Time

Humming Is Good For The Soul

Flash Fiction

**Hmm…la, la, laaalalaaa!**
[Image by Ngân Yun from Pixabay]

The wind is blowing and the wind chime is playing a melodious tune. It is a calm hour of the day.

Dozens of clouds are drifting by leisurely. And that group of birds is sailing high, their songs are falling along with the sun rays, it is a tune unheard.

What charm is it that is capturing this scene? Ruby does not know, and, yet she allows herself to let it seep within.

Standing against the railing, staring at the sky, Ruby feels free and happy. Those thoughts cannot grip her any more, those worries slip down her gleaming face.

Ruby realises then that there is nothing wrong with Time, if it is fleeting, it is also filling every second with a pearl like moment.

“Breathe it”, she tells herself. When she does, she feels at home.

Waterfall like grand, fresh as a rainbow, her inner self whispers something. Ruby smiles, she does not know why. She looks at the kites, red kites against the blue sky, hopes, wishes, dreams they are, flying high.

Humming is good for the soul, Ruby tells herself as she hummed an incomplete tune.

Why incomplete? Who will complete it? “Ruby-Ruby”, someone calls out her name and completes the tune.

Oh! It is all magic… magic, magic, magic!

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That Flower, Dark Coloured

Posted on December 22, 2018 by Jagriti Rumi Amma Cold Night Colours Dark Coloured Dusty Feet Embracing The Darkness Eyes Journey Old Lady That Flower Time Toothless Smile

**Bloomed in darkness.**
**[Image by Michael Gaida from Pixabay]**

The dark old lady walks like lightening devouring the night sky, she is swift, she is fast. Her dusty feet, darker than the broken black slippers, know exactly where it is to lead and where it is to stop. Draped in a saree lungi style, her slender figure boasts of agility and strength.

Amma, it is a cold tonight, and she covers her head, her ears with a towel. Does she look funny? Not at all, she looks as beautiful as that flower kept in that book. That flower, dark coloured, tells a story, pressed and noted neatly in that book, stored for a chance meeting.

**Waiting for a chance meeting.**
**[Image by Petra Šolajová from Pixabay]**

Amma what time is it, nine thirty she says and at ten she has to go to a flat and clean the dishes, clear the kitchen counter, set the culinary world in order; often Amma plays music and her dear plates, cups and spoons dance on her tune. Amma beams then like she is beaming now – Amma’s toothless smile.

On her way back home, at night, embracing the darkness Amma moves briskly, but stops in front of a small house and asks Sunita bahin if she can get a water-can and take some fresh water; yes, at Amma’s place you won’t see a water-tap rather there are colourful canisters lined up – yellow, blue, faded red and dirty white.

**Risen in style.**
**[Image by dendoktoor from Pixabay]**

Amma is stylish, her dark self knows what colours to wear – white and orange and green, mixture of all these and add some flowery designs, this completes her look. Do you also wear the colours of the road, the trees, the dark sky Amma? For you look as quiet and great as them.

And your eyes, that glance, killer! Amma your eyes are sharp, your eyes smile – your eyes are familiar with Time and that’s why you don’t mind, you don’t curse it, you don’t cherish it; you know how to live it. Whatever it may be, a raging tempest or a happy carnival or a visit to the temple, you get up the next day and leave for work on time.

I wonder if you have not spoken with everyone until now. Because you are alive, you know Time, you know the society, you know poverty and you smile with your eyes.

Amma cheers to your journey. The dark old lady waved a goodbye.

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Lord Jagannath’s Eyes

Posted on December 6, 2018 by Jagriti Rumi Brahman Harmony Lord Jagannath's Eyes Million Revelations Music Peace Soul Space Time Universe

Spirituality

**Lord Jagannath by Vrindavan Das.**
**[Source – fineartamerica.com]**

One eye says that the play is on.

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]**

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Red Stories

Posted on November 2, 2018 by Jagriti Rumi Begins Ends Listening Red Stories Time

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.

**Red stones, red walls, red stories started it all.**
San rock paintings from the Western Cape in South Africa. [Source – Wikipedia Commons]

Cave painting at the Tassili n’Ajjer UNESCO World Heritage Site in southeast Algeria. [Source – Wikipedia Commons]

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The Broken Nest and Other Stories by Rabindranath Tagore

Posted on October 20, 2018 by Jagriti Rumi Feeling Heart Love Magical Mind Paintings Poet Rabindranath Tagore Rain Seasons Secret Stories Sweetest Of Songs The Broken Nest Time World

Coverage

**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…

**A happy poet.**
**[Source- Poetry Foundation]**

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.

Know his work and you will know.

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Crossing The Bridge To Complete The Circle

Posted on July 5, 2018 by Jagriti Rumi Crossing The Bridge To Complete The Circle Forgive Life Remember Time

…to bridge the circle.
**[Image by David Mark from Pixabay]**

He who cannot forgive breaks the bridge over which he himself must pass.
George Herbert

For it is a circle and you must learn to remember.

The stored memories, the cherished ideas, the endless thoughts, the proud emotions, the stubborn beliefs, the intuitive steps and the unknown, all of it nurtured by time. You learn to watch for the twists and turns, you accept the changes, sooner or later. You experience the journey.

And when those eyes are old enough, when that smile is true, that is when you are able to see another’s journey and that is when you are able to forgive… for life is a circle and you must learn to remember.

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A Simple Prism

Posted on June 29, 2018 by Jagriti Rumi A Simple Prism Colours Conversations Memories Time Vision

Poem

**Colour blast within!**
**[Image by kitti851 from Pixabay]**

Conversations and time

Old ones like wine

That which is far

Or locked in a jar

Called by memories

And sifting through the debris

Through patient hands

Holding back and

Letting go in a rhythm

Like a simple prism

That knows its colours

Always leave me coloured…

And I walk ahead

With a better vision.

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Walking In Her Own Style

Posted on May 17, 2018 by Jagriti Rumi Action Dancing Wind Running The Race Time Wait And Watch Walking In Her Own Style

Flash Fiction

**Sara the fearless. [Source – Pixabay]**

Sara never thought of running the race. She lived in the moment, carrying all emotions in one potli (small packet), always responding quickly to the dancing wind.

Pausing or stopping was also not her aim. Sara believed in action, her genre was action.

That tarot card reader did say that her stars were tricking her for fun and times will change, that she should be ready to fight.

All Sara felt then was that a glitch is a glitch.

Time changed and Sara started running the race. She didn’t realise it for a quarter and when she did, dismayed, she tried to pause the world.

A year passed by on the calendar and Sara, at last, acknowledged it. You know she had to, her neighbours burnt firecrackers all night on the New Year’s Eve.

Sara understands the race better now, but she still loves walking in her own style.

When an obscure voice asked her what next, she confidently said, ‘wait and watch.’

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Not Alone

Posted on April 7, 2018 by Jagriti Rumi Guide New Faustus Not Alone Peaceful Piece Rise Take The Way Home Time

Poem

Forever glowing, the light within.
Image by Pexels from Pixabay

You are not alone.

Know this and take the way home,

Not to the concrete walls,

Or to those fairy dolls,

For Time is playing an old game,

New Faustus, but the end will be the same.

The dim light that you see within,

Which is wavy, translucent as linen,

Is there to guide you through it all,

To help you rise when you fall.

Forever glowing and reaching,

The peaceful piece in you.

So remember, you are not alone,

Know this and take the way home.

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Crane on Turtle Candlestick Holder

Posted on October 11, 2017 by Jagriti Rumi Blacksmith Capture Childhood Contorted Crane on Turtle Candlestick Holder Flamboyant Frame Friends Hai Hai! Japanese Vintage Memories Molten Metal Never Fades Old Random Thought Time Two Kids

Flash Fiction

“We are old friends.”
“Hai-hai!”
**[Japanese vintage candlestick; source – ebay]**

Our blacksmith picked up the mould and studied it. His expressions were not discernible, but the sweat on his forehead highlighted his precision as he poured the molten metal into the mould.

Whilst he worked, many frames, metal shapes – some contorted, some flamboyant – stared at him, acknowledging and appreciating in utter silence.

Our blacksmith, on his way back home, saw a little kid who was standing against a wall along with his friend, wasting time, living.

That little kid whispered something to his friend and they both started following our blacksmith, copying his gait.

A silly game, a random thought, a reason to smile.

Dear reader what does time say?

Time says it is next day.

Every frame, every metal shape was eagerly waiting for our blacksmith. Roller shutter made its habitual noise and our blacksmith entered his workshop, and along with him came his two buddies, those two kids we saw earlier.

Quickly they went and stood next to his grand table, jumping with excitement.

Our blacksmith finally showed them what was now ready in the mould – it was a crane on turtle candlestick holder.

The two kids laughed and so did our blacksmith. He said the crane and the turtle were friends and the kids inquired if he had seen something like that in real.

Our blacksmith nodded and said that when he was their age he went with his father to a lake side and saw a crane standing on a turtle’s back.

Childhood memories capture time that never fades.

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