PADMASRI SIRAMDASU VENKATA RAMARAO

  I cannot explain to anyone
 the silent anguish,
 this painful feeling
 of migration from
 the country I came from.
 If I go back now to settle down,
 to the place of my birth,
 I may not survive long.
 

 My friends with whom I studied
 left for far off lands,
 to pursue higher studies
 or seeking greener pastures
 but never returned.
 Some settled down in
 far flung States.
 Others are no more:
 departed to the birthplace of their souls.
 Quite a few became ill
 at an early age,
 crushed
 by unshakable poverty
 and ever-increasing family burden.
 

  Where I looked
 I faced new faces,
 none I knew.
 Even the street names
 I was familiar with
 have been replaced.
 The house I was born in
 is now a gas station.
 Even the burial ground
 my parents chose
 as a final resting place
 is no longer theirs
 but belongs to
 whoever comes next.
 

 I think myself a vagabond,
 -- a troubadour-- pleasing every one,
 roaming everywhere uninvited --
 claiming every place as mine.
 Even the country I live in now
 -- years and decades --
 is not mine.
 Whom do I tell
 about my pain?
 

 The river born at one place
 rushes out to unknown places,
 changing course many a time
 in its length and breadth,
 but never returns
 -- even once --
 to its place of birth.

  Painting asks me
 My reason for painting.
 "Why do I have children?
 To Love.
 Why does anyone breathe?
 To live.
 Why do I paint?
 To breathe."
 

 "How do you define your painting?"
 Again painting asks.
 "You should ask
 Rembrandt, Rubens,
 Grandma Moses, and Grant Wood,
 who have had predetermined goals, and
 defined opinions on life and art.
 How can you ask me
 a non-conformist thinker
 And an abstract painter.
 I am the wrong person to answer,"
 I said.
 

 I can only offer Picasso's answer
 to these trivial questions.
 His ambition was to retain
 the same pristine pure and beautiful color
 of the unpainted canvas
 after he finished the painting.
 "When a bird sings," he said,
 "we should enjoy the music,
 but it is futile to search for a meaning."
 

 "What type of a painting do you want me to be?"
 it asks.
 "My dear painting,
 As I do not allow
 my very life to contain me,
 How can I
 with clear conscience,
 control, direct and shape you
 as I like?
 In what form, manner, or style
 would you like to appear
 on my canvas?
 It is your decision,
 I am simply an audience.
 Your longevity is greater than my life.
 "The Mona Lisa is in existence even today,
 but not Leonardo Da Vinci.
 

 When I stand in front of you,
 beloved painting of mine,
 I have the unexplainable
 Holy feelings and emotions,
 Like that of an expectant mother.
 I, too, watch and eagerly await
 with a thousand unblinking eyes,
 to see what kind
 of a wondrous and mysterious painting
 you will emerge."

  All of us
 wanted to return to India
 after completing the education.
 Never dreamt that our stay
 would be so long -
 years and decades are passing by,
 we are still here - all of us.
 Our parents, brothers and sisters
 are there in India
 and we in America.
 

  Our young daughter
 born in this land of opportunity,
 performs Bharatanatyam
 classical dance of India,
 chants Bhagavad Gita
 the holy book of Hindu religion, and
 eats our Indian spicy food in a funny manner -
 mixing all the curries including fried-okra with curd-rice.
 When she speaks in broken Telugu,
 our mother tongue from South India,
 it sounds like she is singing in English.
 She keeps the American and Indian flags
 on her study desk,
 watches romantic movies in Telugu language and sings American pop songs.
 America is not an alien land,
 simply a different country like India,
 she says.
 For the two countries
 she is the connecting bridge.
 

  Water is the same in all the rivers, and in any country the snow is white.
 The lake water in my home town
 Palos Hills, a suburb of Chicago in America
 and the canal water in my birth place of Gudivada of Andhra Pradesh State
 in India are the same except in name.
 

  Where we came from
 shows the mirror,
 where we are heading
 shows our daughter.

  The sun is there   where he was before.
 Stars established residence in the sky.
 Clouds do not fly on the ground but
 stay only in the sky and
 rain naturally rains as usual.
 Nothing is new.
 There is no change in history.
 

  Rulers and religions are there
 to rule and hold the people forever
 in their grips.
 There is one dictator ruling
 every country
 whether we accept it or not.
 There was once a Stalin, Mussolini,
 a king or a prime minister,
 or a president.
 What does it matter who the rulers are?
 we are the pawns in their intrigue.
 The cruelly punished and banished
 millions of Russians
 by their own Government
 lived wasting their lives
 for a mere survival
 In the God-forsaken Siberia, and
 and the miserable lives of the millions
 living in the ghettos of the cursed third world
 or the homeless wanderers
 in the countries of the unimaginable riches,
 in the United States of America
 or the few elite European countries
 are same - what is the difference?
 

  What change is there in history?
 Every thing is same.
 

  All of us - who believe stubbornly
 that we will born again and again
 are destined to be born
 as cockroaches or ants
 to be devoured instantly
 by the eagerly awaiting lizard nearby.
 It is certain that the hunter will
 shoot or kill us with sharp arrows
 when we are born as an antelope or a deer
 in future life.
 Unless the dead empty the world
 there is no place for the
 newly born to grow and
 for us to live longer.
 

  Train stops in the station
 to resume its journey again.
 The starting point is the destination
 for the train to make another journey.
 

  History that belongs to the past
 does not become the present.
 The life stays sitting
 where it was left and
 leaves when it would get up.
 Anything that was newly discovered
 is not new at all -
 it ought to have been
 in existence before.
 Then why was there a surprise?
 

  The Sun is there
 where he was before
 and he will be there
 at the same place tomorrow, too.
 

  When
 whatever happened happens again
 then
 where is the change in history?

There is as much truth  in believing

that one can understand the form

as in thinking one does not.

Abstract artist believes that 

formlessness is the true reality of form

but in actuality form in itself

is neither form nor formless.

It is in our thinking it takes 

a shape of its own.

The abstract nature of truth 

is real for one person without any doubt

whereas it is unbelievable to the other.

The glass is half full is as true as

the glass is half empty.

God has a definite physical form 

in the mind of a Hindu

as he perceives his Gods 

in hundreds of forms -

in surrealistic and abnormal shapes and sizes

with so many varied weapons held

in His innumerable hands to annihilate the evil.

Other religions utterly reject the Hindu forms of Gods

believing that God cannot be defined at all 

as is beyond the power of the human mind.

Is it not true

worshipping God with open eyes 

or praying Him with closed eyes 

are one and same?