Me yakshu "with stranger crack"

 

The Crack in his soul

I am Yakshu. My life, after the loss of the one I once cherished, had been a landscape of shadows. I carried sorrow like a cloak, heavy yet familiar, and believed the darkness would stretch on endlessly. Every step, every breath, seemed to echo with the memory of absence, the weight of what I could not reclaim. And yet, life, relentless and indifferent, pressed forward.

One morning, I stepped from the small room of my solitude into a larger space. The room was alive, thrumming with the pulse of countless souls, each moving in patterns I could barely decipher. Strangers brushed past me with laughter, whispers, and gestures of everyday life. I walked among them not as participant, but as observer, a silent witness to the currents that carried each of them.

And then I saw him. Mubin.

He moved as if untethered, a current of energy that could not be predicted or confined. To the world, he was perfect—loving to his family, charming to strangers, untouchable in his grace. Yet beneath the surface, I sensed a fissure, a subtle crack that hinted at something raw, fragile, unspoken. I did not long for him. I did not desire him. My heart did not flutter; my mind did not obsess. I only watched, silent, patient, curious.

Each day, Mubin maintained one form. The world saw a steady, controlled figure, confident and complete. But I observed the nuances: the slight hesitation in his steps, the momentary shadow behind his eyes, the imperceptible tremor in his hands. These were the traces of the crack—the subtle imperfection that no one else seemed to notice.

I stood like a statue, my eyes wide, my body unmoving, absorbing the movements of his life. Days became weeks, weeks became months. I noted the rhythm of his gestures, the cadence of his speech, the way he carried himself through rooms filled with people who adored him. And yet, the crack remained elusive, hidden beneath layers of careful composure.

One afternoon, I noticed a change. Mubin paused before speaking, his smile faltered, and his gaze wavered for a heartbeat so brief it could have been mistaken for a trick of light. My breath caught—not in desire, not in hope, but in pure, concentrated attention. This was the moment I had been waiting for. The crack had appeared, subtle but undeniable, a fissure in the open pot of his existence.

But as quickly as it appeared, it vanished. Mubin shifted, moved, and the moment dissolved into the air. Like an eagle startled by the sudden flutter of a parrot, he lifted into the sky of his own life, untouchable, soaring beyond the grasp of any observer. I remained still, unmoving, my heart unentangled, my mind sharp. The crack had shown itself, and in its fleeting appearance, it had imparted its lesson.

I did not chase. I did not plead. I did not wish him near. The lesson was not in possession, but in observation. Some truths exist only to be seen, not held; some souls move too freely to be caught or contained.

As the months passed, I learned to watch without expectation. I observed Mubin in subtle ways: the way his fingers brushed over the table before a meal, the shadow of doubt that crossed his face when he thought no one was paying attention, the rare moments when his mask slipped and the fissure beneath the surface became visible for the briefest heartbeat. Each glimpse was a revelation, a fragment of truth, a brushstroke in the portrait of a soul I was not meant to claim.

Yet the fascination never dulled. I did not long for him, but I studied him. I catalogued every gesture, every inflection, every imperfection. I learned the rhythm of his life not as an intruder, but as a quiet witness. In this detached attention, I discovered a strange serenity. I realized that the beauty of existence often lies not in possession, but in observation.

And then came the day when the crack revealed itself in a more profound way. Mubin had been speaking to his family, a small argument of no consequence, yet in the way his voice faltered, in the tension of his shoulders, the fissure became visible. I leaned forward slightly, my eyes capturing every nuance. It was as though a door had opened, a glimpse into a hidden chamber of his soul.

Before I could absorb its full depth, he moved. He lifted into his own sky, soaring beyond the reach of my observation. The moment was gone, yet its imprint remained. I felt no frustration, no longing. Only the quiet acknowledgment of truth: some cracks exist not to be held, but to teach those who watch how to see.

Over time, I noticed something profound. The act of watching without desire, without expectation, changed me. My own sorrow softened—not vanished, but tempered by clarity. I no longer clung to loss, nor did I chase what could not be caught. Life moved in currents, and I had learned to float within them, aware and awake.

Mubin continued his life, carrying his form through days of laughter, argument, care, and interaction. I continued mine, a silent observer, noting the subtleties that others overlooked. Occasionally, the crack would appear again, fleeting, delicate, revealing itself only to my attentive eyes. Each time, I observed with the same quiet intensity, recording, understanding, learning.

One day, I realized the ultimate lesson of my observation. The crack was not just in him. It existed in everyone. Each soul carried fissures, fragments of truth, glimpses of imperfection carefully hidden beneath the surface. The difference was in the observer—the one willing to see, to watch, to acknowledge without interference.

I had learned patience, attention, and detachment. I had learned that fascination need not become longing, that curiosity need not become desire. I had learned the serenity of presence, the quiet joy of witnessing the intricate patterns of life without the need to intervene.

Mubin remained the eagle in his sky, the open pot with the crack, untouchable and free. And I remained Yakshu, the silent statue, eyes wide, heart steady, soul alert. Each day brought new glimpses, new lessons, new subtleties. I did not chase. I did not cling. I only saw, only learned, only existed in the moment of observation.

And in that existence, I found a strange freedom. The world continued to move, Mubin continued to soar, and I continued to watch. The cracks, the fissures, the hidden truths—all of them existed in their own time, in their own rhythm, revealed only to those who could stand still, who could observe without longing, who could remain statues of attention in a world of constant motion.

I am Yakshu. I do not long. I do not chase. I do not intervene. I only see. And in seeing, I understand. In watching, I learn. In patience, I find freedom.

For some cracks are not to be fixed. Some souls are not to be held. Some truths exist only to be witnessed. And the observer, standing still, is the only one who truly understands.

Each day, Mubin stood as one form, unwavering, controlled, complete. And each day, I watched. Until, like an eagle in the hunt, he lifted into the sky of his own life, untouchable, magnificent, leaving me with nothing but the sharp clarity of observation, the deep serenity of detachment, and the endless fascination of the crack in the open pot.

the day yakshu realised he took the form of the person with the shadow of  her .He flewed away leaving the prey to the parrot.The Parrot blinked at the prey and thought it is too fleshy to handle and gave as the daily dose to the peer love birds .She just laughed inside wierd people in the strangle place .

I remain Yakshu. Watching. Learning. Understanding. Free.