Borrowed Clothes

By Sumedha Gupta

Why the rush for perfection?  

Do you even know what's true?

Are you so naïve,  

That you don't see—  

It's a mirage.

Are you supposed to understand it all today?

Stripped of all perceived truth—today?  

Of all the prejudices stitched  

Onto your mind since childhood,  

Stripped of everything taught by imperfect people—  

Stripped of anger,  

Of insecurities,  

Of delusions,  

Of notions,  

Connotations,  

Of every color painted on your soul:  

Pinks and yellows,  

Grays and blues—  

Layers over layers of borrowed clothes,

Everything the world believes is good for you.

Is it, really?

Or is it nothingness that sets one free?  

Is it surrender,  

Or is it control?  

Acceptance, or expectations?  

Vulnerability—or self-protection?  

What is right?  

Which one to choose when?

We have little guidance,  

And only so much control  

As do the leaves floating in the wind,  

Changing direction with each little current,  

Twisting and turning,  

Rising and falling.

Success—if they go in their willed direction.  

Destiny—if they don’t.

Until, ultimately,  

All leaves land.  

Where, they wouldn’t know—  

Not too far from their tree, though.  

Their origin.  

Their childhood.  

It keeps them close—

Laden with generational clothes.

Some might be taken by kinder winds,  

And land far away,  

On grounds anew—  

Exquisite soils,  

Unexplored horizons.

I want to be that leaf—  

As if I have any say.

Come, O wind!  

I am afloat.  

Change my direction,  

Strip me of my borrowed clothes,  

Carry me in your spiraling arms,  

Through your ebbs and currents,  

In your twisted blows.

I surrender to your wisdom,  

O Nature,  

O Universe—  

Rid me of ‘me’,  

Make me ‘me’.  

Be the Shams to my Rumi.  

Rid me of my past echoes.

Until the day I land,  

As close to Mother Earth as any,  

As bound by my tree as any—  

Only farther.  

Only having explored.  

Lived.  

Stripped.

Experienced.

I will be home,  

Anywhere I go.  

I am my home.  

I now know.

Come, O wind—  

Strip me of my borrowed clothes.

Free me from my native tree's hold,

Carry me to lands unexplored.  

I surrender to your wisdom.  

I am afloat.

I am afloat.

By Sumedha Gupta