Blog 6401: The Circle of Life

"Apni marzi se kahaan apne safar ke hum hain
Rukh hawaaon ka jidhar ka hai, udhar ke hum hain"

How much of its life does a brook really control?

When the winds pick on the oceans and rise up the hills, do they really care which peak they'd dump the willing mist on?
Do they even know?
A slight twist here, a subtle shift there.
That's all the difference there is between letting the mist snow on one hill or the next.
One home and some other.
One life path and some other.

The thaw helps them find their feet
And off they go in search of their lives.
To stand by themselves.
To smell and taste freedom.
And be the brook they were born to be.

Along their path, they meet others.
Some get along, some not.
Some meet fleetingly, some stay longer.
Those that do, become a part of each other.
This is the new brook.
This, its new identity.
There's too much of the other for one to be just itself.
"Rarely do members of one family grow up under the same roof"

Wasn't it chance that brought them brooks together?
The winds played their part.
The hill played it's.
The sun offered its generosity
And boulders curtsied while they passed by.

But brooks part.
Who here exists that has not lost a friend?

Blame it on the same hill
Blame it on its contours, its wedges
Its abrasive, rocky bed that wore the brooks down.
Blame it on the earth, the winds, the heavens...
In the end, does it really matter?

The brooks part.
And a part of them remains left with the other.

Someday they'll both join the river.
Toil through an age as they cross the country
Jostle with the umpteen other brooks for some space
For something to behold, something to call their own.

But the river has no time for meager brooks.
The river has a pattern, a process that all submit to.
It hurtles down the plains and aggregates all in its way.
And instantly, before they realize, the brooks lose themselves and becomes a part of the multitude.

"Chalte rehte hain, ki chalna hai musafir ka naseeb
Sochte rehte hain kis raah guzar ke hum hain"

Eventually, they would all go back to the sea.
To the tranquility that makes the past seem amusing, distant.
To open skies, to unending horizons.
To thoughts of the past: smiling memoirs and wistful sighs.

I wish, at the end of life, someone holds up a big screen and replays your life before your eyes.
To show you how your life, its acts, scenes and sub-plots panned out.
What incident here or there, unbeknown to you, affected events in your life.
An answer key, if you'd like to call it that, to your life.
Aint it too much to go through all of life and never finally know?