The ashes of poetic words

 

I do a little exercise. When I’m not on my writing desk, I usually write on little scraps of paper like bills, receipts, pamphlets and flyers. Just random thoughts. Later these develop into some piece of poetry, a passage or an article. Then I take the little scrawled upon slips, put them in a tiny heap and burn. It gives a strange feeling; something that bloomed, came into existence, served a purpose and turns to ashes. It’s like a holy ritual to me—a tiny replica of the dance of life and death, being and nonbeing. When the tiny pyre burns, the ash eating the words, I hum the beautiful Hindi film song ‘khilte hain gul yahaan’, whose translation comes to be: the flowers bloom here to be happily scattered to pieces.