In that wonderful valley, some children are playing hide-and-seek. Their laughter, their complaints, their chit-chats echo. 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 past 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!
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.
Tala Pattachitra, Palm Leaf Painting – Odisha’s ancient art form. [Source – ethnicpaintings.com]
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.
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. [Source – harekrsna.de]
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.
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.
A painting by Rabindranath Tagore. [Source- V&A Museum]
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… yours and mine.
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 for the realisation to sink in and sync with 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.
Life means movement and life means change where time is determined to achieve its aim. Image from Pixabay.
With the intense, ceaseless process of contemplating it all, fitting it into an invisible box, Leela stayed both certain and uncertain. This was no secret to her and yet it was.
Leela smiled, she played the game and enjoyed the Ferris Wheel ride. Leela preferred coffee to tea when she felt blue.
Life means movement and life means change where time is determined to achieve its aim. And so in the ocean of life, Leela sailed to the horizon and back to the shore.
One day when Leela sat down at the shore, sure of not going anywhere, sure about not waiting, partially quiet and calm, she realised that moment’s magic and thought ‘it is alright’. That is it, that is what she thought.
It is alright, the pace, the degree, the twists and turns, the faults and failures, the tiny victories, the awesomeness and overpowering nature of life is just alright.
This acceptance, this vision has often helped Leela to fly and touch the sky, and on those gloomy days, it has helped her to be herself.
After crossing the vast desert, sailing through the green ocean, the Little Prince reached another desert. Golden sand waves welcomed him or so he thought.
The Little Prince walked alone. And the narrator’s voice followed him, sometimes foretelling and sometimes sharing.
“But this is not possible, for I cannot hear this voice”, says the Little Prince.
“Still, you can feel it”, replies the narrator.
The Little Prince inquires, “Feel the voice?”
“Yes, you can feel what the voice says, the emotions, the connections, the ideas, the realisations… this, you can surely feel”, says the narrator.
The Little Prince sat on the sand cross-legged and pondered over this thought. The desert wind tried to disturb him, but he stayed still, allowing the wind to settle in his golden hair.
“Yes, I surely feel… and I am glad I do… then what you speak is true”, says the Little Prince as if reciting a haiku.
“True for you and true for me… true for those who can hear me”, replies the narrator in a cheerful tone.
This made the Little Prince laugh loudly. The narrator and the desert wind joined him.
“Hey voice, yours is a pleasant sound… keep following me, keep foretelling and sharing, for I am on a long journey”, standing up says the Little Prince.
“I will, I will… for every journey needs a narrator”, says the narrator.
The Little Prince nodded and started walking, allowing his feet to sink a little and then rise, allowing the wind to tease him, holding his gaze up at the sky, waiting for the stars to show up.
For he knew a star that would lead him to his destination, he felt it deep in his heart. He felt it!
Eyes could see that the mind was dreaming, yet it stayed attuned. The soft, glowing place might be the reason. And colours, crayon colours, water colours flowing smoothly. Glory ruled the place.
Such were the wonderfully true sights that my eyes beamed with pleasure. I then was beyond time and space, happy in the present.
Breathing deeply, quietly, I knew it all and I knew nothing. Bliss!
I woke up and with a quick, strong rush, lively sounds reached me all at once. It was time to live another true dream… it was time to be.
A way of life that knows simplicity and truth, that values every living thing, that changes with the changing time, staying focused all the while on the one who is beyond time, beyond space, the one who is eternal.
A life where every second is a celebration, where the soul sees the divine and dances with it, where the mind witnesses birth and death and yet continues. The drama of this wonderful life goes on.
A life that sees beauty all around, that values beauty, that breathes in beauty, that prays to spread beauty, understanding that the beautiful is the perfection is the divine… the divine which is within.
A life of action.
A life of responsibilities.
A life of renunciation.
A life of freedom.
The man who lived such a life was called Sri Aurobindo.
Haiku
Endless footprints following footprints/
When suddenly a few of them rise/
To bloom like a flower.
Greetings!
A storyteller, following the ancient tradition of cave chroniclers, standing in vrikshasana (the tree pose) on a hill top (it is sunny, but windy), breathing in and out stories (relishing it all, but at times overwhelmed), declares animatedly that she will continue to – tell stories, share rare story gems, and connect with the pacy universe while also keeping the website ad-free.
Big thanks to my readers. Stay tuned!
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Ya-hoy!
Chiming Stories (formerly Home Chimes)
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Gabbeh, the 1996 film, is a simple tale of a gipsy girl, her clan and the way their life goes on. Unfolding beautifully just like an artist painting a canvas, Gabbeh quietly touches the grand questions.
Ranked as one of the greatest British films of all time, The Lavender Hill Mob confides in the audience, letting them see, feel, laugh and think without tickling persuasively with a joke here and a punch-line there.
Godard… Breathless and Alive
A Tribute to Jean-Luc Godard, the Film Philologist who Reinvented Cinema.
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.
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?
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.
