Moon Colour

Welcome dear readers!

A roguish year, 2020, I believe was a twist in our LIVE story. Terrible, oh, terrible things happened. Let us nurture hope, let us learn from our mistakes, let us help each other and contribute honestly to this change.

Let the old charm of stories work, let stories heal your tired heart.

This colossal twist proves that the great writer is planning to finish a chapter, but the story is far from over. Dawn is about to break, the sun rays will fall on a new beginning soon.

Come to Chiming Stories, pocket old and new posts and watch, along with me, the horizon.

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Hand-picked Post

           Weekly Newsletter 

Mother India

Sujata – The Voice of the Unheard

Sahib Bibi Aur Ghulam – A tale of role-reversals and downfalls

Chalti Ka Naam Gaadi (That which moves is called a car)

Jagte Raho (Stay Awake)

Mrinal Sen’s Aakaler Shandhane (In Search of Famine)

La Strada

The Silence of the Lambs

Our Friend Totoro

Chidren of the Sea – A Glimpse and A Message 

The Map to Miyazaki

Mirai

One, Two, TREE

A deluge of emotions, of past eras, of destined ends, of old knots, of shared hopes, of what is remembered and forgotten, of the less and the more, Midnight’s Children is a fantastically chronicled piece of magnificent writing.

Silver cascade shimmering the night sky, music to the waves and surreal beauty to the eyes, the Moon loves the art of discipline.

It may be difficult to believe for the Moon’s splendour defies time, it stupefies the clock, it follows the path of a dreamer, but how could this be possible if the Moon knew not discipline?

That the dark clouds will pour heavily and ceaselessly, that the rainbow will nurture joyous moments, that a true feeling is there to stay forever, but only to forsake rudely with lessons to accept and time as a remedy, making a revelation that such is life, does this change what is transient into eternal?

The second track requires a different set of shoes feels Rebecca very strongly. A pair that can match the track’s rhythm, can dance, tip toe, jump and even fly.

Yes fly! For walking on the second track is dull and usual, but dreaming high, high, high requires tools. Tools like the right pair of shoes, a chirpy, gritty soul that eats butter-jam dreams, a soul that drinks milky-milky creams.

Only when I couldn’t find the pen today, I picked you to write my random thoughts down. Not so sharp, but nice and silvery, I wrote some charcoal rich lines. That you are not related to permanence, that all the lines written can be erased and that I was thinking about permanence before I reached half of the page, made me ponder. Life was different as a child, when I scribbled, played the dot game on the last page of my notebook and the famous noughts and crosses. I was chaotic and fearless, almost heroic when you and I first met.

In this moment, I am a little bit of this and a little bit of that, I am complete and incomplete, I am pleased and uncertain, I wish for nothing and I know I have to wait.

Because the distance covered reminds me of the hurdles I have crossed and the ones I could not, it reminds me of a throbbing past and a dreamy future and it reminds me of how much time is left.

A joy so complete without any rise or fall, so free without any time corners, so real without true being false, false being true.

I feel I am all alone in the two worlds. Taking a step forward I see lightning as ‘the fast’ meets ‘the slow’. I am not injured; I can endure the lightning but not the confusion. A beautiful path lights up as far as the mind can reach. Back and forth between a one-way; crashing becomes a certainty.