Poetic Sensibility

39 - Believe

"Sit," she had said, when Rishi had asked the how. He saw a bright sheen in her eyes, as if she was inviting him into her soul. "And think," she continued. "Allow yourself to be swept away. Allow yourself to be flooded. Let everything in and let everything out. Don't stand with a sieve. Let it all be uncorrupted."

And so, he sat. He thought. He allowed.

With me, it stays, night or day

Stepping in side- by- side

Though more often inside

It remains, come what may;

It laughs and grieves

All the while, asking me to believe

"Does that work?" Rishi had asked.

"Almost always," she replied, smiling mysteriously.

"Why did you agree to show this to me all of a sudden?" he inquired.

He regretted asking that when he saw her frown. She took a minute to think about what to say. He wanted to assure her that he won't misconstrue anything she says or shows. He wanted her to know how highly he thought of her and that nothing could change that. She had to know that he thought of them as friends. She did know that, didn't she? And he had no intention of taking that lightly.

"I don't know, yet," she finally replied. And then she smiled again, "Would've ben a waste if I hadn't though, right?"

"Truly a waste," Rishi agreed and smiled back.

It begged not be wasted away

And wished to be thought of

Like the mysteries of love

Arrived then, it had, to stay;

Requested me to have faith

Otherwise it would be a wraith

Rishi took a while to examine it. Every scrawl, every scratch, every little dent on the page. Whether it was a picture or a word, he knew he cared. He cared deeply. Had he known anything like it? He'd read the works of some great poets. He had seen, up close, the works of some brilliant artists. But having her seated opposite him, allowing him to see what she had concealed from everyone; it made everything different. It made everything real. The moment felt like his alone. No one could take this from him.

"Why do you hide it?" he asked her. "This is the work of someone who isn't afraid of all that runs in her mind. Then why conceal it?"

Another moment while she thought for an answer. Was she specifically looking for one that would satisfy him? Or was she assembling one, based on what she thought, reconciling her feelings and beliefs, so that her actions would make sense to her?

"My mind," she replied, finally, "is mine alone. I'm allowed to enter it, change it, manipulate it and exit it as I please. I and I alone am allowed to judge what runs in it. I am the President of Operations in there. But once something escapes from it," she leaned back in her chair before finishing her sentence, "I have no control over it. Nothing can shut it out. And I am no longer the President. Everyone gets to see it, strip it and judge it. If I put it down using pen and paper, I still have a way of safeguarding it. But I must hide it. And that's what I do. Or have been doing anyway."

"So then, if you were writing or drawing something that you intended to show, would it be a forgery?" he asked her.

"How could it be?" she said instantly, "When there would be a trace of originality in it?"

Multiple reflections it had

In the streams of the mountain

And the skipping of the children

It was as happy as it was sad;

Saying it'll never fail me

Being the best it could be

"Why show it now?" Rishi asked.

"I don't know," she replied. "And I will never know why. All I know is that perhaps it needed to be shown."

"Indeed it does," he said. The work left him speechless. It was beautiful and ugly. It was true and false. It was happy and sad. It was hopeful and hopeless. It was and it wasn't. It needed to be seen. And not just by him.

"Will you do it, then?" she asked him. "Write the way I just described?"

Rishi thought about it. He thought less about what she had said and more about the way she said it. It pulled at him and pushed him too. It was different than what he did. It was perhaps deeper, calling for more give and take than he was comfortable with. Then he looked over to her. This beautiful woman with her light eyes and dark hair and words that were both, simple and not so simple. He looked at the enigma that she was. She was at ease doing the most uncomfortable thing that she had had to do, perhaps ever. And here she was, asking him if he'd do something differently.

"Maybe," he finally replied. He sipped his coffee before carefully speaking again. "Will you ever publish this?" he pointed at the notebook that lay open before him.

That frown again. Was she wondering if showing it to him had been a bad idea? He hoped not. Then she relaxed again. "Maybe," she replied, smiling at him.

Floating about in the air

Everything it did permeate

Never too early nor too late

Never too foul nor too fair;

To me, it said, "Believe"

And so in life, did I believe

He thought of the best way to ask her. He didn't want her to rethink her faith in him. He wanted her trust. He wanted to earn it. He wanted to be worthy. He didn't want her to doubt or question it. And yet curiosity begged him to find out. He had to know why. Why him. What was it about him that made her show it to him. Perhaps it was a selfish question. Maybe he wanted to know what made him special. He liked to think that it wasn't so. He wanted to believe that he should know what earned him this. He wanted to keep earning it. He wanted to keep trying. So he asked, "Why show it to me?"

Her stance remained easy when Kiara finally said, "That to me, also, remains a mystery."