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!
I am complete in this moment. Not in parts, the picture is clear now, the puzzle is solved. I breathe in quietness and the quietness decides to stay. Nothing binds me, I stay stationary, yet I flow in space. The cacophony dies smoothly and turns into a wave of delight.
I hold this wave and throw it on the ground breaking it into a rainbow.
Towards the light I walk and the light walks towards me. We will meet one day, the journey begins in this moment.
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.
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The unbiased tracks. Image – Jagriti Rumi
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Live wave-like. Image – Jagriti Rumi
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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.
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Standing steel solid until… Image – Jagriti Rumi
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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.
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Rowing is knowing life. Image – Jagriti Rumi
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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.
InDharamshala, Himachal Pradesh, India. Image by Aditya Thakur
The Red Jeep said to the Blue Jeep that it was late. What is the point of hurrying if you don’t know where you are going, replied the Blue Jeep.
*
Sure the circle is round and the track is wide, beautiful vistas stretched within and beyond me, prints are taken, but the journey is not free.
What is the price you ask? It is different for everybody. Though ultimately all agree to pay, and thus the journey begins.
But someone must know where I have reached. This guy in blue safety helmet might reveal.
Hey! Hey! Hey-hey! The man replied not, real the man was not, it was all plastic, just an image. It bounced off voices and that was enough for many. Still is.
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The Red Jeep asked the Blue Jeep that if it followed the echoes or not. What is the point of following an echo when you can’t hear your own voice, replied the Blue Jeep.
To keep walking is hard. Repeatedly dying on the way is a normal occurrence, but no less significant.
What breaks the heart often is not the crude world or a passer-by, but the heart itself. It allows itself to be crushed.
And as funny as it may sound, the truth doesn’t change that the heart also heals itself.
Let us keep aside the magical part for it blindfolds the ones with sightless minds and talks about reason and logic.
Oh! But that is already done – heart breaks itself and heals itself… very straightforward indeed. Brain, heart, brain, heart… and this is the journey.
Carrying on kills, but so does not-carrying on; carrying on also gives you a chance to live and to experience the universe. It is a long, long, long journey and then you reach nothing.
At nothing, you become everything.
Read about Antonio Porchia, the Argentinian poet here.
Why? Aren’t you ready? That table is your trunk, you packed it long back, ask the thick grime your feet are resting on.
Lurking on the wall is a spider, is he your friend or not, don’t bother I tell you, he is on his own journey.
For now, the lamp is cold and dead, for now, the darkness is not a thing unfamiliar, for now, you have mourned too long, so just get up.
Don’t you see the ants working? You sulk and cough and spit and drink thinking life will just pass, but it will not, not so easily.
Get up, step out, it has been so long since you heard the sound of your own footsteps… deep resonance… connect once again to the earth.
Shout or cry, dare or try and always happily fall… fall down for then you’ll learn to wake up… getup-getup.
You turn away from the light, no-no it is not laughing at you, walk with it a mile, you’ll smile and shine too.
The hands you’re resting, the head you’re swaying, the air you’re breathing knows better than you.
Don’t worry for smoothly it will all come back to you, the sun rises and sets, the moon shines and hides, the wind plays and takes, the river nurtures and leaves, the sky stays yours forever – see up, get up.
Witness, for the truth is waiting. Witness, for the Time is calling. Witness, for your life is yours to rule.
Aye! Aye! It is hard, bone-screeching, don’t listen to the stubborn emptiness, all it does is preaching.
See, you’re up, take a step forward, one at a time. Push away the hindrances, let the mirror fall and break into umpteenth pieces, for you’re about to change into an image that the mirror cannot behold.
Aye! Rub your eyes for now you’ll see the world beyond. Keep walking!
I dare you to forget not. Forget what not? Try to remember… remember that day when…
… for the first time you crawled… you struggled to walk… you hopped all along… you won a race… you tap danced with grace… you came in style… you left wearing a smile… you befriended the walking stick… you crawled for the second time…
… for the first time you were loved… you were pampered… you were jealous… you were told to share… you were lonely… you made a friend… you believed in dreams… you knew true joy… you hurt yourself… you stood up… you worshipped time… you quietly realised… you happily understood… you loved them back…
… for the first time you felt you knew absolutely nothing… you followed their path… you managed to survive… you built a new track… you knew right is right and wrong, wrong… you travelled in time… you accepted the change… you thoroughly read writings in brief… you said of course… you said not at all… you repented and laughed at the mistake… you cheered your take… you declared that you still knew absolutely nothing…
Everything is forgotten on the way, but the journey goes on… the journey that is unforgettably yours.
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“Don’t forget now, alright? Go, leave, carry on!” [Image by Lin Tong from Pixabay]
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 will 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, worried, 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.
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.
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.
A static symbol of the dynamic universe, an illusion, Maya, moving rhythmically, revealing in an instant the unfathomable divine, the perfect balance that creates, preserves, destroys, incarnates and liberates, the Nataraja, performing the ultimate dance, is a magnificent work of art that reflects the cosmos – the beginning and the end of the cosmos, the music of the cosmos and the soul of the cosmos.
The Nataraja sculpture represents all – the destined journey, the tragic fall, the glorious victory, the dance in time and timelessness, the poise and elegance, overwhelming stillness, reverberating brightness, brilliance, power and enlightenment. In a single spectacle, it shows what was, what is and what will be.
Shiva Nataraja, the King of Dance, dances on Apasmara, a dwarf, crushing not him, but his ignorance, forgetfulness and limited vision of self, hence freeing his soul from bondage. Four armed – with Agni (flame) to demolish in one, with Damru (drum) playing the tune of time in second, making the Abhaya Mudra (the sign of fearlessness) in the third, thus bestowing power to be without fear, and the fourth in the Gahahasta (elephant trunk) Mudra signifying supremacy over ignorance – Nataraja is the embodiment of all the vigorous flux in the outer world and the serenity in the inner world as he dances the dance of bliss, Ananda Tandava, continuing the harmony of life and death in the cosmos.
Prahabhamandala, the arch of flames within which Nataraja dances, is the manifest universe, making the cycle of birth and death, burning with sufferings and illusions, apparent.
Also, a ring of consciousness that is in agony as it’s blinded by temporary ideas, unaware about the permanent dance of bliss. Oblivious of the Kundalini Shakti (the cosmic power) – that the cobra around Nataraja’s waist represents and is believed to reside in all – the unconscious mind walks cyclically.
Lotus flower, representing the creative power of the universe, forms the pedestal on which the Nataraja dances, celebrating in full zest the dance of true freedom.
Omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent, the Nataraja does a dance that occurs ceaselessly in every atom, sending waves in the cosmos, waking everyone from the dream world to witness reality and truth, destroying the phantom world full of phantom pains.
Neutrality and peace on Nataraja’s face – the One dancing in frenzy – mirrors the magic of the master who dances within the universe of illusion, but stays beyond that universe. In a palpable language, the Nataraja declares the way the soul can rise from its bonded life and with equality seeping within, can see and participate in the cosmic dance.
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Wall relief of dancing Shiva at cave temple no.1 in Badami, Karnataka, India. [Source – Wikimedia Commons]
This marvellous sculpture amalgamates supreme power and action with absolute bliss and beauty, radiates the delicate balance of the cosmos and magnifies the close connection between the One and the many. Nataraja, Mahakala (the Lord of Time), with continuity and change flowing throughout becomes an opportunity to understand the sublimity of Maya and work a way out to reach the immutable Presence.
The Nataraja is excellence. Meditating on it is achieving its essence. Its essence is pure excellence.
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Shiva Nataraja, the Lord of Dance at CERN, the European Center for Research in Particle Physics in Geneva. [Source – Wikimedia Commons]
Hundreds of years ago, Indian artists created visual images of dancing Shivas in a beautiful series of bronzes. In our time, physicists have used the most advanced technology to portray the patterns of the cosmic dance. The metaphor of the cosmic dance thus unifies ancient mythology, religious art and modern physics.
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.
