That Flower, Dark Coloured

Posted on December 22, 2018 by Dark Coloured That Flower
The dark old lady walks like lightening devouring the night sky, she is swift, she is fast. Her dusty feet, darker than the broken black slippers, know exactly where it is to lead and where it is to stop. Draped in a saree lungi style, her slender figure boasts of agility and strength.
Amma, it is cold tonight, and she covers her head, her ears with a towel. Does she look funny? Not at all, she looks as beautiful as that flower kept in that book. That flower, dark coloured, tells a story, pressed and noted neatly in that book, stored for a chance meeting.
Amma what time is it, nine thirty she says and at ten she has to go to a flat and clean the dishes, clear the kitchen counter, set the culinary world in order; often Amma plays music and her dear plates, cups and spoons dance on her tune. Amma beams then like she is beaming now – Amma’s toothless smile.
On her way back home, at night, embracing the darkness Amma moves briskly, but stops in front of a small house and asks Sunita bahin if she can get a water-can and take some fresh water; yes, at Amma’s place you won’t see a water-tap rather there are colourful canisters lined up – yellow, blue, faded red and blue.
Amma is stylish, her dark self knows what colours to wear – white and orange and green, mixture of all these and add some flowery designs, this completes her look. Do you also wear the colours of the road, the trees, the dark sky Amma? For you look as quiet and great as them.
And your eyes, that glance, killer! Amma your eyes are sharp, your eyes smile – your eyes are familiar with Time and that’s why you don’t mind, you don’t curse it, you don’t cherish it; you know how to live it. Whatever it may be, a raging tempest or a happy carnival or a visit to the temple, you get up the next day and leave for work on time.
I wonder if you have not talked to everybody until now. Because you are alive, you know Time, you know the society, you know poverty and you smile with your eyes.
Amma cheers to your journey. The dark old lady waved a goodbye.

Self

Posted on December 16, 2018 by Listening Self

“This noise… it’s hard to listen to oneself.” 
“Is it? Is noise the reason?”

“What do you… why… why do you always have to ask so many questions? Clever little… Why should I answer anyway, there is no peace, I can’t think clearly.”

“Inner Peace…”

“No! Keep your dilemmas out of my mind. Ah! What’s wrong with people, why are they shouting? Madness! Can’t tolerate this…”

“Your complaints are audible to me, just so you know. I am listening”

“So am I, oh, why do I always fall for your tricks. I… I won’t say a word now. I’ll be quiet… ha simple… and that is my answer to you. Yes! I’ll be silent!”

“Good, you’ll be able to listen now.”

Firdaus

Posted on December 13, 2018 by Aura Firdaus Nature Paradise Peace Rise
Agar Firdaus bar ru-ye zamin ast, 
Hamin ast o hamin ast o hamin ast

Translation – If there is a paradise on earth, it is this, it is this, it is this.

This Persian phrase written in reference to Jammu and Kashmir, India, is attributed to the great Sufi musician and poet, Amir Khusrow.

*
Nature painted in full lustre
The hues of love
It is peace above
It is peace beneath
And the Dal Lake, a mirror
Chinar leaves, fallen ones,
A paint brush’s twists
Chirping, joyous children
On the footsteps of a temple
Now stand quietly somewhere hidden
Sharpness of bullets are measured
By dripping bright red blood
The aura of a single truth
And the nature’s imprint,
Will engulf it all at the end
And the Paradise will rise then.

Oceanic Waves by Cody Hooper https://www.codyhooperart.com/

Read It Happily

Posted on December 10, 2018 by Always Joy Memories Read It Happily

In that wonderful valley, some children are playing hide-and-seek. Their laugh, their complaints, their chit-chats echoes. The Deodar trees and the wind, the birds and the flying-foxes give the background score. Joy is the dominant colour of this valley, even the passing clouds are pacing down to collect some.

Ah!

That is her memory, just a memory of the old days. The compact city life, the tick-tock march to the town centre, the race to the platform got sidelined somehow, and she took a memory, opened it up, read it happily.

She felt good, memories don’t truly fade. You can always read them. Always!

Lord Jagannath’s Eyes

Posted on December 6, 2018 by Brahman Lord Jagannath's Eyes Million Revelations Peace Space Time

One eye says that the play is on.

The wheel of Time moves ceasing for none, winning over oceans, mountains, the sky, the wind and the fire.

People crowd to clench forms and beliefs, together they build and destroy. They wait to gauge for more and what is better.

Look now, how they shine, bright like fireflies, honest to the core; look now, how they lure, how they trick the tricksters, how they slay a man’s soul.

Speak not, for they are at work, cross-legged monks, meditating on what is less; speak not, for you will fail to express how chaotic is the chaos.

Rising high is the music of unity and harmony; falling face down is the corrupt, fake cry of every rigid mind.

Knowing the beginning, waiting for the end, it walks, it lingers, we walk, and we linger.

Lord Jagannath by Santanu Dash

Second eye says that it is all absolute bliss.

There is no Space or Time and it binds none; the ultimate end and the ultimate start merges with the absolute existence.

Flowing in a silent music, dancing always, the ripple reaches the centre.

The Brahman breathes; formless, it is of the colour peace.


Tala Pattachitra, Palm Leaf Painting – Odisha’s ancient art form

Lord Jagannath’s eyes are the universe we see and the universe we can’t see. The happy devotee who bows, who worships, who sings, who gazes gets mesmerized by one of the universes, and by Lord Jagannath’s smile.

Our million eyes find a million revelations in Lord Jagannath’s eyes.

Lord Jagannath, Lord of the Universe 

Glorious

Posted on November 22, 2018 by Glorious Nature
No, not in one go, not in seconds, things take time.
 
Remember that lotus bud, you looked at for days and days and at last it showed the beauty it stored.
 
And the moon said the same, wearing the veil of darkness, waiting quietly, writing poems of love, reciting and shining when the time was right.
 
Oh! Glorious nature! The ocean awaits the lively streams, the trees paint every little leaf green, the earth nurtures slowly and steadily… patiently you rise, smile and bestow joy.
 
No, not in one go, not in seconds, things take time to become glorious.

 

Glorious
Image by yyryyr1030 from Pixabay

Ode to the Elements

Posted on November 11, 2018 by Atom Harmony Life Magic Miracles Ode to the Elements Secrets Universe
It begins and ends, life does

In nothing but elements
It shines and multiplies, life does
With nothing but elements

An atom when quiet and alone
Holds secrets and miracles
Once it unites, once it tones
Once the harmony writes a lyrical
Planets and stars are born

A star twinkled, its elements
Present in a child’s eyes
Such a magic never dies
For it is made of elements

Painting by Mary Southard –
Link – http://www.marysouthardart.org/paintings/

Red Stories

Posted on November 2, 2018 by Begins Ends Listening Red Stories Time
Red stones, red walls, red stories started it all. A simple drawing spoke about Time. Whispers passed the tale further, expressing and mixing their own self in it. Even when the tale got complex, even when the sound differed, the story kept flowing.
 
It trickled once to form a rivulet, never imagined of becoming an ocean… an ocean that defies gravity.
 
The story about a drawing in a cave, about a lost civilisation, about the pyramids, about the iron idols, about the farms and wheels, about smoke engines and machines, about the moon and the first man… a never-ending saga that teaches and preaches and reveals and warns to remember it all.
 
Every day begins an untold story and every day ends an old story.
 
Red stories, you are moulding and folding time beautifully… and I am listening.

 

Red stones, red walls, red stories started it all.
San rock paintings from the Western Cape in South Africa. [Source – Wikipedia Commons]
Cave painting at the Tassili n’Ajjer UNESCO World Heritage Site in southeast Algeria. [Source – Wikipedia Commons]

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The Broken Nest and Other Stories by Rabindranath Tagore

Posted on October 20, 2018 by Love Rabindranath Tagore Stories

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… stories of you and me.

*

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

*

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.

A painting by Rabindranath Tagore

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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.

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Cinema Paradiso

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

The Anime World

Our Friend Totoro

Chidren of the Sea – A Glimpse and A Message 

The Map to Miyazaki

Mirai

One, Two, TREE

Abracadabra On This Independence Day

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.

 

Dear September

Dama Dam Mast Qalandar

Dream Light

Universe’s a Disciplined Place

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?

Flowers Are Made Of Stories

Transient Permanence

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

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.

To The Moon And Back

Make This Magic Potion Every Day

Pencil Dear

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.

Another Moment

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.

Meredith and the Green Lake

Illimitable Splendour

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

So Far

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.

Lost Message

There’s a Zebra who calls me Kevin

A Hit Comic Strip – Mr. Bombay

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