Yes, all your talks are papyrus talks; that is why your breath smells of quaint urns. You’re still trying to sell old gossips that were packed and preserved in those canopic jars.
I have seen you dancing your fingers on the rock faces. And you hold that old text so dear to you. Don’t try to hide your love for it only confuses you and the listener.
Oh, that beautiful Nile song of yours, it shimmers and shines and colours the time into desert gold.
But mystery remains says the hourglass… probably that is why all your talks are papyrus talks.
Chantal didn’t finish the story. After gazing through the few lines that she had written, her search for a known voice abandoned her.
She sat near the window, still holding her pen, playing with it in a steady rhythm, Chantal thought of something and rushed back to her seat. She wrote in her notebook–
It appears as if the joy within
Knows nothing about the war within
And vice-e-versa
Pausing for a moment, she then closed her notebook with a rough jerk. Chantal got up and walked back towards the window, this time leaving the pen behind, letting it rest on the table.
Her gait reflected her confused, unsure, restless state of mind. Chantal took a deep sigh and then without giving it a thought, wrote the word ‘Incomplete’ on the windowpane; a hazy layer of fog on it allowed her to.
Chantal’s eyes fell on something interesting, something which was moving towards her house, she smiled. Her hand poked her cheek as she pondered over the matter.
Suddenly, she opened the window and shouted, ‘Hi, how are you? It has been so long…’
A muffled voice replied, it made Chantal laugh heartily.
A smiling Chantal then closed the window and ran towards the door, opened it and left. Her footsteps on the wooden floor made a fine music.
Walking in that old lane by the red house, who is that, oh, that is me. I turn left and bump into someone. Someone who happened to be a part of a long queue. Queue to meet Rossetti and his friends.
Don’t push, I said out loud, so that ten people before me and ten people after me could hear it. I said so in advance. And when the twenty some whispered, I shushed them.
*
Frontispiece: Rossetti in Childhood. [Source – Wikipedia]Rossetti’s Name Is Heard In America. [Source – Wikipedia]
From the Frontispiece: Rossetti in Childhood to the last one, Rossetti’s Name is heard in America, I maintained the same attitude. I warned and shushed with an irresistible polite smirk on my face.
Walking in that old lane by the red house, who is that, oh, that is me. Allow me to bid goodbye now, I am in a rush, for those twenty some, god-knows-why, are following me.
Read about Rossetti and His Circle by Max Beerbohm here.
Looking without the looker. [Source – Pixabay; Illustration by Elisa Riva]
*
Quite unique it is… It confines, it suffocates, it destroys a troubled soul… it frees, it liberates, it celebrates a calm self. It scares the same one for whom it holds the beacon. It likes to play games and break promises. It supports, creates and imagines the unimaginable. It forgets almost everything. It remembers almost everything. It never forgives, until it realises that it can forgive. It is a true lover. It loves itself the most. Quite unique it is… the human mind.
A journey by air, by road, by rail to reach the ocean started with me sitting cross-legged, looking through the window, and thinking about myriad things.
While the world around me appeared to be the same – it smiled when I did, it passed a dull nod when I did – it was secretly weaving a plot.
I got to know about it when I wore my sunglasses.
*
The unbiased tracks. Image – Jagriti Rumi
*
Live wave-like. Image – Jagriti Rumi
*
Everything then moved in a wave, including me.
Immersed in one colour, we were all attuned to do the Samba, and Samba we did.
When the ocean wind joined us, it enthralled us, we chased the beats faster to match its incessant flow.
A heavy old bridge tried the same, corroding swiftly, meeting the ocean wind in rhythm.
*
Standing steel solid until… Image – Jagriti Rumi
*
I saw the iron steel heavy ocean wind, dancing, through my sunglasses.
The fishermen left their boats, swung their nets, and summoned all the others to sing and dance, to be one with the wave.
*
Rowing is knowing life. Image – Jagriti Rumi
*
I hopped and tapped along and beamed, my smile touching my sunglasses.
At night or was it at dawn, what did the quaint temple said to me? It spoke of its time, the artisans ritual of worshiping their tools, shared an epic tale and sang good old folk songs.
What they say about its static avatar is not true, for the temple sways with wind and sings and adds to the music.
Luckily to see this, you do not have to stand at the ticket counter or wait for hours in serpentine lines.
Walking towards nowhere in particular QJ dared not to stop. For last time QJ couldn’t bear the pandemonium that started within when she dared to stop and nothing happened.
With fragments of that dollhouse in one hand and the key to its door in another, walking often becomes cumbersome and a dull routine.
Only lightning wakes QJ, though her afterthoughts always make an indelible note to herself to wake up before being struck. QJ later laughs loudly looking at her scars.
*
Lightning in full glory. Image by Anja, from Pixabay.
*
Walking towards nowhere in particular QJ glanced at her umbrella. Tap! Tap! The umbrella changes its colour yet again, confusing its owner for a dash time.
Fill in the dash with a pleasant-sounding time period, a warm moment, and a lovely realisation. QJ wonders why she never tumbled while gazing up at the umbrella or the sky, maybe she should have stopped and asked the path.
Instead, QJ makes a funny face, fidgets, and gestures to no-one around her that… oops, she almost fell. Click! Train of thoughts leave a compartment at a station at this moment.
QJ ate dreams, but not the ones that came true. Work makes you hungry for more work, it makes you kind towards your dreams. And this is your prize.
Walking towards nowhere in particular QJ is joined by the others. All assuming it strongly that everyone knows better than them.
QJ didn’t agree or disagree for hours full of ages and once upon a time when she did, they all left her immediately to follow someone else.
Just a mangy, horribly plump in the middle, slow dog stayed with QJ. It smiled (or didn’t), but those remaining teeth, all-dancing in opposite direction made her feel that every 21st-century disease, malady, sickness was represented by that slow dog.
Hell yeah! QJ cried for the dog didn’t die, but just slowed down further and sat on the path, resting, waiting. Hell lingers.
Walking towards nowhere in particular QJ thinks about faces, veneer in fashion, layers, surface deep dialogues, and her reactions.
A trap! Superficial flamboyant messages received and sent. Afraid of any change, she blindly accepts repetition.
Walking towards nowhere in particular QJ takes out an empty map and begins to draw.
Lines start to run and form a track. QJ retraces her steps and finds her first direction.
मुझसे भी न कहिए जो खुद को अब तक न कही हो बातों के सागर से एक एक करके चुन लीजिए फिर खुद से ही कहिए और खुद की ही सुनिए Translation Yourself Don’t tell me What you haven’t told yourself There is an ocean of things Choose one to talk about Then talk about it Talk to yourself
My time. My time to rule and regain. My time to change and develop. My time to cashback. My time to realise the certainty. My time to live the constant, again. My time to undo and start over. My time to let go. My time to disagree. My time to understand. My time to cry and laugh. My time to be there and everywhere at once. My time to be quiet. My time to see and smile. My time had/ has / will come.
Winter is coming… time to make pickles. [Source – Pinterest]
Winter morning sun, a plate full of amlas* drying on the terrace soaking in the air makes for a delicious amla pickle recipe. Of course the ceramic pickle jar, oil and a mixture of spices add zingy flavours to the story, but this happens much later.
Go ask the winter sun what magic it carries, sprinkling warmth and soothing glow, intoxicating the land and almost everyone you know.
Or ask a farmer who works bare feet for hours and hours, sweating and smiling.
Go sit on the terrace on the pretext of shielding the amlas from those happy big flies. Beware, the air will make you high, for it brings along winter folk tales and songs, colourful kites and children’s laughter.
Winter just appears to be slow and quiet, maybe such is its inner joy and creativity.
The spell will work, all you have to do is sit on the terrace, ask the winter sun and taste the amla pickle.
I am joy running free/
freely flying, fluttering, soaring in a valley/
Of joy am running free.
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.
