Image by Arup Barua

45 years. He questions the meaning of life and existence. The answers he pursued. Long nights in libraries, hypotheses from Mahayogis. He travelled by foot to woodlands and cities.
Sitting beside chai kiosks, overhearing techies conversing, people cursing, in gadgets immersing.
Temporal urges they ingested.
Every brick and wall, synthetic infested.
The city and it’s eccentricities, the forest and it’s trees held no answers.
At midnight beside a stream.
One last time, flashes of bygones under the moon beam.
‘There never was an answer’
The body transforming into a sanctuary of yogic contortions.
No expectations. The mind on the ‘Now’, a consistent pulsation
Focus on every movement, constituent, every contorting element.
Absorbing the process, he transcends.
Third eye metastasis.

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