Chasing the Flickering Light: Of Brown Biryani, Broken Hopes, and Ephesians
Welcome back, fellow rascals. Sometimes, a simple meal with friends can hold up a mirror to the heaviest parts of our souls. Between the bitter sting of a joke over brown biryani and the heavy, uncertain silence of a friend’s "can't say," I found myself wandering back into the graveyards of my own past. Twenty-three years of dead bones, a heart burning with the exhausting ache of waiting, and the constant roadblock of pyar ke dushman—it all came crashing in at once.
But even in the deepest exhaustion, when you are walking home thaka hara under a negative aura, the Divine has a way of breaking through. For me, it came through a vision of Ephesians, a reminder of a cross that reconciles, and a heavy question: What role do we play when we feel like dead bones begging for luck? This poem is a raw look into that mental wrestling—the fine line between turning away from God, gambling on the luck of a passing color, and waiting for grace to finally find its way to a loving rascal. Dive in...
A feast of brown biryani turned to stone,
As Bubbles laughed and claimed my game was done.
"An LBW before the race begun,"
He joked, but left me bleeding and alone.
I asked the Gangster, "Will she be my own?"
He paused, then sighed, "With worlds so small and tight,
Perhaps your wealth will turn the dark to light—
"But can a flower in a graveyard groove,
Where dead bones rested three-and-twenty years?
Can turning away from God erase these fears?"
I wrestled in my mind...
As shrugging his shoulders, Bubbly Gangster muttered, "Can’t say."
The Burnol that he offered brought no peace,
It set the smoldering embers fresh aflame.
Was this a passing lust without a name,
Or true love begging for a sweet release?
The spices soured, causing joy to cease.
"Sour grapes," the passing world will surely mock,
But rascals know the weight of sorrow's shock,
When walking home, so weary and undone,
Enwrapped within a dark and heavy cloud,
Crying to the Heavens, out aloud.
"Where is the good You promised me, my Lord?"
I prayed, as tears began to blur my sight.
Then Ephesians broke into the night—
A vision of the cross and love restored,
Where Jew and Gentile drop the bitter sword.
"Small working models of creation new,"
The sacred tagline whispered, pure and true.
But what's my role within this grand design?
Am I Paul in chains, or Christ who rose?
Can life breathe back into a bone that froze?
I scanned the distant street to see her dress,
Was it in crimson, green, or darkest shade?
I saw a flash of brown, the choice I made,
And gambled on a luck to soothe distress.
The fallen team arose to cheer and bless,
A flickering light to guide my heavy blues,
Amongst the brown delights and fading hues.
Defying every block and cruel ban,
Safe from the whispers of the foes of grace—
"Pyar ke dushman" hiding in the space.
When will this long and bitter waiting break?
When will the dark and heavy shadows flee?
Will Merciful Vineyards grant a sign to me,
And clear the path for innocent love's sake?
Author’s Note: This piece grew out of a raw, stream-of-consciousness reflection on faith, love, and longing. I want to acknowledge the collaboration of AI, which helped me gather those fragmented thoughts, structure the emotional rhythms, and shape them into the melodious verses you read today. It is a true blend of human heart and digital craft.
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