It’s dawn Half past five in the morning. The sky is changing colors like a chameleon. I quickly ran up the stairs to the terrace of my house in a suburb of Chennai: pallavaram, with papers and a pen. I was struck by the inspiring pigeon army parade, buzzing bees, mischievous sparrows, jumping squirrels, energetic and rushing dogs, joggers, walkers, the charming singing of a baby cuckoo and girls exercising . Half an hour passed like half a second. The distant black and gray mountain seemed lush green to my eyes. The peeking sun and sweeping breeze were certainly alluring. Although I enjoyed all of them, they are not good enough to induce the first line of my yet-to-be-born poem.
I moved to my garden, with my papers and pen, trying to influence my creativity. The plants received me with a dance. They did recognize me, because I am the one who waters them every morning. The flowers smiled at me. A small plant whispered: “Hey, look friends! Our human friend has come with a paper and a pen. We may soon find a place on the Internet or some books.” I enjoyed his confidence in my writing and every moment there, but still the mystery is why the words elude me.
The day passed with some other commitments.
It is dark. Half past nine at night. I am standing on the same terrace again. Heaven is as attractive as an African woman. The moon is so romantic, and it’s certainly no wonder why so many writers and poets flirted with it. “Hey, full moon! You’re too old for me. Still, I’d take the liberty of flirting with you. Your cousins, the shining stars, are amazing too. But still, you’re not good enough to be the birthplace of my creativity”, communicated my eternal voice.
I closed my eyes trying to meditate and bring the vital concentration that perhaps marks the beginning of my dream verses.
My father’s voice distracted me: “Aaqarsh, Aaqarsh! What are you doing? Get down.” I ran downstairs immediately. “Why are you like this, useless! Look how other men your age are, what a shame!” the Scream. I instantly went to my room, locked the door from the inside and started writing the first line of my poem on the papers in my sweet mother tongue ‘Tamil’.
“This world is so competitive and comparative.
But great souls are always superlative.”