Hurt and pain are constant companions of love and attachment. We connect and share our lives, open up with our feelings, our past, sometimes our deepest secrets with those we love. Do we at that moment not realise that we are setting ourselves up for deceit, hurt and pain?
We are surrounded by bad news, stories of betrayal, of tragic ends to perfectly happy relationships. We wonder then how did she believe him, and how could he rob her of her life at such a young age. Did he not see her youth, the same face he had once held in his hands lovingly?
In the face of such hurt, we cling on to hope, to the faint light that allows us to trust, we tell ourselves not to be cynical and believe in the anamoly that maybe you.
But can anyone of us claim to not have hurt the people who have loved us unconditionally, with all their heart? If we have the capacity to love and be loved, our we also not within this vicious cycle of hurting and getting hurt. Can relationships be without expectations and thus without hurt? And can we protect ourselves from getting hurt?
I have to admit that lately I have been the one to hurt, perhaps with intent or perhaps not, but hurt I did. When in middle of remorse, thoughts seem to be clouded as this poem would like to call, in khaak: ashes and dust.
Whether it is because of my shortcomings of procrastination, anxiety, weakness and pride, a thick cloud of remorse seems to be lurking around.
Would just an apology put a balm on deep hurts, or a confession that within each of us lies the capacity to love and hurt. That inside powerful relationships lies the threat of pain being transferred like a cold fog that comes in when least expected.
Bashir Badr’s Poem
Zakhm yun muskura kar khilte hain,
jaise woh dil ko chhoo kar gujre hain.
Hurt smiles as it blossoms
Like they have brushed against the heart.
Dard ka chaand aansuon ke taare,
dil ke aangan mein aaj utre hain.
The moon of pain, stars full of tears
In the courtyard of my heart have fallen.
Raakh ke dher jaise sard makaan,
chaand un badliyon mein rehte hain.
Mounds of embers like frigid homes
Hidden Within the clouds stays the moon.
Aaino ka koi qasoor nahin,
un mein apne hi photo hote hain.
It is not the fault of the mirror
We find the picture of ourselves in it.
Gaur se dekh khaak tanha nahin,
saath phoolon ke rang udte hain.
Look closely the ashes are not empty
With it fly the colour of flowers.