THE OCEAN WITHIN ME

THE OCEAN WITHIN ME

 

Written on the twelfth death anniversary of the author’s mother, this reflective piece explores how a single human life is woven into the vast fabric of nature, cultures, histories, oceans, migrations, and cosmic cycles. Through the metaphor of the ocean and the scientific truth of interconnectedness, the author meditates on belonging, memory, humility, and the subtle presence of his mother’s compassion. This essay blends reflective diary prose, philosophical inquiry, and lived experience, offering readers a serene contemplation on how each person is both infinitesimally small and infinitely connected within the universe.

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(Dedicated to my mother — the Compassionate, whose quiet love first taught me interconnectedness)

Let me once again breathe in the natural ecstasies of this calm morning,

Sitting in half-vajrasana, leaning right, trying to be one with the Cosmos.

Let some serious discourse rise within, extracting the sweetest concept inside;
I am like an ocean, holding countless organisms, jewels & minerals in immense depths.
My surface stays level though waves constantly pass, yet beneath lie vast tracts,
Many depths erupt upward, creating unique flora, fauna, and silent mysteries.

I am unique, carrying multitudes of embodiments constantly nourished through me;
Yet they shape me too, offering essence back to sustain the broader world.
I am a life-sustaining force with blue vegetation breathing life-force oxygen,
My waves mix gases and moisture with air in ceaseless natural exchange.

Yes, my waters are salty, bitter, holding minerals shaping rocks and bodies;
Being low, I draw all rivers, carrying their memories into my womb.
Rivers play with my shores in endless rhythms, nurturing mangroves and life,
And vapours rise from me, travelling as clouds to nourish distant lands.

I am ocean-like, composed of elements forming this body, mind, and breath;
All are properties of the Cosmos, emanating subtle vibrations into existence.
Each thought or spoken string reverberates outward, touching the vast universe.
So many people meet me daily, and a part of them lives in me too.

Ocean-air touched my skin, my clothes, and fans further shaped its currents;
In India, Vayu is a devata, a living force moving through all creatures.
This air moves to far lands, absorbed by leaves to create food as carbohydrates,
Or mixing with waters, inhaled by animals or vegetation, rotating forever.

I am part of a continuous cycle, sensing the law of conservation of mass,
Cosmic constituents fixed, only tiny portions residing in me momentarily.
They leave, and others arrive; energy shifts between physical & mental forms,
My cut hair returns to soil, nourishing flora or turning to dust and rock.

I read exotic books; ideas confuse me, pushing me toward new adjustments;
Many personalities I meet indirectly enrich me despite my limitations.
Some concepts I grasp, others remain distant, though they influence humanity,
Great theories of old and new continue to mould the world’s vast mindscape.

I carry a vast inner illiteracy, seeking platforms to unload myself,
But lack skills, time, energy, and the means to fully free this burden.
I feel foolish before giants who thought deeply thousands of years ago,
I know only fragments, never interacting enough, sometimes fearing depth.

I am an average mind, understanding very little, though trying sincerely.
But I remain undeterred, aware I am minuscule with limited time.
Others, too, resemble me in many ways, including humble animals or birds;
If I grow large-hearted, others’ knowledge also becomes part of my own.

Even the poorest says, “This is my village,” though lacking his own house;
Still, he holds strong ties to soil, trees, ponds, paths, people, and fields.
He sees the moon from familiar angles, remembers homes and old lanes,
He carries circles of friends, elders, children, animals, vegetation—his world.

When one goes abroad, he carries his full nation upon his shoulders,
Fondly remembering childhood, people, land, climate, & familiar sounds.
He cannot bear insults to his culture, language, or motherland’s essence;
He sees his country as heaven, despite the hardships endured there.

In Chennai, I meet Tamilians, Keralites, Telugus, Kannadigas, and Andhraites;
North Indians too — from Delhi, Himachal, Rajasthan, Uttar Pradesh, Odisha.
They speak languages I barely understand, yet converse in broken Hindi or English;
But inside, empathy flows naturally, and we grasp each other’s contexts.

I intake food grown by local soils, water, farmers, labourers, and cooks;
The water I drink is ancient percolation stored underground for millions of years.
Birdsongs I hear are descendants of those who lived here since antiquity,
People around me belong to lineages shaped by centuries of migrations.

I see original Dravidian stock, darker, brown, reflecting ancient movements;
Languages and customs reveal mixtures formed by countless interactions.
People live together as an art—sharing sufferings, joys, rituals, festivals,
Standing with one another as communities rooted in time’s long memory.

Foreigners — Portuguese, French, English — once ruled & walked these shores,
Their ships crossing these waters, tasting local fish and foods with wonder.
They interacted with people here, built churches, schools & hospitals, leaving imprints,
Great kingdoms — Cholas, Pandyas, Pallavas — shaped these lands with grandeur.

Here on the seashore, all waters connect from the Arctic to the Antarctic realms,
Giant Ocean creatures travel immense distances, singing sonorous ancient songs.
Waters mingle, temperatures balance, and climates shift above the surface layer,
Evaporated molecules journey far, changing lives in distant terrains.

I eat from soils mixed with minerals and remains of infinite flora and fauna;
Great names of history rest in these soils, their atoms recycled into life.
The Voyager spacecraft travels millions of miles, carrying pieces of Earth’s story.
Through knowledge or shared matter, I too am part of that cosmic journey.

Many waves emanate from me—sounds, thoughts, vibrations shaping existence,
My phone transmits signals through fibre cables, crossing continents.
I am shaped by infinite knowledge—precepts, loves, hates, theories, histories,
A constant movement between me and the external world continues without pause.

Whether I accept or not, all others are pieces fitting inside me somewhere;
A butterfly’s flutter, wars in Somalia or Ukraine, disturb me deeply.
A single statement by Biden, Modi, or Imran Khan wavers my mind,
All inventions, literature, philosophies—ancient or new—are extensions of me.

(And in all this interconnectedness, I still feel my mother’s quiet compassion—
A soft, guiding presence flowing through the vastness, touching everything I see.)

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Pawan Kumar,

Brahmpur (Odisha), 24th December, 2025, Wednesday, 1.45 A.M. (Midnight)

(From my Chennai Diary dated 12 May 2023, Friday, on my Mother’s 12th Death Anniversary)

⭐ About the Author

The author is a civil engineer by profession and a reflective diarist by inclination, observing human life, nature, and inner landscapes with quiet sincerity. His writings emerge from lived experience—public service, travel across India, encounters with diverse cultures, and a lifelong search for philosophical clarity. Blending scientific understanding with spiritual sensitivity, he writes to explore interconnectedness, human potential, and the subtle truths of ordinary life. His work remains grounded, contemplative, and guided by the enduring memory of his mother’s compassion.