Heart

Bhikshuni

Review

‘The mother of liberation’, green Tara; Sumtsek hall at Alci monastery, Ladakh, ca. 11th century.
[Source – Wikimedia Commons]

वह दूसरी ओर पीठ किए खड़ी थी। हमारी टैक्सी एकदम उसके पास ही आकर रुकी। वह हड़बड़ाकर मुड़ी और मेरा कलेजा मुँह को आ गया। उसके चारों ओर छोटी-मोटी भगवा पोटलियाँ बिखरी थी, पीठ पर मोटे रस्से में दो-तीन भारी कम्बल लदे थे। अपने खुरदुरे, तिब्बती लबादे को सम्हालती, वह एक कोने में सिमट गई।
भिक्षुणी – शिवानी

English Translation –

She was standing with her back to the other side. Our taxi stopped right next to her. She turned around in a huff and my heart came to my mouth. Some small bundles were scattered around her, two or three heavy blankets were laden with thick ropes on her back. Holding on to her rough, Tibetan cloak, she huddled in a corner.

Bhikshuni, a short story by Shivani

A known face, however time-wrought, when seen, catches the eyes and attention almost at once that you cannot resist thinking about it. She saw Kiki, her heart smiled and a surge of memories filled the world, stopping time effortlessly.

Kiki, a spirited girl, enamoured with every new idea, had the courage to not to conform, not too easily, blindly. As a maiden, when in love, then a married woman, a mother and again in love, she moulded her life and everyone she knew anew. Some cheered for her, others washed away her colours.

When her livid father cremated her without uncovering the shroud, once just to see Kiki’s face, she instantly got a new lease of life.

A new lease of life where she chose to become a bhikshuni; crestfallen, she took a turn to continue with this journey called life. How difficult it would have been?

To let go of the collection closely locked in the heart – the hurts, laughs, blessings, all of it. To begin afresh when old tidings try to tie one down, to let the old self know its place.

The bhikshuni was carrying a potali… what was in it, we know now.

Photo by Jagriti Rumi
Photo by Jagriti Rumi

*Bhikshuni – a Hindu or Buddhist nun.

*Potali – a small packet or cloth bag.

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Let’s Take The Final Curtain Call Together

Posted on December 25, 2022 by Jagriti Rumi Animals Blushing Brightly Colour Curtain Call Dancing Darkness Death Heart Jamming Freely Joyous Life Lovely Music Rain Rainbow Sky The Moon The Sun Together Tree

Flash Fiction

**A lovely dancing tree.**
**[Source – Pixabay]**

Standing next to the giant old tree, its static presence made Saami sombre, more and more.

He cried, “Saami is now one with the rigid, rough and-and dead, yes, dead and gruesome tree bark, Saami has turned into this tree bark… O, but why?”

Resting against the tree now, now hugging the tree and mumbling, Saami stared into nothingness blankly, quietly. He opened his fist – a flint stone chip, equally dead he thought – and started ripping off the bark once again.

“Saami sees it all, Saami knows the limits, Saami’s dungeon is different from theirs, but… it’s all the same”, he announced in pain.

**Sombre Saami’s imagination.**
**[Source – Pixabay]**

The twittering yellow bird, the prancing butterflies, a distant lullaby, the pesky kung-fu crickets’ funny civil war and the red flowers’ bold stance, Saami turned a blind eye to it all.

Even the crickets stopped their civil war to enjoy the rain and the rainbow that day, but not Saami.

“Fools! Saami knows the pattern, Saami knows hope and destiny are always stuck in a traffic jam, and love…”, said Saami two hours ago.

“Love… love coloured Saami’s world black… black is the absence of all colours… black reflects no light… Saami lives in darkness”, he completed the sentence just when the fireflies lit the jungle.

Some rested on his head and hands, but Saami refused to greet them.

With a dry look, sullen eyes and tired limbs, Saami spoke for the last time, “dead, static tallness, this soulless tree bark hates Saami, this is the death penalty, and the most terrible because Saami is not tied, Saami can move, Saami knows, but not anymore, for Saami has become one with this giant numb stubborn treeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…”

Saami spoke for the last time because the lovely, joyous and calm tree’s branch took hold of Saami’s tired body and pulled him up-up-up… in a gushing blast of speed, suddenly music broke Saami’s heart-heart-heart… ta-rum-pup-pup-paa came the sound and immediately replaced it with a musical hub-dub sensation of a heart.

**The lead singer-cum-dancer-cum-poser.**
**[Image by Roy N from Pixabay]**

From the top-most branch of the tall lovely tree, Saami could see melodic colours and no darkness, nothing was static for the entire jungle and the river and the wind and the sky and the stars and the moon and the sun (together) danced to the twee peppy tune – and equally soothing, thought Saami – that the animal orchestra was playing.

Every animal – jamming freely – sitting on the top of some tree just like Saami… Saami who started clapping, swaying along and tip-tap-toeing in the air.

The tall lovely tree finally spoke, “Saami, yoi-knowi-da-cosmic-i-dance-sO-‘ell”; Saami was seen blushing brightly before the curtain was drawn.

**Cosmic-i-dance!**
**[Source – Pixabay]**

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A Telltale Heart’s Secret

Posted on August 21, 2022 by Jagriti Rumi Debacle Delirium Edgar Allan Poe Heart Mind Morbid Thought Secret Short Story Telltale Twist

Short Review

**Secret keeper’s lantern.**
**[Source – Pixabay]**

True! – NERVOUS – very, very dreadfully nervous I had been – and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses – not destroyed – not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! And observe how healthily – how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
– The opening paragraph of The Tell-Tale Heart, a short story by Edgar Allan Poe

A secret that punctures a heart, a heart that still beats, alive, yet unsure how, in a delirium reveals the secret to all. In Edgar Allan Poe’s short story, The Tell-Tale Heart, such a secret is shared with us.

Such a secret troubles the main character in the story and he begins simply by narrating it, gripping us first by raising our curiosity and later by force.

That is, a psychological force… for we are always free to get up and leave the old man’s dark room, but oh, we don’t. We hear and fear it as scene after scene unfolds.

Tension rises, our noble heart beats, not only because we suspect something horrible, truly tragic, but also because we recognise it…

We recognise the inexplicable rage, the feverish mind, the parched bond and the morbid thought that although residing in the backdrop knows well how to make itself heard.

Edgar Allan Poe’s poetry and prose often create a fantastical mysterious world where distinctly, incessantly the human mind tries to rein in something, something… where failure leads to a twist and success to a debacle.

His characters mock the world and oneself with equal fervour, pretending nothing at all, confessing the truth blatantly and leaving the readers with a secret.

I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture – a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees – very gradually – I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye for ever.
– An excerpt from The Tell-Tale Heart, a short story by Edgar Allan Poe.

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Fine-Tuning The Fears

Posted on September 5, 2021 by Jagriti Rumi Caricaturing Craft Define Fears Fine-Tuning Fools Forgetfulness Heart Invisible Peace Within Play Ultimate Ending

Poem

**Facing the fears.**
**[Image by Alexandra Haynak from Pixabay]**

No, not the fear of the ultimate ending

Binds or resides within;

It is the opposing voices cascading,

Confusing, crippling, caricaturing

Us and the peace within.

No, not the fear of a sickness

Troubles or tortures the heart;

It is our hopelessness,

A steady bleakness,

And the habitual surrendering of our craft.

No, not the fear of failure

Numbs or stuns the mind;

It is the snagging daily battle

Against the monsters of routine life;

Those are treacherous, lazy and anything but kind.

No, not the fear of the invisible

Tricks or fools us;

It is our way to define,

Design and create

The heroes, the villains and the fuss.

No, not the fear of the word fear

Lurks or creeps today;

It is our forgetfulness that steers…

… And suddenly, in haste one remembers

Fine-tuning life’s fears to Play.

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Enlightenment Pocketed

Posted on February 5, 2021 by Jagriti Rumi Art Artist Book Calm Mind Heart Meditation Monk Paintings Poems

**Lotus *Koan*.**
**Image by Marek Studzinski from Pixabay.**

“The enjoyment of art is an act of recreation, or rather of creation in the reverse direction, towards the source of intuition, i.e., an act of absorption, in which we lose our small self in the creative experience of a greater universe.”
Anagarika B. Govinda

I happen to have a small sweet book titled Art & Meditation (actually a few years back I took it from my brother), written by Lama Anagarika B. Govinda – an artist, a Buddhist monk, traveller and writer.

Sharing his paintings, poems and thoughts with us, he talks about the ineffaceable, elusive yet real, sublimely beautiful link between art and meditation; how true art merges with true religion and vice-versa.

It is not digressive or sluggishly cumbersome, this thought, rather it is stimulating for the one who is not in a hurry.

The author wishes his essays and artwork to serve as koans i.e. ‘meditative problems’ for his readers that churn our thoughts and act as an impetus for continuing the search.

I have gone through this insightful book twice now. What struck me this time was its size, how come Lama Anagarika Govinda’s lectures on art and meditation along with his artwork were capsuled in such a tiny book?

Of course, there must be other collections of his essays and pictures, surely in not-so-tiny a book.

But here I would intentionally turn this coincidence into a grand undertaking and happily say something ambitious.

This beautiful book holds, yes-yes it does, the secret to enlightenment and simply because of its humble, calm and forgiving nature, affordable price, elucidations of the artwork and colour schemes given and the profound ideas shared.

With these balmy thoughts, I will read this book again in the near future for then it will reveal a new secret to me.

Leaving you with an edifying thought –

“Art in itself is a sort of a paradox, a Koan in the deepest sense of the word, and that is why the followers of Zen prefer it to all other mediums of expression. For only the paradox escapes the dilemma of logical limitation, of partiality and one-sidedness. It cannot be bound down to principles or conceptual definitions, because it exaggerates or abstracts intentionally in such a way that it is impossible to take it literally: its meaning is beyond the incongruity of the words.”
Anagarika B. Govinda

Enlightenment, Pocketed-
Calm mind beams
Together with the heart.
Haiku – Jagriti Rumi

Also read other posts on art and meditation –

Buddhahood

I wish to SEE Tibet

Thunderous Applause… And the Warli Drama Unfolds

कलाकार/ Artist

Transient Permanence

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Zigzag Lines

Posted on February 14, 2020 by Jagriti Rumi Fuel The Mind Future Heart Memory Monsters Messy Exuberance Mind Path Rush Structured Confusion Swoony Transparent Wintry Zigzag Lines

Flash Fiction

**Thai Mural**
**(Source – samforkner.org)**

Running lines, zigzag running lines fuel the mind often. Like lost in a busy city, burning with shiny lights, where no one knows whether it is day or night, I am lost walking, running, gliding on a zigzag path.

Neither snow white wintry nor swoony soft summery winds can be heard here, who knows why.

All I can hear is the hub-dub of my heart.

Trapped in this maze, facing dead ends and memory monsters, I solemnly walk ahead. And after an endless time passes by, I walk out of the maze. Exhausted, yes, but hopeful, why, for I kept walking.

Looking back from the mountain top I can see a cloud of zigzag lines, an imprint of time, a link between battles and victories, between a structured confusion and a messy exuberance. Ah! It goes on and on.

My heart is eager and my mind alert for the future to reveal itself.

I am not afraid anymore for the zigzag lines are transparent and always in a rush.

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Crescent Moon Lights

Posted on May 5, 2019 by Jagriti Rumi Basho Buckwheat Flowers Crescent Moon Lights Earth Heart Moon Moon Lovers Painter Painting Shimmer Traveller Valley

“Crescent moon lights

Buckwheat flowers

This hazy earth.”

– Basho

The moon is being carved, I can hear the hammers, the chisels, it is raining white shimmer… the crescent shape will light up every heart soon.

And the valley of buckwheat flowers will then dance the dance of love, soothing the eyes of a traveller.

Intoxicated, the earth will then spin and stagger making, as always, a painter’s painting hazy.

Complement this haiku post with similar ones –

Basho’s Haiku Pond

Violets

Fetching Water from a Haiku-Well

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The Broken Nest and Other Stories by Rabindranath Tagore

Posted on October 20, 2018 by Jagriti Rumi Feeling Heart Love Magical Mind Paintings Poet Rabindranath Tagore Rain Seasons Secret Stories Sweetest Of Songs The Broken Nest Time World

Coverage

**A painting by Rabindranath Tagore.**
**[Source- V&A Museum]**

The Broken Nest

Charu and Amal didn’t understand their heart’s secret, but how could it be that their own heart hid something from them, well it did. Maybe, Charu’s binoculars didn’t work properly.

And Mr. Bhupati, a lost editor, busy sketching the details of a busy world, had no time for keeping secrets.

Why did they give their secrets to Time for safekeeping?

Time always travels light, thus, it naturally left their secrets behind, visible for them all to see, casting a spell. The spell didn’t kill, it broke hearts.

The Ghat’s Tale

Vasant… Grishm… Varsha… Sharad… Hemant… Shishir… Six seasons talked to the Ghat near the Ganga River. The seasons brought green moss at times and dry leaves at others, dipping the Ghat into sunlight and rain shower with love, the seasons spoke less, but heard sincerely.

What did the Ghat tell them? It shared stories… yours and mine.

Notebook

Let her be, why torment her, why read her notebook without her consent? She is little, just a girl, a child bride, she has left her world behind, she has carried some in her notebook.

Postmaster

Love is all-powerful and yet it blooms slowly in every soul, taking time for the realisation to sink in and sync with it completely.

A shade of love wrote a letter to the Postmaster who, tricked by mind, read it too late. Oh! That feeling…

**A happy poet.**
**[Source- Poetry Foundation]**

The Broken Nest is a novella, while the other three are short stories; each one holds a complete universe and touches you deeply.

Rabindranath Tagore beautifully writes in the language of love, his characters always express something which stays usually hidden within a heart, sidelined by the talkative world.

Every story of his is like a time machine, it unfolds the past keeping it alive and magical at the same time.

The birds sing sweetest of songs in his stories, the earth dances the best to his tunes, the colour red blushes flamboyantly in his paintings and tears take time to dry up when he narrates.

Know his work and you will know.

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The Little Prince

Posted on September 15, 2018 by Jagriti Rumi Desert Foretelling Heart Journey Narrator's Voice Stars The Little Prince

After crossing the vast desert, sailing through the green ocean, the Little Prince reached another desert. Golden sand waves welcomed him or so he thought.

The Little Prince walked alone. And the narrator’s voice followed him, sometimes foretelling and sometimes sharing.

“But this is not possible, for I cannot hear this voice”, says the Little Prince.

“Still, you can feel it”, replies the narrator.

The Little Prince inquires, “Feel the voice?”“Yes, you can feel what the voice says, the emotions, the connections, the ideas, the realisations… this, you can surely feel”, says the narrator.

The Little Prince sat on the sand cross-legged and pondered over this thought. The desert wind tried to disturb him, but he stayed still, allowing the wind to settle in his golden hair.

“Yes, I surely feel… and I am glad I do… then what you speak is true”, says the Little Prince as if reciting a haiku.

“True for you and true for me… true for those who can hear me”, replies the narrator in a cheerful tone.

This made the Little Prince laugh loudly. The narrator and the desert wind joined him.

“Hey voice, yours is a pleasant sound… keep following me, keep foretelling and sharing, for I am on a long journey”, standing up says the Little Prince.

“I will, I will… for every journey needs a narrator”, says the narrator.

The Little Prince nodded and started walking, allowing his feet to sink a little and then rise, allowing the wind to tease him, holding his gaze up at the sky, waiting for the stars to show up.

For he knew a star that would lead him to his destination, he felt it deep in his heart. He felt it!

**Prince with his friend, Fox.**
**Image from Pixabay.**

(This post is dedicated to Antoine de Saint-Exupery, author of the novella The Little Prince.)

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What Is So Grand In The Way Dragons Fly?

Posted on March 30, 2018 by Jagriti Rumi Heart Legendary Mythical Or Not Realm Stories Storytellers Travel True Love What Is So Grand In The Way Dragons Fly?

Short Feature

Eyes gaze at the grandiose being, follows its path, amazed and overwhelmed by the unbelievable. What is so grand in the way dragons fly? It is just in its element, it is its utmost self.

The dragons are awed by every mind that is familiar with its stories. Fire breathing, winged, snake like, four legged, cave dwellers, treasure keepers, proud and wise.

Flying high above the clouds, quasi-free from bondage, they come back on the ground to quench their thirst. They don’t kill for joy, they understand the laws of nature.

Mythical or not, dragons are glorious creatures. I say mythical or not for a storytellers’ imagination is an entity in itself, very much alive, though in thoughts, formless and fluid, but true.

Found in a story, the dragons thrive in this other realm.

Storytellers gave something more than just a pair of wings to the dragons, that something is splendour and beauty. Thus, right in the thought there was magnanimity and ferocity. What else is a dragon if not a magnanimous lovable beast?

Ah, here is what sprinkles magic in a dragon’s story, they are lovable beasts. Our storyteller friends didn’t suffer, at least, and I thank every heaven, from poverty of mind; they dared to imagine and realized that nothing is more powerful than true love, not even a dragon.

So rhythmically every dragon’s story is about love; a hero either fights back or fights along the dragon and wins back her love/ life and is showered with unheard grandeur.

Always a talk of antiquity, dragons are, but worth noticing is not the ‘antiquity’ bit, it is the ‘always’ bit. Always remembered, locked in the heart.

But what is so grand in the way dragons fly? It is just in its element, it is its utmost self.

Exactly, it is its utmost self. Like the storyteller who thought of it with utmost concentration, power, passion and love. Maybe just for a few minutes the storyteller was in her element, she was her utmost self, and thus, she gave birth to the dragon.

These legendary creatures ruled the sky once upon a time, and they still do, just travel to their realm and witness how majestically they fly.

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Greetings!

A storyteller, following the ancient tradition of cave chroniclers, standing in vrikshasana (the tree pose) on a hill top (it is sunny, but windy), breathing in and out stories (relishing it all, but at times overwhelmed), declares animatedly that she will continue to – tell stories, share rare story gems, and connect with the pacy universe while also keeping the website ad-free.

Big thanks to my readers. Stay tuned!

Also, a humble request to the new subscribers to check the spam folder after subscribing. Silly (but necessary) confirmation emails often land there instead of the bright inboxes. Merci!

Ya-hoy!

Chiming Stories (formerly Home Chimes)

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