Amita Sarjit Ahluwalia writes

IDENTITY

Here is Amita typing a poem on her mobile

The calling of the Name
The Sir, the Madam
Your Honour, Your Lordship
Mama, Papa
Darling, Sweetheart
Honey, Sugar
The Likes, the Hearts
Approvals, Acknowledgments
Recognitions, Titles
Your Name on a Poem
A Book, a house
A Plane or Railway ticket

Slowly, Life tricks you into Identity
I, Me, Ego, Self

It’s a very warm afternoon in June in Patna

You get used to it
My body my mind
My personality
You identify with it all

And then the taking away
Of looks loved ones
Those who called you by name
The strength of the body
The rigour of the mind
Disintegrating
Sight Sound Comprehension
Gone

It’s so hot. I’m not perspiring.

And then one day
Death deals the final blow

The Self disintegrates much much faster
Than it took to build itself up
Sometimes at a single stroke
What’s left, then?

You try to say
A Higher Self

The curtains are drawn against the heat; the ceiling fan whirrs

But it’s not true
The Infinite Everlasting Power
Of Creation, Nurturing and Destruction
Is not a Self of any sort
But the end of Self

What a blow to Ego!
What a thorough deconstruction
Of the formal or essential Self!

Weep if you can
If you can, you’re fortunate
Most Fortunate among the Stones
Dead Stones that cannot weep

I need Mangoes. I must buy Mangoes.
And a Watermelon

Let me begin, here and now
To unravel myself
By detaching at least the most detachable parts of self
To start with

When it comes to the core
It will be more difficult, perhaps,
But who knows?
Let the de-selfing begin

“What did your face look like before your parents were born?”

What is left of existence when there is no identity?

It’s the essence of what we wish to know

Here is Amita posting her poem on the Internet