Not in a rush
To see it all
To reach the end
Or to defend
Not in a rush
To believe what is sought
To doubt what is brought
Or to revel what is taught
Not in a rush
For the magic light
Sometimes dim, sometimes bright
Shows the way at twilight
Follow The Light
After succumbing to the darkness I sat there quietly for ages. Did the wind play with the kite? Did the dew drop decorate the petals? I saw nothing, I stared at nothing, it was all dark. But I did hear them mocking, complaining, exclaiming, demanding. I said nothing, my voice had become dark too.
Then from nowhere a light emerged, glowing softly, fading now and then, but never dying completely. I remembered then that I can stand up, I realised then that I can walk ahead, I felt then that I am still alive. And I walked towards the light. I could see then, in the light, how dark it was.
I followed and I am still following the light.
Crescent Moon Lights
“Crescent moon lights
Buckwheat flowers
This hazy earth.”
– Basho
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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 –
Fetching Water from a Haiku-Well
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Flowers Are Made Of Stories
Flowers are made of stories, every colour a different genre, every form a different journey.
A yellow flower lived high on a tree; it sang and danced along with the wind. One day the yellow flower fell on a passerby who looked up at the tree, then down at the flower, smiled and left. The passerby loved its story.
Flowers are the best storytellers, just a glance and the job is done, allowing the story to unfold, to bloom within the seeker slowly.
A lotus once told me an epic and a night jasmine a love story and a marigold a fairy-tale saga.
Flowers are made of stories which the mind forgets but the heart remembers.
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| Cassia Fistula, golden shower |
बादल
घुमड़घुमड़ के नाचेबादल
और मैं नाची उनकेसंग रे
थिरकनकी आवाज़ पहुँची उन तक
जो ताक रहे थे बादलों को कब से।
Translation –
Clouds
Swaying and twisting the clouds danced,
And I danced along,
The sound of this dance was heard by only those
Who were waiting eagerly for the clouds
Calling the Ocean
Georgina was walking towards her home, by the same old path. With grocery bags in both her hands she could not straighten her hat or pull her hair back. She blew her hair when it tickled her nose.
It was a hot summer day, everything around her glistened in heat. Then she heard something, she could feel a vibration and as she turned her head right, she saw a wave, higher than the surrounding trees and the sweet hillocks. Georgina, dumbstruck, could not move, she kept on gazing at the giant wave devouring the trees, the hillocks and rushing towards her. ‘This can’t be true’, exclaimed Georgina. The wave hit her.
She twisted and swirled, the grocery bags somehow managed the wet blow and so did her hat. Georgina could breathe; she was not hurt rather she could swim without any effort. She looked all around with bewilderment, a school of Goldband forage fish crossed her; each one greeted her with a quick ‘hello’. Beaming, Georgina nodded and said ‘hello’; she tried to wave, but she could not, because of the grocery bags in her hands.
Georgina swam happily and was joined by two dolphins. They whistled a tune and said something that Georgina did not understand. Both the dolphins then nudged her hands and made her let go off the grocery bags. She felt light as she saw the bags sinking and touching the ‘sea bed’. Joyfully then she danced along with the dolphins. She threw her hat away and opened her hair; she swam, she swayed, she stretched her arms and flew away.
Late in the day she reached home soaking wet; grocery bags in her hands made a puddle in the kitchen and her hat added a tiny stream to it. Aghast, her mother finally managed to say ‘where in the world have you been?’ Georgina looked at her mom and with a glint in her eyes, smile on her face she said ‘the ocean’.
Haiku – The Mandala Within
Forgotten stroke of the paintbrush,
I rose in the ocean of colours
To witness the Mandala within.
Image by Анастасия Бабина from Pixabay
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The Dragon, Dandelions And The Twist In The Story
While walking through the green pastures, the valley of colourful flowers, the dragon suddenly found herself in the desert where the scorching sun stroked her, burnt the sand, splashed mirages everywhere…
… when a strong stroke of warm air tossed the dragon off the ground reminding her that she has wings, which she then fluttered, crossing a gush of gold dust, she closed her eyes for a wink of a second and the world around her changed…
… as she saw the sky-scraping waterfall in front of her, amazed she thought am I dreaming, but did not wait for the answer and plunged towards the waterfall, shouting in joy and adding to its rhythm.
Oh, dragon you are so lucky, here the winters never seem to end and when it does, it is followed by another winter.
Who is asking for the spring? It will be a blessing if I see autumn.
Oh, autumn! The ocean of orange leaves crumple and swirl in my mind all the time, but what I see is the dry hypnotised land, grey and white, and dark and mossy.
Why cannot I be the witness of a twist in my story?
The dragon soared into the air; neither the hail nor the lightening could stumble her once, and crossed the clouds, the drumming music muffled soon as the lush rainbow appeared in full gusto.
You have got wings dragon, probably that is why you can bring twists in your story.
Ah! I have been walking since that cloud burst forced me to leave my hideout and I am still walking. The path I took glistened with frost and I fell twice.
Rough stairs took me up the mountain and just where I stopped to rest, I saw some dandelions dancing, happy about something.
When I smiled with them I was reminded of a wish and at the same time, the rising wind whispered a message, overwhelmed I resumed my journey, my story.
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Humming Is Good For The Soul
The wind is blowing and the wind chime is playing a melodious tune. It is a calm hour of the day. Dozens of clouds are drifting by leisurely. And that group of birds is sailing high, their songs are falling along with sun rays, it is a tune unheard.
What charm is it that is capturing this scene? Ruby does not know, and, yet she allows herself to let it seep within. Standing against the railing, staring at the sky, Ruby feels free and happy. Those thoughts cannot grip her any more, those worries slip down her gleaming face.
Ruby realises then that there is nothing wrong with Time, if it is fleeting, it is also filling every second with a pearl like moment. “Breathe it”, she tells herself. When she does, she feels at home.
Waterfall like grand, fresh as a rainbow, her inner self whispers something. Ruby smiles, she does not know why. She looks at the kites, red kites against the blue sky, hopes, wishes, dreams they are, flying high.
Humming is good for the soul thought Ruby as she hummed an incomplete tune. Why incomplete? Who will complete it? “Ruby, Ruby”, someone calls out her name and completes the tune.
Oh! It is all magic… magic, magic, magic!
The Life of Jane Eyre
[Image from Pixabay]
Jane in her simple jade dress stood out in that mahogany room. The splendour surrounding her could not match the spark in her eyes, knowing this the chandelier, humbled, dimmed its light.
Jane in her efforts to live freely always broke barriers and always lived freely. The shackles, when not shown any fear of, never dared to grab the fire named Jane Eyre.
She walked towards the window and half opened it; the gushing wind reminded her of a folk tale, of the times when a princess stared at the moon through a half open window, shared a secret and smiled. Jane Eyre could not help but smile then.
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[Source – Wikimedia Commons]
Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre is a marvellous, striking Victorian novel which was originally published under a pseudonym ‘Currer Bell’. Many female writers in that era opted for a pen name, occasionally for anonymity, but mostly for their work to get a wider audience (if it is accepted for publication at all).
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We do not know who ‘Currer Bell’ might be, but his name will stand very high in literature.
The Weekly Chronicle
While all the reviewers praised the powerful story and imagination of the author, no one expected it to be a woman.
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[Source – Wikimedia Commons]
One great merit of the work unquestionably is its originality. The author deserves no slight credit for the ingenuity and success with which fact and fiction, reality and romance, have been intermingled and made to serve conjointly in maintaining deep and unflagging interest.
Morning Advertiser
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Have you lived the life of Jane Eyre? If not, then you must.
Also read – Enshrined in Double Retirement – a short write-up inspired by the novel Jane Eyre.
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