Sunday, January 23

All for a change

ey everyone,

The Displaced Frequency will be undergoing spring cleaning soon. So just give me the CRAZIEST ideas for almost anything. Layout, title, my profile photo!!! I'm willing to follow almost any idea that comes to me as unique. How about ideas for some new posts?

Right now, I'm suffering a brain-drain. No thought in my head, no idea of life, nothing! So... this is what I suppose I'll do. I'll write a short story that I had written once (I guess last year or so...).

The weirdest thing about it is, that it ain't got nothing to do with the title. It's a fictional narrative about this normal person's friendship with a weird person, it's called, Goobye Enya:-
I met Enya today. It had been quite a while, almost 2 years. She had changed, evolved. Despite our friendship for 7 years and the fact that we were living in the same town, she never cared to let me know her adress. The other day I recieve a text from her to see her today evening, also saying that there might be no other chance. Naturally, I was bewildered. The girl never cares to let me know where she is. And she calls me her best friend. But then again, I always seen her in another world: drawing something on her wrists, writing away in her diary, using a camera to capture any damn thing, singing something to herself. She was so normal in her own weird way.
Her face is the most outrageously ferocious one. She has always been the wild child of the wind, hair scattered over her face, so like the clouds over the sky. In anger, her face flushed red like the big hard sun. She could pick a fight with anyone and end up winning it all the time. But life had won over her now. Enya, was calmer, quieter and and more peaceful. As I enter her apartment, her playful smile and "waddya want?" expression in her eyes greet me.
She never wanted to leave the place she so loved. I hold her hand, assuring her as only a friend could that everything is alright and she just nods and gives me a no-worry-on-tomorrow smile. But despite that hard attempt, those piercing eyes and weird piercings, her features had kindled to a great extent. She wasn't the same Enya who had pushed me during that buji jump. This newer Enya couldn't even step on a bug. How would she pick up a brawl?
She starts packing again. She has packed everything except for a pullover. She said she'll wear it at the airport tomorrow. As I look at the pullover, it's the same as I had given her once on one of her birthdays. She kept mending it for years while I knew that she was there. I'm shocked she still has it. She wears it again, despite that perfect Massachusetts summer, looking directly at the Boston skyline. She seemed to be promising it of an unfateful return.

"Why are you going there anyway?"
"To know where I came from Mimi..."
"And what do you know about em'?"
"Nothing?!?! Well, how the hell can you be so comitted to people you don't even know?"
"Mimi, they're my family."
"A family you don't even know?"
"Mimi, bloods in your veins. It just is there. It don't need to know food. It just takes it in."
"Enya, sometimes I don't get you."
"Honey," she hugged me so sweetly for the first time in my life. Her voice seemed changed, more polite and inclined to a weird sweetness. "You're not the only one."
"Get your hands of me slop!" I say as she would've said if I ever hugged her. "Does Angelus know?" Angelus is the man she loves.
"No? Enya! You LOVE him!"
"And that's why I won't tell him. That would just make him uspet!"
"Kill me... What's gone into you?"
"Mimi, you won't get the gist of it. We're peace. So be us."
As she ignores the details I ask, tears start filling in my eyes. She had changed, softened, became more fragile. I saw her in anger, I saw her in despair, I saw her bewilderment, but never her fear. And she was beautiful still in her fear... She was the beautiful I needed to be to have the world beneath my feet and hold my head up high like her. But this new Enya... The world wasn't below her feet and our heads were at the same level, her still bowing lower. I remember her wildness, her craze, her gyspsy features being overtaken by domestication and making amends with life. The tears start getting more intense. I am crying now. I can't cry! I'm too young to give up. I rush out of that apartment. This isn't the Enya I had befriended. Rather, the one who had befriended me. There was a different girl and I said to her... Goodbye Enya.
The END! Now... how'd you like it? Yes, it's original, it's mine. So OPEN TO CRITISISM! Let me know through comments and stuff. And NEWS ALERT: There would be no entries in February! I repeat: no entries in February. What? I have a life too you know. A life outside blog, outside facebook, outside cellphone! So, I'll check in for the comments though (keep em' comming). And do suggest me something whacky.



Sunday, January 16

Death: A Dear Friend

A very morbid title. Isn't it? Nay, not so.

 By the way, Hello Everyone! Hope that I've reached you all in good health and good time. I don't have much free time these days, and definitely no time to mourn, my life these days is a total celebration, full of jive, color, love and music. No time to look at all that makes me sad but then again it's the perfection of thought that is imperfect, and that brought me to this simple communicating device.

A Very Romantic Death
 About death, really the thought isn't frightening. What are we going towards? Why are we aging? What is closing to our ends? It's the same dear friend that has followed us time and time again, warning to touch us at a certain time, till when we are alive. But nothing lasts forever, why is it so frightening to feel something so real after which there will be no feeling left?

I somehow tend to talk openly about the topic of death, and hence, am taken to be a depressionist. But that's rather a realist statement. Nothing is so real and so true as death for it is destined to meet us in a good time and at a good day. There's nothing depressing about it. Nothing is so fearful as death because that's the basis for every fear is death itself. For example, fear of dark prevails as there might be death closing by anytime unaware, the fear of thunder because you never know where it might strike. So like death itself. But the angel of death is our everyday companion. Even when a stranger has assured no harm, the fear of death always remains to be and the fictious world of reality seems to be dreamier than a dream.

Many a times we complain how nothing is going right in our lives. But yet we are too frightened when death shows it's presence. No matter nothing may be right in out lives, our love for life is just as great as our complains from it. We want to rise time and time again to a bliss that we still exist. No person, no matter how much of a daredevil remains so after they have felt that the hand of death lies nearer than the cellphones in their pockets.

Is there a life after death? But then again, is there a life before death?

Many mythologies (Aryan, Egyptian, Greek, Babylonian) talk about a life after death. The Egyptians left the riches as they might come in handy in the life after death. Some others talk about a cycle of life and death going hand in hand. We are born the moment we died. And hence in this life, we only survive.

The angel of death roams behind us in the loneliest of our times, it's hand intervening with that of God, possessing our time, all that is there and all that is not. Leaving little to imagination, it isn't cruel or brutal, it is just doing it's job. It is ensuring that we live each and everymoment as it comes. The only music in my life yet is a lecture and the colors come from the covers of textbooks. But I celebrate each moment as it comes. Smiling and thanking God for each breathe I take. I don't leave the few joys to be done till tomorrow: apologising if I have offended anyone, accepting a grace, giving a smile, thanking anyone to whom I am to say so...

I belive that thanks to the fact that there is a death, I live and love my life as it comes. Now as I risk the fact of choking on the delicious food put up in front of me (by the grace of my dear mother) I bid farewell to everyone. Much love!
Peace out!

Saturday, January 8

Rumi and the true Story of Faith

Hell-low under again Folks!

The DisplacedFrequency's been going under duck-loads of displacements off-lately and less time to post, (dear readers, don't take it as I'm DEAD!) and have also been unactive for past two months. Reason? Well the rest of November went with my Ma's birthday, my own stuff, the month of December went in tests and the month of January went in celebrating New Year BUT... January ain't gone as the displaced frequency's born to a new life. Hey, that's why I'm so awesom to ya folks. ;)

Jalal-ud-din Rumi and the mystics
 Jalal-ud-din Rumi's my favourite mystic of all times (along with Bulleh Shah, Waris Shah and Osho). Now why do I like his poetry? Clear as crystal, it's nor far fetched, it's sufi, it brings a person a step closer to his/ her own heart and it really doesn't need a language to be spoken out. The words of Rumi are the words of our own. The only language Rumi ever spoke wasn't Persian or Arabic, rather, it was the language of love. Rumi taught us the Passion to Live.

I don't know whatever brought me to read him, well it just did, I just read him. As a personality, I endorse the fact that there's a God. I believe that there's a destiny. I believe that Life is. No, it ain't a struggle or a celebration, it just is. And that's the clearest thing Rumi taught us. God is. Love is. Rumi and his words are eternal and have lived through the ages. Even in this world of race between a heart beating and a system procession, Rumi's words can melt  silicon.

There are many incidents, stories to "why" did Rumi ever start writing. One of them's my favourite version, the one I am to narrate:-
 Rumi became a scholar and a mystic came to him when he was sitting with his pupils and his books by the side of a pond. The mystic threw all his books in the pond and transformed Rumi's soul. Spiritually, the process of transformation includes exchange of spirits between two bodies. No, that LITTERALLY ain't the thing that you might be thinking. Transformation means that when there's a true connection of the soul. When you've crossed all the borders and boudaries and reached a stage where noone needs words to talk. But when his mystic friend died Rumi became hysteric and spun for ages and poetry bled out of him (Litterally, that's a mental illness. eg, Schizophrenia is always described as the world dissolving, and the poetry bleeding is obviously the poetry being recited by a "madman").

The first verse I ever ready by Rumi was:-
Come, come, whoever you are,
Wanderer, idolater, worshiper of fire,
Come even though you have broken your vows a thousand times,
Come, and come yet again.
Ours is not a caravan of despair
And it's in this first meeting that Rumi took me with him by surprise. It's clear as crystal and easy to understand. Rumi is who we are. In fact, Rumi is the originator of that spinning sufi dance (the stage of his hysteria, he spun for an eternal age).

These stories about God, about those who had faith, might seem weird and far fetched. For example, when Bulleh Shah was a child, his mother told him, "if you pray, God will give you jaggery." And the lad prayed for the sake of jaggery. But when his mother died, the whole town knew that it was to be the day he was going to lose his faith.That day, after he was done praying, the entire room was filled with jaggery... Wierd as it might seem, but Faith is. Nothing you can do to help it. It might be there, it might not be there but it just is. Were words enough, to be there we wouldn't really need eyes to see and hands to feel. All the broken hearted and all the open wounds need some faith, sometimes a little more than medicine to heal. In fact, that's why I write mostly spiritual that there would be at least someone who'd read it and think about it, reflect upon his/her own life, and choose life time and time again. There's no point in sufering with our own self. Let's all spend a moment to take a deep breath and rejoice over existence and all that Rumi taught us. In his own words:-

I died as a mineral and became a plant,
I died as plant and rose to animal,
I died as animal and I was Man.
Why should I fear? When was I less by dying?
Yet once more I shall die as Man, to soar
With angels bless'd; but even from angelhood
I must pass on: all except God doth perish.
When I have sacrificed my angel-soul,
I shall become what no mind e'er conceived.
Oh, let me not exist! for Non-existence
Proclaims in organ tones,
To Him we shall return
I have been an atheist, I have been a disbeliever, I have been a satanist, and then I met God. His path is the simplest to follow, and the easiest to believe (that's why people find it hard). I am not eternal, but I am. To me, my faith is my headstone and my destiny is my smile. I fell in love with life all over again, and now as I write this, I thank ALL those who have ever read at least one post of this blog to give my words a tinch of importance. I think it's destiny that brought us down to this bottom line that we are connected by this little proof of existence. Thankyou all, really it means a lot to me. =)

Peace out!