Alabh Raj Taru Poems

20 years it's been
since I was back at this place
I push the gate with an uncharacteristic haste.
my steps, short and quick
...

The Working Man and the Beggar saw each other every day. It was always around the cusp of the evening. The Beggar was always sitting at the edge of an alleyway. The Working Man always walked by the alleyway towards his home. Every day when the Working Man crossed the Beggar's sitting place, they would acknowledge each other. It could be anything. The slightest of nods or just a meeting of eyes. It was subtle and momentary, but it was there. The Beggar would notice the Working Man's tired eyes, slumped shoulders, sunken cheeks, and his wrinkled face. The Working Man would notice the rugged face of the Beggar, full of old and fresh cuts. And then the Working Man would continue on his path home.
The Working Man lived alone. His whole life he'd been just another guy. Another one amongst many whose existence didn't really matter. Every day he'd go to his workplace. He would do what work was assigned to him. He would eat his lunch alone. Get shouted upon by his seniors. He'd hear his colleagues snicker as it happened. They would make noise, talk amongst themselves, laugh about stuff while they'd work. It wasn't as if they bothered him. They couldn't care less about him. It was just, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't block the cacophony. He'd wait for the work hours to get over. Then he'd drag his frame out of his workplace and walk past the Beggar with his shoulders slumped.
The Beggar would wake up every day to stray dogs licking and sniffing him. He was sure that they did that to check whether he was dead so that they could feast on him. Then he would roam around, looking for food in the bins and drinking water from water points in public parks. The cops would then throw him out of one of the parks. Some would beat him to make them feel good about themselves. Then the Beggar would sit at some public places with his hand out. Most days, the hands would remain empty. But somedays, he'd receive enough coins to buy himself a loaf of bread. Almost every day, on his way back to his sleeping place, some frustrated upstarts of a local gang would pester him for money or just because they had nothing else to do. They weren't the police. So, the Beggar hit back against them. They gave him cuts and bruises. But he made sure that he left marks on them too. Done with his daily tiring albeit necessary for survival routine, he'd sit at his sleeping place as the Working Man would walk past him every day.
The two men wonder why do they acknowledge each other. Why do they glance at each other's way when they are just another part of the masses. They don't even remember when this started. Maybe one day as the Working Man was walking past the Beggar their eyes had met. It was all about chance. Maybe at that moment, they didn't sense hostility from each other as they do from everyone they encounter. Maybe they felt sympathy from each other for each other. One moment. It was one moment when the Working Man didn't feel isolated and didn't hear the noise. One moment when the Beggar didn't feel pain and hunger. Just a chance glance of sympathy and kindness and they had connected. It became the only comfort moment of their day. They knew that they probably would never do more than their subtle gestures. And in all honesty, they didn't want more. Maybe they were scared that it would be ruined and their one moment of tranquility would be gone. Whatever it was, they were content.
...

86 billion neurons.2 paired arteries for blood supply.60% fat. Virtually unlimited storage capacity. And overthinking. All this more or less makes up a human mind. Yet there is so much more. What is a human mind? Some pretty vague ideas coming up along with a real quick escalation.
The human mind is desiring. It is expecting. Expecting from the people around it. From the relations that it has forged, through time and effort, through genuine care and love. It wants all of it in return, some less some more, but it expects, nonetheless. And it has the right, doesn't it? To want what it gives to others. To crave for something that it was built to receive. Some may not show this expectancy openly. Some may have covered themselves with layers of ice. But the yearning is there. Buried behind the layers of cold. Waiting for the warmth to melt all the walls down, and to fulfill this desire for intimacy in all forms. We weren't made for nihilism. That ideology merely developed from deprivation. A deprivation so deep and commonly experienced, that all belief from receiving any kind of tenderness was lost. Lost, not forgotten.
The human mind is scared. It is scared to show. To express. It is scared to be vulnerable. It is scared to be disappointed. But the fear is genuine, it is justified. Who would want to be hurt? The fear is just a defense mechanism, to avoid pain. But even then, no one can be safe from it. We still give in, in desperation or maybe hope, we give in. And whatever happens after that, in the long run, we end up being more scared, more fearful. We cannot say what we want to say. Cannot tell what we feel. Be it to a friend, blood relation, or someone with who we are infatuated with. This fear is requisite but uncontrolled. It is the one stipulating and we are mere puppets of its unpredictability, who bear the full brunt of the consequences.
The human mind is doubtful. It is forever irresolute of its worthiness. Any sort of admittance regarding laudability is momentary and is quickly replaced by ambivalence, which is almost always inclined towards negation. Any act of kindness towards it invokes a startle, a disbelief which has become a natural reaction now. The self-doubt weighs down so stiffly upon us, that we are always on our knees, on all fours, head down, unable to raise our eyes enough to see the light we produce, to know that it is our own, and we are damn worthy of the caress of other hands that we feel on our face, on our body. The caress which is trying to raise our head enough so that we could see our own illuminance and bask in it. We still may reject it, this notion, but the caress will hopefully keep trying, from a new pair of hands may be, until it is the perfect balance of firm and soft.
...

You are intrigued by something. You try it. You liked doing it. And luckily, you are not bad at doing it. On your good days, you might even think of yourself of being good at it. Eventually, it becomes a hobby.
You continue enjoying it. Somewhere along the way you start working on it. Working on yourself. But not too much. Never too much. You get even better at it. Now you stand out. Just amongst your close friends and circle. But you do stand out. You catch people's eyes a little. And it's enough to make you feel good. It's enough to get you attention, praise even. It makes you happy. Like proper happiness and not just a momentary-distraction-from-problems kind of illusion. You are sure about it. Your mind, which can't get enough of this dopamine, tells you that and makes you believe. Now, it's a passion.
You start devoting most of your time to it now. Either doing it or something related to it. It's almost always in your mind's foreground. People start associating you with it. You have developed habits where you mix your passion with your normal actions. You talk in those terms. Use references that go over people's heads. But they know the context. They know what you're talking about even though they don't and they are used to it. That's how big of a part it has become of your life. Then one day, you see someone else doing it. Someone you don't know. You sense that they are maybe better than you at it. Hoping to prove yourself wrong, you try your skill both with and against the new person. Now, you're sure. They're better than you. It's not starkly visible but you know it. You're jealous. It's supposed to be your thing. You should be the one who's better. So, you work on yourself again. But not too much. Still not too much. The difference wasn't much. So, it didn't take you long to overcome it. Now you're the better one. You're sure of it. And unlike before, the difference is starker. You feel joy, exhilaration, a sense of triumph. But most of all, you feel satisfaction. The insecurity covered with jealousy is gone now. It's become more than a passion for you now. You feel synonymous with it now.
You have moved on with your skill. You want to try it on a bigger and better platform now. You start on comparatively smaller ones. You do well. You hold your ground and do what you've always done. You maintain your style, build up your confidence and continue doing well, feeling well, and enjoy your shifts. Then one day, on another stage, on another big one, probably your biggest yet- you shatter. You fall. You drown. All at once. You try to hold your ground. You can't. You try to maintain your style but the people opposite to you don't let you, or rather, it doesn't work on them. They aren't fazed. They push you around, bully you, thrash you and then throw you off that stage which you thought you could survive and even dared to believe that you'd do good on it.
...