Small Things can be folded and carried in a pocket… But what does it happen with Big Things? Today, you can listen to Adreyo Sen and his sharp opinions.
Three clever musical poems: Small Things, Immortality and Light. Enjoy the day, Yareah readers!
Things that are not small are limited
by the inconvenient truth
of their bulk. They cannot be folded and
carried in a pocket, or secreted under the
heel of a shoe like a non-lethal sliver
of revelation. They are not born to deceive,
they do not pass through the immigration
counters of nations and minds as
entirely different things. Things that are
not small are not born convicts, born
rebels, born amoral heartbreakers.
Things that are small luxuriate in their
consummate talent for becoming symbols, for
selling themselves to ideologies and doctrines
with just a twist at the corner, or a pretence,
slight, of change. Things that are small know
how it is to be the cancer at the center
of what is misguided, but genuine; they
know how to pervert everything into a
worship of their tiny selves.
Some small things do not abuse their
tremendous power over your heart. Rather,
they seek, like kinder gods, to protect it.
They stand bland guard over your
dressing table, or repose with pained dignity
on your bedside vanity, alerting you
subtly to memories under-appreciated,
lurking behind the front curtains of your
mind, calling out to you as you sleep
in the voices of those you once loved
with all the fatal sincerity of a heart that
had not learned to know better,
and conveying sneakily late at night
into the dingy and sad confines
of your room, the wonderful fried smells of home
and the warmth of damp, cheerful, floury love
you only pretended to disdain.
Immortality as a human condition,
is not the permanent given
we’d like to believe in.
Age, as an artist, is patient. She never wearies
of waiting, of only ever applying her fine
network of wrinkles and hurts and
disappointments, to the masterpiece of defeat
that is your face, with infinite slowness.
Age has to hold off on us with a scornful shrug
of her grey shoulders, only as long as there are
people who still see us as when we were
young. Who see us as when our youth was
heartrendingly obvious, who see us still,
so sadly, in the furious light of our then arrogance,
and idealism, our then terrible, tragic capacity for
hope, our then half-hearted, over-committed
insanity of love.
It’s only when the last custodians of a
past we’ll never remember full well
ourselves, and certainly not as the time
we were our best, most ardent, and most
genuine selves (if only we secretly, miserably, suspected
ourselves of being counterfeit), age out
that Age steps in with her terrible brush,
to make of us art that is perhaps only this beautiful
because its existence has been entirely forgotten.
When I was small and roaming our alley,
aimless, convinced as was my peevishly feeble
way, that no one loved me and that I was
better off dead, a stranger grabbed me
in her arms and put in my tear-stained,
dirty palm, the brilliance of an orange.
As I walked home, the promise of joy so
welcome and sticky on my fingers, I felt the
world was brighter. The buildings no longer
had the bombed look of shell-shocked, greying
victims of indifference.
Awakening from my selfish ways and discarding my
toybox of petty hurts, I looked around and saw
the world spark, so softly, so briefly, into the
pastel-bright colours of love, everytime a smile
was forfeited from a kind face without receipt
of payment, everytime a man with no more
strength in his feet, was moved on from
Despair, every time a tiny, ragged girl shared
with tinier children still, the little slivers of
her meal, everytime my parents held me in
their arms, and I found the sun and the
universe in their shoulder.
And growing now, I began to want to
do my bit to make the dull skies shine
that bit brighter. Not used to being
good, or particularly kind, I took baby steps,
to place my hand where it may be caught,
to let my ears be my heart, to let my eyes
speak when the slowness of my tongue could
not say, to find a girl I could love with all the
intensity of my narrow heart.
And that, love, is how I grew up.