That Flower, Dark Coloured

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

“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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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