The Writing Continues

It is still writing. This writing won’t change. Or it will, if growth is synonymous to change, if evolving is change, if awakening is change, if change is truly blissful. It has bundle full of memories stored sincerely, memories that glisten when talked about. New vistas, old memories, feelings usurp, and the writing continues.

Yes, it continues, even though realisations slow down with time. Amazingly, just in a déjà vu second it speeds up, collecting all shades and colours of memories, infinite times faster than before. And what do memories do? Memories create, elaborate humbly, resolve, express, spread warmth and love. Pure, true love!

It in the making of itself uses the eternal ink of faith. Sometimes it believes and sometimes it smirks, cheats, forgets, sinks and turns away. But it nevertheless keeps writing, always. Either with a heavy heart or a feathery lightness. And when in the end it listens to its heart’s beating, the heaviness vanishes.

It in the making of itself? Whence did it all began? Listening to its memories it gets to know whence. A tough journey gets no support, but a rough straight answer. Accept or ignore the answer, toss it away or idolize it, the answer stays.

Incredulously, observably it lives in its own truth, the truth, the only one for it. While walking in every direction, on every day, in every moment, it distils the world through its sieve, adding and subtracting memories at its true whim.

Lightly, o lightly, it writes forgivingly, gaily, o gaily, it enshrines its memories, softly, o softly it speaks of the truth, deeply, o deeply, it sinks to reach the end, bravely, o bravely it passes on the pen. And the writing continues.

The Usual Randomness

Almost inaudible jibber-jabber, continuous sound of a conversation going on and on, then someone squeaks, there must be two or more of them, or maybe the person behind the wall is talking to herself.

Sure there are laughs, loud ones, suppressed ones, fake ones, shameless ones. I laugh along but only with one of the ones.

Silence surfaced for seconds, I then pay attention to the pigeon coos’ outside my window and the loud airplane coos’ passing up across my sky.

Oh! The murmur begins. Happy long hours of chit-chatting has ended for the friends. They are now mildly viewing what life has offered them each in the past few months. Yes, few months I say, that is how old the memory stays, unless, of course, it is given the chance to time travel.

I hear a question ‘coffee?’ Evening yawns and gazes passed at the clock welcomes automatically warm beverages.

I yawn and look at the clock and don’t move; I am doodling. O now they are repeating a name, it is Martha, also a Petunia and a Joshua. A triangle I assume, but which one… scalene I think.

After the reverie I become once again aware about my chitchatting neighbours. When and where did the hours go by? There is a lull in the talking. I might doze off.

What is this? I hear rushed movements, I sit up straight, a door bangs open and I jump up and run towards the main door, my focus – the peep-hole. I see two girls, both of same height, one is carrying a bag. What is going on?

One of them says, ‘do you think…?’ The other replies, ‘betcha, she is lying.’ They leave.

I stand against the main door, thinking who were they talking about, Martha or Petunia? Coming back to my room, I lie down and start doodling again.

Ding-dong! I am back on the door, I see a boy standing outside my neighbour’s door. I sense he is Joshua. Eager to know that I am correct, I open the door and tell him that my neighbours aren’t at home; the boy turns to leave when outlandishly I ask, ‘Joshua?’ Right then my neighbour, a girl, looking sleepy, opens the door.

Surprised and embarrassed, maintaining a faint smile, I shut the door. The boy speaks, ‘Ma’am I have a courier for J. Pollack from CITI Bank.’ My ears glued to the main door. ‘Joshua doesn’t live here anymore.’ Slam!

Ideas dance in and out of my mind, there is a story here. I sit down to write. Fresh page, pen in hand, I am thinking…

Still thinking.

Jeremiah’s Roomie Ferdinand Forgot Two Simple Things

Jeremiah wrote in the letter that Ferdinand must continue his journey across the five oceans, dipping when the moon rises and shinning when the tempest calls, stopping to explore the alien lands and fleeing if he sees a woman with snakes for hair or the trolls.
Ferdinand understood not much for he was not travelling to any place and was rather at home, sick and jaded.
Jeremiah further expressed his own adventure of a morning walk through the deep dark forest when he met a king cobra who nattered about this and that, about the tales of the netherworld and of a future when the sky was to fall down; who got to the point only at last with a fang-full smile and asked him to bring all the eggs of the cuckoo bird that lived nearby.
Ferdinand, confused, spoke aloud, “But Jeremiah goes to that park near the colony for morning walks…”
Jeremiah then mentioned in capital letters the highlights of THIS WORLD –
1) The raven flew away and the raven came back, we talked, ate and enquired, ‘who can change the track?’
2) Maria knows that Keith knows that Jenny doesn’t know, and now we also know.
3) For a few days we hosted the Police at the colony, ha ha!
Ferdinand sat straight, scratched his head, and tried calling Jeremiah – “the call cannot be completed.”
Jeremiah signed off his letter with the words – flying to Alpha Centauri, good you left your swimming goggles, peace-out mate.
Ferdinand got up, stood numb holding that letter in his hand for a few seconds, then haphazardly packed his bag and left the house. Bang!
He closed the door behind him, not replying to his mother’s alarmed shout, he dashed out.
Ferdinand forgot that Jeremiah is a writer, a writer by choice, profession, and living standards.
He also forgot his keys to the flat.
Now no one would be there to welcome him back in the city as Jeremiah was flying to Alpha Centauri.
Ssh! Writer at work!
Image by Cdd20 from Pixabay.

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Dama Dam Mast Qalandar

Ho Lal Meri Pat

Rakhiyo Bhala Jhoole Laalan

Sindhri Da..

Sehwan Da Sakhi Shahbaz Qalandar

Dama Dam Mast Qalandar

Ali Dam Dam De Andar

Ho Dama Dam Mast Qalandar

Ali Da Pahla Namber

Ho Laal Meri

Ho Laal Meri


Dancing, my whirling floating steps don’t stop. [Source]

Soft soothing absorbing light goes circling me, showering love.

Perhaps it is me who is circling the glowing warm glorious light.

Music is flowing, revolving, working as Time it has harmonized every moment.

Truly, that is why my whirling floating steps don’t stop.

Bright suns, moons, planets dance round and round, in absolute bliss.

I quietly follow the bliss as I listen. It is the Sama.  

Long, long time back ago, Rumi, the Sufi saint, was passing a market place when he heard the gold beaters at work, their hammering noise was melody to him as he could hear ‘la ilaha ilallah’ (no god but Allah) in that beating of the gold. Rumi, exhilarated, started dancing and whirling there and then.

It was the first Sama.


Caught in Sama. [Source]

Sama means listening, listening to the One, meditating and accepting the One wholly.

Sufis have the tradition to celebrate the Sama, a spiritual concert; with praying, singing, dancing and reciting poems begins this mystical journey to surpass visual reality and enter the divine world – no self, but the Self.  

The whirling dance, the soulful music slowly takes you away to be in the light of the Ultimate, a close encounter so as you listen and listen truly what is beyond the five senses, and then you return amongst many imperfections, but this time with a compassionate heart and a free soul.  

Rhythmic patterns of the bright light haven’t disappeared.

My spinning steps haven’t stopped either. Feather hands guide me.

The macrocosm meets the microcosm, politely becoming a wave.

At some time I settle down, quietly look up and stay there.


Follow the rhythmic patterns.
[Image – Pixabay]


Dama Dam Mast Qalandar is a qawwali (form of Sufi devotional music) sung in honour of Lal Shahbaz Qalandar, a revered Sufi saint.

Listen to the mesmerising Dama Dam Mast Qalandar performed by the Pakistani band, Junoon – 

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Fresh Rhythms

Fading away, parting as tears fall with a fear that there is no return, it starts to brighten up and slowly gets closer with a pure hope that the present will always be magical.

When only she rises and turns, she feels the fresh rhythms, standing firmly, breathing deeply, she walks ahead, a half smile looking good on her face. Cheers!

The Ecstatic Look

Softness of the wet dirt spoke and told Shelley how it passed its secrets to the flowers and the wind and the sky and the sun.
Stones, cold and musical, held epics to share, so Shelley took a few in his pocket.
A lonely tree filled Shelley’s ears with endless tales about messiahs that walked and disappeared, blessing every of its kind on the way with blissful shade to ever stay by them. It assured Shelley that this was the tale that the leaves were always singing about. When Shelley stopped to ask a leaf, the leaf swayed by and danced away.
Then the wind slowed down and everywhere stillness started to settle, Shelley looked at the pink polished cloudy sky. In this stillness the ecstatic was happening and Shelley could see it for the first time.
Elated, Shelley got up and looked all around. Taking the softness of the wet dirt along, Shelley continued the journey.

But Carl Wasn’t Kidding

So Carl saw a crow feasting on a Lay’s packet thrown on the roadside by an insensitive, silly or confused, messy person. That crow croaked and called his friend to join. Carl stood there for a long while, thinking and thinking.

When did this switch happen that the crows are opting for Lay’s, that also spicy flavour, rather than their normal diet? Is it by choice or the circumstances are no more junk-food-free for the crows?

The crows fly away and take the Lay’s for their young ones, who slowly adept to the tangy taste. All the crows sitting on the electric wire talk about it and the one flying far outside the city takes the news along. As time rises and sets every day, the crows become accustomed to the plastic packed diet plan.

And the story is rewritten… the thirsty crow finds a pot of water and a half-eaten doughnut, he chooses to binge on the doughnut, because he isn’t really thirsty, it is just the spicy lunch that burned crow’s tongue and the crow knew that water cannot solve his problem, so children, moral of the story is, directly go for something sweet when your mouth is burning…

Carl was staring at the crows and the passers-by were staring at him. Suddenly, Carl rushed towards the crows and shooed them away. He then picked up the Lay’s packet and threw it in a dustbin nearby. A sigh of relief! Carl started to continue his journey, where ever he was going to, when he heard the crows. He turned, the crows sitting on the lamp post where looking at him, they croaked. Carl smiled and said, “Thirsty Crow is my grandma’s favourite moral story.”

Carl knew the crows have understood his words, beaming, he walked ahead. Aaahhh! A crow flew and pecked him on his left ear. So, Carl stood there rubbing his left ear and the crows took a flight to Hawaii.
Just kidding!

The Moon Talks

In its stillness the moon shines poetically and travels through the same old route and reaches the very many hearts of its listeners.
I believe in your dreams, your smiles and tears.

The wavy mountains make a marvellous backdrop for the moon to become brighter, where it meets the eyes of a lone survivor.
I walk along; I follow wherever you go.

Amongst the twinkling stars, the moon beams broadly and warmly at the free souls, the little ones.
Yes, you can do magic and hide me in your lotus fists.

Deep, true brush strokes attempts to take the moon’s magic and pour it in a canvas.
I blush, yes, all the while.

The night sky and the blue ocean together carry the moon’s palanquin, rhythmically and lovingly they move.
I take their colours and they take mine.

A curtain draws, a window opens up and someone, in the serene peaceful moonlight, says a prayer.
And I say amen.
Ocean Meets Sky by Terry Fan


Stories are happening, stories are being written, stories are being ended, stories that are new meets stories that are old, everywhere, in every life a story is taking place.

Now imagine a place, long back in time, a grand place, the centre of a huge empire that today rests quietly, patiently the ruins hold itself against time, vanishing slowly but never getting defeated.

Persepolis, the city of the Persians, awaits quietly and patiently a time, it stands composedly and accepts what it witnessed, giving one a good hint of its past who then leaves taking along an unfinished story that also awaits a time, a time of completion.

Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi 

Marjane Satrapi has a story, it’s titled Persepolis. A beautiful way to begin a story, to merge the storyteller with her past, present and future, to the place she belongs.

Marji’s story is a story of constant reminder – a reminder about the holy myth, burden passed on by the lineage, large scale bloodshed done by mistake, wars of the sexes; it is also a reminder of true love, beautiful dreams, hope and faith, strength to stand up, courage to bow down, belief in freedom and humanity. 

Marji’s story is a fusion of all of this and more that makes life, life. Marji shares it wonderfully from her perspective and whether you know her or not, you will connect to it, for your life too is a story.

So much to be explored, many such Persepolis to be seen, a Marji waiting to tell her story everywhere, a life to be lived today, in the present, a story to be written, today in this very second.

Embark on a similar journey and you will reach a Persepolis and be enthralled by its mere presence. You will become Marji and look back with a smile.