Crystal walked in the centre of the quiet road, laughing, frolicking, humming a sweet tune, breaking away from the role of the pedestrian, swaying and moving forward, sideways and backwards, sideways.
Reaching on time didn’t bother her, so she jumped out of joy, tapping on the road as if saying hello. The road, a bit confused, said “where to?” And Crystal tapped, tapped, tapped and said, “do you change and grow bigger when it’s quiet?”
Quietly the road began observing itself (and continues to do so even now).
Walking ahead Crystal met a tall tree that mimed some ten thousand stories, each one blowing away with the wind, now and then. She sat to listen, then walked away carrying a dozen (stories) in her pocket.
She has been walking since so long, she doesn’t remember when and where did she start. But nothing is amiss and so she continues ahead with now some hundreds of stories in her pocket.
Crystal stops only near water-wells to drink the cool calming water and see her reflection in it before gulping it down. An older self beams back at her from deep within the well and Crystal, checking her hairstyle, waves a greeting, rippling the water.
The stone steps, the tiny plants, the rope and tin bucket, in union with the well, then tell the visitor (Crystal) a story about the well and the sky. She is carrying this tale along, she dropped some (stories) there to make some space.
And she is walking, walking, walking away… laughing and frolicking, humming a tune, breaking away from the role of the pedestrian, dancing on those days when it rains.
As if anger – throbbing and tight-, burning hatred and cold fear filled this person’s veins and arteries so that there was no need of the warmth of the blood, red wasn’t red anymore, it was all too dark.
Jassi clung to the darkness, crumpled into it, eyes wide-open that almost attacked every direction mercilessly, the glances were like arrows, everything in darkness, not allowing a ray of light or laughter or love to enter. Jassi was blind, it happened in an accident.
True! Colours were colourful before, but not anymore.
Jassi hated to ask for help, hated the space around, bumping into things now and then, and most of all hated the breeze, why did it try to play, sing, sway or say anything, thought Jassi when nothing moved or flowed within? No, not even the thoughts moved, Jassi killed them, the memories – good/bad – in the very first year after the fatal accident.
Some years passed and an opportunity knocked. A new technology, a new expert, a new experiment could bring back Jassi’s eyesight. To everyone’s surprise, Jassi agreed to undergo another surgery, everyone hugged and cried for Jassi was still alive somewhere inside that stern piece of shell that reciprocated nothing all this while.
Pushing every loved on aside, Jassi spoke – I want to see the galaxy and only the galaxy first!
That was Jassi’s condition, it was accepted, and with some difficulties arrangements were made. Days passed by, it rained, the sun too came out and a rainbow beamed, but did Jassi hear all this? Nothing!
Like never before, Jassi refused to go out of the house or even the finite room. Jassi’s steady un-moving eyes tried to pull, it seemed, the movement of time towards Jassi, not to fight a battle, but to bring it to a stand-still. Jassi had changed and no one knew what fruit this change would bear.
Jassi’s steady, un-moving eyes’ pull worked, so felt the others as the day of the surgery came and passed only too quickly. The doctor said it was a success, but Jassi’s firm and unwavering voice made the doctor sweat and slightly doubt himself. All this for a couple of minutes because Jassi refused to remove the bandages and no one touched the new black goggles; everyone knew how much Jassi abhorred them.
And soon, very soon, so soon that no one remembered what day or time it was when they left for the astronomical observatory, and when they reached the place.
After climbing down into the dark abyss, Jassi got up to climb the stairs to reach the galaxy.
Jassi couldn’t hear anything but felt extremely cold, especially on touching the telescope. Jassi reacted like a little curious child, whispered the others.
The guide guided and made adjustments, but only Jassi’s shell listened, Jassi followed not the guide, but an energy and removed the bandages from the cold eyes, that were shut not so tightly this time. Jassi took a breath and touched the telescope again, feeling the round eyepiece shape through which one could swallow the galaxy.
Jassi gently, almost with love looked through the telescope, one eye open, one closed, then opened both. Jassi looked, looked and looked…
…see for yourself… the galaxy’s arms reaching out, holding Jassi now, breaking the shell with love, showing the dance of colours and light, caressing, bursting with joy, filling the one who witnesses with timelessness and bliss…
Jassi fell on the floor unconscious after so gracefully looking through the telescope that too for so long that the others were by then seated on benches to rest. Jassi woke up in the hospital next, with a high-grade fever and a big grin that turned into laughter.
Tears came out of Jassi’s eyes but the laughter didn’t stop. Jassi’s wet eyes glistened, the eyes looked like jewels, the eyes looked beautiful.
But the doctor couldn’t see it, the doctor was worried, he had failed. Jassi couldn’t see anything from one eye and the other eye tried to see through haziness. There was another way out, doctor promised and sighed that Jassi should not have travelled right after surgery.
Jassi left the hospital the same day and went to eat in a restaurant with the loved ones who were confused, also happy, but unsure.
Jassi has stopped explaining anything to anyone now and has started living. A friend’s friend gave Jassi a simple job that promises nothing grand, yet Jassi loves working there. Jassi walks to the workplace using the stick and a new furry friend, Milo.
Every mirror shows that Jassi is doing good. Walking briskly, so lightly, breathing calmly, Jassi looks like a flight-less bird.
Often hurt, Jassi keeps bumping into things at home and office as if every morning chairs, tables, utensils and pens move on their own to trick Jassi.
Jassi gets up every time, not shying from taking any help from the others.
Milo loves Jassi and Jassi finds Milo to be a funny, happy-go-lucky dog.
What do you want for your birthday, Jassi?
Birthday, hmm, nothing much, will be meeting friends, that’s it. And Milo will be there. Well, we may go stargazing.
Half-turn, a twist, a glimpse, a yawn, a nod, tttttap-dance-walking towards the kitchen. Joana hugs the kitchen and smiles, red cheeks like the monkeys.
Outside, Punnu and Zeenz, the two llamas, leave without registering a rhyme or reason, tttttap-dancing on the snow, in joy, in ignorance, going left to the right, to the gate, towards the green.
There, before sipping butter-tea, granny declares it is cold, but not as cold as it was then when she had stepped-out in her youth to give little ones in the barn a check, a hi, a pat, a slap, a rebuke, a hug and lots of love, for they are family – she cries and sips the butter-tea and continues to tell the stories of her youth. Go now, girlie! Move-o-move!
Joana side-stretches to pick the muffin and relishes it as granny peeks outside the window. It is snowing, she asks. Joana shakes her head, mouth full of muffin and sips the butter-tea.
Granny chews a sentence and plays with the tiny spoon and her cup.
Intuition, sixth-sense, hen-pecking – granny startles herself – cries, go check on Zeenz and Punnu, girlie go now, move-o-move! You!
Keeping the empty warm cup aside, Joana front stretches to get up and then back stretches and takes a pause, becomes a statue, sleepy sleep tickles her.
Kkkrrr!! Wooden door flung opens, Joana is thrown out, granny hen-pecks the furniture, it cries, kkkkrrrrr!!
Huh! Huh! Joana freeze-walks to meet her woolly family – the sheep, the two rabbits, the two llamas.
Now there, clap-clap-clap! Think sunny rays, it is still day. Decision – to rush back inside and sleep! Oh yeah!
Oh no-aaah! Punnu and Zeenz are gone!
Before granny could know, could strike, could shout and strike, could curse and strike and punch the air, and blame the lords, ladies and measuring scales, for she is poor with numbers, Joana runs to look for, catch hold of, bring back the two llamas.
Black sky begins to break, fading into a soft white bluishness. All is still, witnessing in each other the daybreak. A gushing of joy silently takes over.
Fresh piercing air, like a giant wave, bathes us in one go. It is everywhere, not word-heavy, yet firmly present. Those who matches its ferocious calmness and coolness, live a long life.
Then a bold crimson red is poured at the rim horizon, complementing the darkness before devouring it fully as the red yawns and stretches into golden orange, sprinkling, spreading throughout, directionless, embracing every nook and cranny warmly.
The dusk sings and sleeps, the dawn rises and sings. And the birds and rivers sing along.
It may appear like an orderly routine, but it is truly a disorderly dance of colours, a splash of melody, fresh and wet, a sweet yet melancholic search at first, but actually a thought-free light oneness.
Walking down the street with old heavy memories, frozen and hazy, not bothering for a while and the unknown liveliness of the fresh sounds greeting us from all around – the dripping thaw, the golden sunny warmth, the tiny twittering birds, the ‘oh my god’ honking of a dashing car’s ghost that passes by, the hearty smiles and laughter – we blush with hope teasing us, giving us bright ideas, gleaming as we experience our quiet, still mind-pond.
These ephemeral moments of joy, so true and innocent, are hard to capture, harder to sustain, probably that is what makes it so special for and loved by all.
Regina Spektor, the star singer, songwriter, musician, the starry-eyed star, the star magician, knows how to hold such moments very well. She doesn’t capture it, na-na, she only knits a pretty, sweet and soothing melody and then soaks it into such warm moments, letting the melody take this ephemeral colour.
To this colour, she adds free-play, emotions and her pianist-self and, voila, a Regina Spektor song wave is ready.
…And down on Lexington they’re wearing New shoes stuck to aging feet And close their eyes and open And they’ll recognize the aging street And think about how things were right When they were young and veins were tight And if you are the ghost of Christmas Past Then wont you stay the night?
Ne Me Quitte Pas, Mon Chere Ne Me Quitte Pas…
Regina Spektor
She amalgamates it all so well, life’s experiences, cut both ways and so gently she allows herself to smile an honest smile. How beautifully this song captures time and lets it go.
And she loves Paris, especially when it rains there and so do we all (at least the rasiks* do).
Listen now to “Dance Anthem of the 80’s” –
*
…I’m walking through the city Like a drunk, but not With my slip showing a little Like a drunk, but not And I am one of your people But the cars don’t stop…
Regina Spektor
This is nothing but a memory, cold, harsh, but funny in retrospect; one that glares until you glare back at it, acceptingly. And Regina Spektor handles this mixed emotion so peacefully and at the same very eagerly, probably eager for it to evolve.
Also, listen to the live performance of “Dance Anthem of the 80’s”, how sweetly she thanks her audience.
*
Here, at Chiming Stories, the blogger will be covering Regina Spektor’s musical world in the coming posts, trying to live and relish her songs in your company, so dear readers ‘ne me quitte pas mon chere’ (don’t leave me, my dear).
*A rasik, in Hindi language, is a passionate and thoughtful being.
Those childhood days gone by, gone by in playing, playing hide and seek, ice-water and cycling, cycling all day long like a crazy fool and laughing, those childhood days gone by eating candies and ice creams, hopscotching and skipping ropes, flying kites, strolling aimlessly, gazing at the sky, merry minds flying high, those childhood days are now a dream.
I remember, I still do, Aru and I were sitting, Pinti was roaming around as always; Aru was talking non-stop, sharing one of her charming stories, a feature film story I must mention – our protagonist, a little girl, the best detective in the town, begins her quest, she is looking for some stolen bright precious stones – we paused the story and went to play hopscotch with Pinti, she had re-drawn the rectangle-y pattern for us, sweet Pinti, we talked and played, then followed the clouds, just when we were about to get hold of the moody clouds, they turned and shouted, “peek-a-boo.”
We screamed and ran back, but could not out-do the rain bullets. And then… then we guffawed and danced in the rain, I remember.
Those childhood days gone by were full of dreams, dreams of the future, pocket full of adventure and sweets and joy and endless playtime… those dreams were of the future, a hidden gold chest…
Through those dreams we time travelled and blushed, knowing well that we have to wait a bit before we discover this treasure… we treasured the future and waited.
Those childhood days gone by, what a sweet melody… the future we still dream of, what a happy idea…
And what is left is the present, this very moment – quiet, true, rudely true, factual and boring, but euphoric if grasped and powerful enough to change everything, the past as well as the future.
Take the golden thread I say, take it and chart the course, know that it will not break for it is tied to you, you of the past and you of the future.
Mirai is a Japanese animation film written and directed by Mamoru Hosoda.
A truly beautiful and emotional film, it is a must-watch for it is a piece you need to get hold of to solve this jigsaw puzzle called life. It is beautiful!
Golden, glowing and emitting exuberance, vigour and vibrancy, the dynamic, ceaseless dance of fire, the Sun has mastered the art of discipline.
It has attained absolute freedom for nothing else can explain the mystical, marvellous zeal it possesses and the pizzazz it flaunts so calmly, so brilliantly.
The Sun enthrals us wholly, it rules all life forms; in its magnificence, it conducts the solar system without a baton.
147.19 Million kilometres away from the Sun I feel its warmth, I feel home, I feel alive.
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?
Think for yourself, it never fails to heal a sad heart and rejoice with a happy soul, it never leaves one alone, it moves with the one walking, it blinks at the dreamy one, it soars with the child allowing the little hands to embrace it.
The Moon’s discipline is unique for it never minds the clouds, the rain, the darkness; it shines serenely, reigning in power and peace. Divine o divine!
What is this magic? This Universe, this miracle… it is disciplined to invite life, to hold the infinite, to make the ending light and the beginning bright.
This Universe, it sings and plays rhythms that touch every element quiet and sentient both; it is a rainbow of colours that paints with accuracy and fun alike.
The Universe runs the art of discipline, it gloriously celebrates the art of discipline, for what else are the galaxies going round and round, round and round… for why the invisible cells in a body are forming a life…
The macro and the micro worlds imbibe the Universe’s joy and freedom, which is nothing but the art of discipline.
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!
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.
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!
Also, a humble request to the new subscribers to check the spam folder after subscribing. Silly (but necessary) confirmation emails often land there instead of the bright inboxes. Merci!
Ya-hoy!
Chiming Stories (formerly Home Chimes)
P.S – Supporting a storyteller is good for the world’s health (and undoubtedly, for the storyteller’s health as well). Shower some love by sharing, commenting and subscribing to the Weekly Newsletter.
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.
