I am a realist, a poet and a friend.
The door didn’t open.
I stood there, wondering…did I say something out of place?
I didn’t give up and knocked again, softly.
What do you want?
‘Nothing.’ I couldn’t say a word beyond that.
Expectations? Did I say I don’t have any?
Often I tell myself – expectations are emotional signposts that stunt your growth.
While trying to keep them at bay, introspection pays an unexpected visit…
I know this world is skeptical. I know nobody likes to befriend a realist.
I have been turned away like that a thousand times yet I didn’t learn any lessons.
When I met fantasy, she took me beyond the horizon and introduced me to the stars but their incandescence couldn’t blind me.
Those flights were like lying in a hammock and I could perceive some magnificent hues, relaxing and gathering some fantastic confetti to sprinkle upon my words.
She also whirl-winded through the corridors of romance, riding on the waves of ecstasy but I didn’t lose my sanity. I couldn’t soak myself in the fragrance of fickle-hearted, frivolous love despite its alluring attraction.
When I met mystery, she took me into the darkest tunnels where cobwebs tried to block my vision. Darkness could not hold me for too long as the eternal optimist within me keeps me humored all the time.
Melodrama couldn’t lure me and I refused to be carried away by its teary-eyed hypocrisy.
Thrilling adventures did hook me but their enticement was short lived as my mentor was always breathing in my ear the admonishing words in a firm tone.
Observation and intuition have been my best pals! I still love them.
Realism keeps me grounded. It connects me with people, their emotions and experiences of life.
“The pessimist complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjusts the sails.” – William Arthur Ward
I met realism very early in life when I was just beginning to form my memories. I remember him clearly standing in the door, with scary daggers in both his hands, reminding me to remain indoors.
He told me, ‘you are a girl in a men’s world.’ This warning developed my emotional quotient and intuition.
He walked with me all the time, threatening to knock me into a drain. One day he did so when I refused to listen to him and jumped ahead to buy a candy.
The rebel within me leaped out each time to scratch his face. Some times I did succeed in dodging him but that only exposed my own imprudence.
He revealed to me the travails of life; the aches and the hurts that he gave me steeled me. He acquainted me with the secrets and diktats of my culture. He taught me to pour an embittered heart into a cauldron and ignite it with my words. I grew up with his cues and his decrees became a part of my personality.
An internal rebel, I yearned to break free. There is no doubt that realism can be stifling at times.
Freedom did grace my home and the precious wings that I cherished were spontaneously passed on with realistic values to the next generation.
Realism keeps me focused yet a little dose of fantasy makes a coveted cocktail of poetic delight. Emotions too keep peeping in though I have learnt to channelize them. When I look at my early poetry, completely driven by emotions I marvel at my personal growth and the whole credit goes to introspection.
“Realism can break a writer’s heart,” said Salman Rushdie…such is the power of realism but I have reconciled with him as he has mentored me all my life.
How much of a realist are you?
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