Battle of identities

Consider you are A. For your parents, you are (and will always be B). To your siblings, you are neither A or B, but C. Friends know and believe you to be D. You are an E in your professional life. But F is what the world knows you as.

And it doesn't stop with that. You wonder how people, whom you can't categorize as, what they think about you. Surprisingly, nobody thinks you are anyone from A-F. Rather, you get new names from G-Z .

And all along, in quest of searching who you actually are, you forget yourself. All that remains of you are the labels. And A is just one among them.

The Mango Tree

There is a mango tree in my neighborhood. I have spent weeks staring at the raw mangoes when we shifted here early this summer. It was beyond my reach. I fantasized grabbing them and eating to my heart's content, at times raw, at times seasoned with salt and chilli powder, the tangy, spicy flavour rolling in my tongue, surfing with the waves of saliva after which it takes the longest ride in my esophagus, finally settling in my stomach. Oh heavens! I miss the mangoes now, especially in this winter. 

The other day when I was watering the plants on my terrace, I saw the mango tree with budding flowers, blanketing the gigantic free with a creamy light green texture. And there on the right hand side, hung a tiniest mango. The lone lemon-sized mango in the vast tree. Small, raw, green-skinned, the little mango hangs in there with the support of the most delicate stem the branch could produce. The mango isn't even aware that it sprouted at the wrong time, and considering the weather, it might never grow. Or perhaps it would just stagnate till the arrival of its growing season. Maybe its stupid of him to come out way sooner than he is supposed to. Maybe he will be ignored when he shares his wisdom while others will be taking just the toddler steps. Maybe he is destined to be lonely, no matter if he lives or dies. Maybe no matter how much he tries, he will be never be able to share or express whatever is going inside him, and even he does the chances of being understood will oscillate between slim to zilch. Being himself will be a challenge in itself, and even if he is himself against all odds, all the battles he fights will threaten his survival, his very existence. The very stem, branch and tree which has produced him might never get to know him. They might just shed him, or let him hang, which will be tiring and falling off on its own, unable to hold any more. After all, its just one. Or maybe, a stranger would come, pluck it and walk away, leaving the tree wounded forever. 

I watched the solitary mango and the mango tree. And I realized, we are both the mango and the mango tree. There are so many mangoes and mango trees around us. So many times, we just pluck the mangoes from a mango tree and walk away, while we desperately try to protect the mango inside us, expecting somebody will guard their own life and make it grow. 

I have just lost my mango. But somehow I believe, the mango tree will produce more mangoes, giving its everything, to make up for that one lost mango. And I shall be happy and grateful for that!

Image Source: From my camera :) 

Voice of a muted dream

There lies a voice inside me,
craving to be loud and free..
but in a pool of voices that swim sporadically -
it loses inside the laps,
settling deep in the darkness where no hands reach..
The voice lies dormant inside the indefinite layers,
burning to surface and break the cages;
the ripples vibrates inside the eyes-
a drop escapes from the side,
fading in the races, chases and scream,
its the voice of a muted dream