Gather Me

Sunil Bhandari

Apr 30, 2023

I have to learn not to give myself

such that I lose myself to the world.

Gather me.

I have my hands splayed out in the sun,

the knife hits the spaces between the fingers,

and I wait for a mistake -

gather me.

I have been told, time and again,

that nothing goes waste,

and I let my pieces fall over landscapes

which don’t recognise me,

and I tell myself that I need to

gather myself.

Ask a person, they say, who doesn’t have

a mother, how to talk to a mother,

for to know emptiness is to know

what fills it.

Gather me.

I look out for her,

as a lone string looking for a symphony,

or am I just a bird seeing a flare at midnight,

thinking it’s dawn -

I wish to gather her.

It’s time, always time,

which stands against defeat,

a bulwark against those who come as bullies

but simper as beggars.

I gather myself to leave.

I would love

to put myself together in ways

to finally know who I am. Maybe

I would love that stranger,

as would someone who likes

broken things.

I would like someone, anyone, to

gather me.

Hear the poem -

One of my life’s ongoing struggles has been not to let myself dissipate such that little of me remains for me to enjoy myself. Even worse, as the pieces which the world loves of me gets grabbed, and I stand helplessly as a bystander seeing the world take its fill, and I know myself as empty, not even sure if I remain with my heart intact.

Worse - we become strangers inside, trying to keep up with life’s vicissitudes and changes. And then there is a moment when we see our face in the mirror and realise - we know the lines but not the person within those lines.

As life and people make their demands on us, it is upto us to see what part of our being and our time do we let go. For within the complexity of life lies the opportunity to find the simple ways of finding our own core. It could be with realisation, it could be with the love of someone close.

So much of our lives is a litany of breaking ourselves up for the world and then putting the broken pieces together for ourselves. We are lost children and found souls. In our brokenness we seek someone or someway to complete ourselves and instead gravitate to what’s also injured.

So much of our lives is spent in reclaiming ourselves in ways beyond what we do, what the world sees us do, because this is mere mist behind which lies a person desperate to know herself. I have spent nights struggling to see myself beyond what I write, what I think, what I do. And I have asked myself if this is what I am, my definition, or am I someone beyond, something else? Who is the true person? Behind my laughter and irritations and gifts and words, what really defines me? And how do I even get to know that person?

Because my thoughts are the offspring of the moment, my feelings are born of wounds. Are adjectives my true self? He’s kind, they say, he’s talented, funny, considerate, loving, insightful, but I know I’m also irascible, hard-headed, self-centered, and blunt. What defines me then? Who am I?

I know when I look at some people in my life, I know that beyond their proclivities and demands, they are often someone else - innocent to a fault, emotionally rich beyond age. And I love them for that intangible quality which they never overtly display but which I know defines them for me.

What am I to such people? What is that essence beyond talent and my nature, that core which says - THIS is what you truly are, when I think of you beyond everything else.

I will sit down today and gather every little piece I can think of me - try to put them together and then look behind them to see - if there is someone or something beyond which exists - something which I can say is truly me.

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