By Snehashree Saika
At six, we gaped at the illusions of magicians, Hiding tricks behind the shiny red curtain. The dream of becoming Houdini one day, Led us to buy magic-learning boxes.
At fifteen, we finally peeked behind the curtain. And thus began the never-ending whys and hows. Who will tell the circus kids – The biggest illusion is life itself? Or is that a lie (as in the case of Santa) best hidden until later?
You ask me what I think of life - And I say I’m only twenty. There are dawns when I wish the show ends. And rare noons when I hope it goes forever on.
But what happens when the curtain falls and the show does end?Does it end with the decay of my frail body? Or the elevation of my vile spirit?
All I’m sure of is - The twirling trees, the quaint mountains, The white snow, and the falling fountains. There is art – for what is life without art? And there is culture. There is language, and there are letters of enrapture!
But there is no one truth, And there lies no one way. This existence is torturous - With its cruel fouls and hateful sorceries; But I love my neighbours - Despite their vanities and sinful commentaries. After all, aren’t we all puppets in the same show? Birthing at the same starting point, Marching to the same inevitable end? So we might as well be kind - Or has this existence deprived you of all your merry feelings? If so, I understand. I know of hate, and I can keep hating. But my moral dilemmas never end, So how can I rest?
Alas, we may find joy in the joyful, And shed tears at the sorrowful. We may dance at the Sunday market, And wear red at funerals. But again, I’m only twenty. And so - My verses are incomplete.
Pharos. 