Tharoor and Elton John

A piece by Shashi Tharoor

Try to think of nothing.
That's the secret.

Try to think of nothing.
Do not think of work not done,
of promises unkept, calls to return,
or agendas you have failed to prepare for meetings
yet unheld.

Think of nothing.
Do not think of words said and unsaid,
of minor scandals and major investigations,
of humiliations endured, insults suffered,
or retorts that did not spring to mind
in time.

Think of nothing.
Do not think of your forgotten wife,
of lonely children and their reproachful demands,
or the smile of the pretty woman
whose handshake lingered just a shade too long
in your palm.

Think of nothing.
Do not think of newspaper headlines,
of the insistent transience of the InfoNet,
or the seductive stridency of the TV microphones
thrust so thrillingly
into your face.

Think of nothing.
Do not think of the waif on the foreign sidewalk,
her large eyes open in supplication,
her ragged shift stained by dirt and dust,
stretching her despairing hand toward you
in hope.

No, do not think
of the woman at the building site,
wobbling pan of stones on her head,
walking numb for the thousandth time
from pile to site and site to pile
as her neglected baby scrabbles in the dust,
eats sand and wails, unheard.

Think of nothing.
Do not think of the starving infant,
parched lips mute in hunger,
sitting slumped in the mud,
his eyes fading before his heart.
Do not think
of the stark ribs of skeletal cattle,
unable to provide milk, or hope,
in drought-dried lands of which you know nothing.

Think of nothing.
Do not think
of the dead-eyed refugee, dispossessed
of everything he once called home.
Do not think
of the unsmiling girl whose once-sturdy thigh
now ends at the knee, the rest blown off
by a thoughtless mine on her way to the well.

No, do not think
of the solitary tear, the broken limb,
the rubble-strewn home, the choking scream;
never think of piled-up bodies, blazing flames,
shattered lives, or sundered souls.
Do not think of the triumph of the torturer,
the wails of the hungry,
the screams of the mutilated,
or the indifferent smirk of the sleek.

Think of nothing.
Then you will be able
to sleep.

______________________________________

Elton John's "Sacrifice" - truly a classic one..

It's a human sign
When things go wrong
When the scent of her lingers
And temptation's strong

Into the boundary
Of each married man
Sweet deceit comes calling
And negativity lands

Cold cold heart
Hard done by you
Some things look better baby
Just passing through

And it's no sacrifice
Just a simple word
It's two hearts living
In two separate worlds
But it's no sacrifice
No sacrifice
It's no sacrifice at all

Mutual misunderstanding
After the fact
Sensitivity builds a prison
In the final act

We lose direction
No stone unturned
No tears to damn you
When jealousy burns

In the eyes of the angel..

The last moment was brief. The last words were terse. The way I came out was the way I went in. Like earthworms taking comfort in the murky moors, I took comfort in staring at my shadow staggering like a drunkard with a broken spectacle. I was completely soaked in the water of disguised silence. My journey became clueless. My throat was all parched up and my ears turned mute to all my worries. My constant fear to face tomorrow was the only thing which kept me alive. A fear of not announcing myself. A fear of not allowing myself to experience the limits of my potential to logically break down the essence of life. A fear of not comprehending my responsibilities as a youth. A fear of not able to cry when I should.

My whole living memories took a different path when I ceased to think. It highlighted my unusually skeptical mind to the outside contemporary world. The life I was living seemed extinct and the life I am living now is invigorating. The rain pouring down was like a sweetened potion. The mild breeze held my thoughts together with the leaves swaying about pompously, but remaining anonymous to the happenings.

Why have I chosen this path? I have spoken about all my known and uknown qualities, yet some nuances remain buried. I questioned insolently, but came no answer.

My other mundane life pulled me outside. To a life that is to be led in a good simple way