zephyr

That day (that sprout of a day) was no exception. With the same dreariness in his eyelids flickering retardedly in coherence with the eventual, deciding attempts of the neuronic array (above), to simultaneously identify, recall and modulate the swiftly fading trashes of the passing night's dreams, and with the synonymously laden holds and nails (gums and teeth) he physically tossed his whims-loaded psyche to piece-up the burden. His was not a voluminous space, and there were inmates (a refrigerator, an almira, and a dressing table) sharing the limited reserves. His cot was lengthed alongside a grilled alcove and the aligned door, facing the balcony surreptitiously permitted the Sun to trespass the life inside. It was time, and the incandescence of the star smoothly embrazed the bifurcated tips of his inter wound hair. Within no time, the gentle sheen reached the scalp and raced through the contours of his forehead, when for the first time that day he savvied the over-concern of the celestial intervention and non-compliantly pulled his pillow over his head. His brashness was instinctive and subconscious (or Para conscious, I guess). This was utter blasphemy, and the aroused Sun was determined to filch him off his slumber. Intensifying the blaze, the Sun scurried through the length of his frame, and scorched every bit of his mortality.

All through these millennia of civilization, man has sought measures to control the flow of nature. At that point of time, the entire humanity was siding him, for he penalizingly shut the door down. The Torch, in dilemma, was forced to wait outside.
But then, the job was done, the revenge smitten.

He had nothing to nap for, all sub/para conscious memories lost, the contact broken, the communication with the unsung source withheld. He submitted, habitually lamenting for his loss and stood up to see the nothingness of another day lumbering through his feet. Compliantly he pushed the door to the toilet, loosen his pants, and hung his thing out carelessly, disapprovingly, and after a pre-calculated time, withdrew the pair back to his waist. The androit within him dragged his frame to fetch the toothbrush and its accomplice and casually made him polish his teeth with the automaton. He obediently took after.

To this submission, his alter ego, the corpus that he was, woke-up to cognizance, dominatingly snatched the rein of the spirit, and made him trot to the terrace to relish the freshness of the virgin dawn. There he was on the terrace of his dwelling, with a toothbrush to his teeth, and a soothing, alien puff, tickling him to life. ...a petty left-over of some mighty glacial blow, a miniature intrusion looking for a way through existence, an austere nomadic wind with no prints of its passage, made him realize his flow, his oomph, his saprkle, his vigor, his zest...made him rise to himself...made him live.

Gulzar is a belief, a thought, that imaginary flurry, breath, of “the bindu” which makes us think, which prompts us to explore, understand and nourish our nascent selves with the flow of personage.

Gulzar is no human, its the pen which has evolved with the phase of time, through progress and regress, rain and draught, sun and shade, mangoes and apples, and which treads against the papyrus to sqiggle the intricacies of "the flow" being held in the hands of a fellow mortal named, Sampoorna Singh and more prominently called by the monogram, GULZAR.