At the years end Rose finished the college degree she had begun all those years ago. One week after graduation Rose died peacefully in her sleep. Over two thousand college students attended her funeral in tribute to the wonderful woman who taught by example that it’s never too late to be all you can possibly be…..YOU!!

Remember, growing older is mandatory. Growing up is optional.
We make a living by what we get; we make a life by what we give.
God promises a safe landing, not a calm passage.
If God brings you to it ... he will bring you through it. It’s better to try and fail, than fail to try.

"The Rose"

Some say love, it is a river,
That drowns the tender reed.
Some say love, it is a razor,
That leaves your soul to bleed.
Some say love, it is a hunger,
An endless, aching need.
I say love, it is a flower,
And you, it's soul the seed.
It's a heart afraid of breaking,
That never learns to dance;
It's the dream, afraid of waking,
That never takes the chance;
Its the one who won't be taken,
Who cannot seem to give;
And the soul, afraid of dying,
That never learns to live.
When the night has been too lonely,
And the road has been too long,
And you think that love is only
For the lucky and the strong:
Just remember, in the winter,
Far beneath the bitter snows,
Lies the seed, that with the sun's love
In the Spring, becomes the rose.

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I wish you all the colors of life ...!

Color of Rainbows,
Fragrance of beautiful flowers,

Dance of butterflies, in the garden
Pride of Hills, touching the high sky
Calmness of river, as it flows

I wish I had all the colors of life!
And I wish you all the same!

Whisper of raindrops,
Flute of winds,

Blue of sky, and its vastness
Strength of sun, and its purity
Beauty of soft white moon, in lonely night

I wish I had all the colors of life!
And I wish you all the same!

Happy Holi!