Muskaan’s Musings

Muskaan Jadeja


Those, who have amrit flowing in their veins, soma in their
those, who sit upon great wild beasts in battle, 8 hands bearing both lightning bolts and lotuses,
those, who know no limit,
those, who are the very meaning of endless,
Could they possibly attribute those as blessings from a being higher than themselves?
Does the mighty king of the city of heaven, wielder of the seven colored bow, cease in his step?
Does golden Sun, light of the world, falter at the sight of another?
Does Lady Aranyani, mother of forests and animals, quiet her anklets in reverence for one?
Does Kalika, goddess of time and harbinger of death, ruthless destroyer of evil, kneel?
Does the Lord of life ever join his hands?
Do the maiden goddesses of dawn and dusk drive their chariots across the sky for an unseen master?
Do gods worship just as we, just as much out of fear as pressing our palms together out of love?
What could leave the heavens in ruins and deities on their knees?
What could dull the golden light of their immortalizing amrit and pollute their honeyed air?
What could leave and bitter the aether in their cups and curdle the soma?
Ask one what they worship and if they are true to their pure name, they will admit that their gods wear mortal faces, and go by names like yours and mine.


I like beautiful things and places, small hidden corners that catch your eye, and little elements stashed away. Little imperfections and the rosy golden of the late day sun. Scarred eyebrows, skinned knees, chipped teeth and childish grins, reminiscent of old days. Wine stained lips and ink smudged fingers. Like old letters, yellowed and fragrant with dried flowers. Songs from ages ago, that bring tears and make your heart swell, from blurred flashes from a time now lost to you, gone everywhere but from your memory. Like pretty words that really describe mundane things and turn them to magic. Like the smell of rain soaked roads and trees, like holding a leaf, like a child’s soft hand. Old people with stories from lifetimes ago, and innocent smiles when you find extra in the ordinary. A childish thought, a little meaningless achievement that meant the world. When you can finally smile absently at a memory once painful. Sharing a look with a stranger you’ll never see again. Glimpsing in on another’s private life, facing the reality that other people have intricate inner lives, same as you, live a thousand of moments of little happinesses, little pains, little emotions. Just little corners of the universe for yourself. Small, quiet and utterly surreal. Beauty is iridescent bubbles, and open mouthed wonder at the sky. Beauty is something we’re readily dissolved in and Beauty is in our ordinary.