When words would cease to form the swirls at the helms of the skirts of voluptuous women dancing in the richly-blossomed gardens of the wealthy men. When there would be no more clefts left in my uncanny ways both with the pen and with the stratagem of aligning the race of humans alongside for a cause.
I would then rise from the deep dreams that I now indulge in, not for pleasure and not in the least in the pursuit of desires but by the forces of need such as is felt in times of deep peril. I would rise, yes! And I would walk into oblivion through the thick fogs of the blue inks that lead the way to the heavens and hells of the virgin mind of yet another writer within the bounds of myself. To exploit the untouched realms of the new world and march another armed race through the corners of its peaceful green lands. To echo its quiet mundane rivulet scattered country-sides with the quivers and roars of the cannons of human anger, ambition, greed and more.

Rebecca could be the name of a woman that would cross the street and end up dying with flowers scattered all over her blood-stained dress. That would make for a stunning poetic scene. That would make for a painful reality. Someone's life can so deeply be altered by such an event. Skip a scene. Rewind. Skip two rather. A girl buying flowers for her lover at a flower shop. Dreaming of a candle-lit dinner. Her fingers gently fidgeting along the flower shop's window sill. Her eyes fixated on a certain collection of daisies. Fresh and white. They had met over a business lunch. It was a rich ambience. A garden full of flowers. So unlike these at this flower shop. Young women and men dancing around to an orchestra. The skirts flowing around the garden much like poetry. And here she was in love. Her mind forming a poetry of its own, selecting words like flowers and choosing flowers from the window sill of a flower shop...

We all know that down the story she would be dead and there would be no candle-lit dinners. Such is the agony of the pen that must drag on against the irony of knowing and yet pretending not to know. Like a blind-folded man peeking through gaping holes in a game of hide and seek. The pen slips on the fluid surface of deceit. That is how another virgin mind is ravaged. Its screams echoing in the words of the writer. The breaks of the punctuation reflecting his own shameful glances at his ravaged virginity...

Faith often is a transcendental truth. It needs neither logic nor power to assist its struggle to the epitome of greater glory. I say greater for want of an argument more than anything else. Words often are driven by nothing more than faith. That it would all conclude into something meaningful at the end of it. There would be a moral to the story, a conclusion to the discussion, a proof to the theory or a conjecture would at least follow the hypothesis, if not an experimental truth. The pen struggles against not just friction but much more, including negating thoughts, pre-conceived notions, prejudices and the forces from the cosmos (yes, that too!) amongst other things. Faith is what holds the flow so to speak. And the voluptuous women dance on in scantily-clad attires in the richly-blossomed gardens of the rich men with the words flowing along the helms of the swirls of their skirts. Poetry is thus formed by faith. Nothing but faith. And love too...

Concluded.

* Anubhav Kushwaha is engineering graduate from IIIT-Calcutta, and is currently employed in Microsoft at Hyderabad.