Image by Jagriti Rumi.
Centuries have passed and I have witnessed it elegantly, quietly.
Countless diyas have washed my feet and brightened my space. The lanterns took my shadow along and I crossed the steps to reach the temple.
I have enjoyed my permanence. I have blessed them all.
The sound stays forever and if you try to hear honestly, I have so many stories to tell. The echoes are playful and I vouch for this fact.
But there is nothing like the music of the bells. The small bells try, always, to tune with the bigger ones. Every time the result is harmonious.
I like flowers, both fresh and old. The fresh ones are fragrant and the old ones make a wonderful husky sound. And I collect sound.
All kinds of prayers, musical, non-musical, the chants, the whispered wishes and loud blessings are there in my collection.
I am different from the ones who come to see me here. They are opposite to what I am. I stay still and collect sound. I was made to meditate. While they can move all around and express. It must be their way of meditating.
She comes here a lot. Somehow, I can see a resemblance between this lady and me. She is mostly as quiet as I am, she reads a lot, maybe she collects through her eyes.
She is the one here who can listen to my collection, my stories. But maybe not now, she is busy collecting.
I’ll wait, nevertheless, and collect the sound of ruffles when she turns the paper.
Image by Jagriti Rumi.
Weekly Newspaper
Recent Posts
- Essentially Gold, The Lavender Hill Mob
- The Source
- In The Sundarbans
- The Knight’s Missing But The Horse’s Here
- Temple Food
