Wind

Fresh Air for All?

Mixed Fiction

Mister, why would you cut down trees?

The sound of an axe against the giant tree’s trunk breaks the quiet air, chopping it off into pieces, bit-by-bit, the air is stunned.

Mister, why would you cut down trees?

The fragrance of the giant tree’s old life, full of a mixture of rich air, earth, water, light and love, now bleeding, sharpening the axe with every hit, giving-giving-giving with every touch, revives the stunned air then.

Mister, why would you cut down trees?

Them sparrows, squirrels and owls, eagles look at from a distance, them lizards, beetles, butterflies, bees, run towards a new shelter, them ants keep crawling for they know they must find a new path for the giant tree is being hit by a sharp message.

Mister, why would you cut down trees?

The creepers and crawlers were cut down first, they are lying in a bundle chopped off there and there, life in their slippery veins still taking in the thick grim air moving around the tree. The air hugs the tree tightly, now and then, and every time it does, the axe gets stuck in the trunk, stunned by love.

Mister, why would you cut down trees?

The fungi and lichen that sat on the giant tree’s trunk and branches, meditating for ages, open their eyes to observe carefully everything, every hit, every drop, every turn of the air around the giant tree. It observes and becomes one with the slow killing, seeing, dying along, yet living to pass it on.

Mister, why would you cut down trees?

The giant tree is about to fall down, the birds know it, and so does everyone that is alive there, but the man doubts and waits. The man pushes and picks the axe again, in a hurry for a solo reason. The giant tree sways a little, it is ready, look, hear, it comes down kissing gravity.

The man shudders, for the giant tree is down and it says nothing, it cries not. The air feels heavy, almost dead and the man senses it not.

Mister, why did you cut done the tree?

“For fire and to build a house, a garden, a giant building, a bridge, a highway, a dam, a runway, a platform on which one can stand and address thousands and thousands, explaining them the many ways to live a better life, a peaceful life, a cleaner life with fresh air for all.”

Fresh air for all?

**Love is in the air.**
[Source – Pixabay]

Somewhere, a seed comes alive and is gently caressed by the sun-soaked bright air and the rich wet earth; and so, like it happens every time, with the very first step that the seed takes, it knows of love.

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The Unseen

Posted on January 5, 2025 by Jagriti Rumi Clouds Eyes Flowy Free Of Time Half-Moon Love Mixed Fiction Mountain Top One Movement Painting Stars Sun Rays Uncaptured Wind Winter-Warmth

Mixed Fiction

Photo by Jagriti Rumi
Photo by Jagriti Rumi
Photo by Jagriti Rumi

Today, now, painting a picture with eyes, fresh eyes, a picture uncaptured before, uncaptured still after I finish painting, of course, for I am not a collector, why to collect, why to tie-up or get tied to, when I am living the moment in all its glory… free of any fear or want… free of thoughts… free of time.

Patches of white on the sky-blue ocean, shape-shifting, these clouds, now right above me, now near the giant tree, now hiding the shy half-moon, now pulling the snow-covered mountain top closer and getting pulled towards simultaneously.

The wind playing on its own, swaying to-and-fro, dancing in a whirl, breathing through the trees, blowing a kiss to every broken leaf, falling gently with it on the ground.

The greens, browns, yellows and the spots of red and orange, all soaked in sun rays, full of winter-warmth, tease the cold shadows, shadows that keep whispering and slow dancing following the sun rays in sync – like one flowy movement.

Even though the eyes doze off, the picture paints well – the crimson sky and the crimson clouds, the twilight mix and the twinkling dots, winning over the night with love, falling stars, falling, falling in love.

And now, I open my eyes, afresh, I paint a picture with my eyes, it is all new, it is all unseen.

[Source – Pixabay]
[Source – Pixabay]
[Source – Pixabay]

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A Storyteller Appeared

Posted on August 18, 2024 by Jagriti Rumi Beasts Birds Blessed Earth Chinese-Whispers Circle Dancing Rivulet Gatha Giant Tree River Stories Storyteller Storytelling Wind Words

Tribute/Short Coverage

**Listening to the storyteller with care.**
[Image by Bianca Van Dijk from Pixabay]

A storyteller appeared… and cross-legged, excited, whispering, wondering, quiet, blank yet touched by warmth, we sat in a circle around him.

As if the giant tree with creepers, fungi, lichens and company, stepped back humbly, only to create a space for us listeners and the storyteller.

As if the wind played softly, swaying, singing a chorus in the background, only to live the tale being told, only to collect and pass it on.

As if the quiet birds stopped chirping or playing Chinese-whispers, only to let the melodious melody of the storyteller resonate.

As if the fragrant river turned into a dancing rivulet, only to water the story.

As if the blessed earth, steadied the spinning sky for a bit, only to partake in the narration.

As if the jungle beasts, big and small, furry and feathered, befriended the now and stopped the time, only to witness the storyteller’s old and endless Gatha.

As if the words, rhymed and bold, simple and gold, measured well and sold, performed in unison, only to let the storyteller’s story by all be known.

Glory to the known that welcomes the unknown.

Photo by Jagriti Rumi; Courtesy – KP
Photo by Jagriti Rumi; Courtesy – KP
First Indian edition. [Source – Wikipedia]

The absolutely fantastically amazingly brilliant book Beastly Tales from Here & There by Vikram Seth inspired the blogger to write this piece as a tribute to the author and as a short, crisp sort-of-a-coverage of the book.

It is a must-read for anyone interested in life, stories and the art of storytelling.

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Not Lithic

Posted on October 29, 2021 by Jagriti Rumi Absolute Atoms Beginning Etched Life Love Malleable Memory Nature Not Lithic Ride Wind

POEM

**The universe’s engine runs on love.**
**[Image from Pixabay]**

Its nature is not lithic,

Not etched,

You cannot run your fingers over it,

Malleable and foldable for some,

Yelling, “Come, come,

Buy a packet full of love…”

From the absolute beginning

Love, not lithic in nature,

Etched if anywhere, then in atoms;

Ride like the wind to feel it;

A malleable, foldable sweet memory

For all those who fall

In love, just like in the absolute beginning.

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The Echo

Posted on December 24, 2019 by Jagriti Rumi Clouds Daffodils Grass My Response Silence The Echo Wind

Flash-Flash Fiction

**The sound of silence!**
[Source – Pixabay]

Can it be that the echo listens and speaks at the same time? I wondered this and nothing more, sitting on a quiet cliff, knowing this and nothing more.

The eagle soars against the wind, challenging it for fun, gushing now and then.

The grass, the daffodils relished it all, the sun, the wind alike. And the clouds?

I know not what the clouds said to the grass, the daffodils, for I was wondering about my response, the echo.

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The Life of Jane Eyre

Posted on February 28, 2019 by Jagriti Rumi Charlotte Bronte Classic Female Writers Folk Tale Mahogany Novel Powerful Story Shackles The Life Of Jane Eyre Wind Window

**A zealous soul!**
**[Image from Pixabay]**

Jane in her simple jade dress stood out in that mahogany room. The splendour surrounding her could not match the spark in her eyes, knowing this the chandelier, humbled, dimmed its light.

Jane in her efforts to live freely always broke barriers and always lived freely. The shackles, when not shown any fear of, never dared to grab the fire named Jane Eyre.

She walked towards the window and half opened it; the gushing wind reminded her of a folk tale, of the times when a princess stared at the moon through a half open window, shared a secret and smiled. Jane Eyre could not help but smile then.

Title page of the first Jane Eyre edition.
[Source – Wikimedia Commons]

Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre is a marvellous, striking Victorian novel which was originally published under a pseudonym ‘Currer Bell’. Many female writers in that era opted for a pen name, occasionally for anonymity, but mostly for their work to get a wider audience (if it is accepted for publication at all).

We do not know who ‘Currer Bell’ might be, but his name will stand very high in literature.
The Weekly Chronicle

While all the reviewers praised the powerful story and imagination of the author, no one expected it to be a woman.

Charlotte Bronte, portrait by George Richmond.
[Source – Wikimedia Commons]

One great merit of the work unquestionably is its originality. The author deserves no slight credit for the ingenuity and success with which fact and fiction, reality and romance, have been intermingled and made to serve conjointly in maintaining deep and unflagging interest.
Morning Advertiser

Have you lived the life of Jane Eyre? If not, then you must.

Also read – Enshrined in Double Retirement – a short write-up inspired by the novel Jane Eyre.

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Fear of Fear

Posted on March 9, 2018 by Jagriti Rumi Action Approved Pathway Death Fear of Fear Flower Grand Truths Life Nature Night Sky Nothing Water Wind

In Conversation

**The sparkling mystery**!
[Source – Pixabay]

The parched land did give me an answer, but how? Doesn’t it fear barrenness? It answered me though I had to wait for hours and hours as I walked ahead, crossed that skeletal shape of an animal and at last saw a cactus flower blooming.

The falling sky did give me an answer, but how? Doesn’t it fear horizon? It answered me to just look up at it and smile. I felt like I was falling back or was I flying… The night sky presented me with a mystery, with the sparkling mystery. I smiled and realised that I have been smiling the answer all the while.

The elixir of life presents itself to me, but why? Doesn’t it fear absorption? It answered me by flowing and gushing and filling up the planet and mankind alike. By giving itself up, it prospered in all forms and all life. Every glass of water now tells me why.

The sun’s fire doesn’t burn anyone, but why? Doesn’t it fear the cold end? It answered me ferociously by reaching every nook and corner and nurturing every universe. The epitome of supreme action and fiery hope, it burned all the questions and answers, leaving a pure residue alive.

The wind carries all life on its shoulders, but how? Doesn’t it fear burden? It answered me not, rather played with kites, the dry leaves, someone’s scarf, whistling in the woods, chiming music all around, lightly o lightly giving life, life.

The grand truths, moulded in Nature, by Nature, don’t know any fear.

They support answers and questions, I support fear. Silently walking down the approved pathway, I never dare to face a fear. Walls of doubts, plastic wallpapers, radio playing endless talks in a loop, I sit and I walk at the same time in my automatic red shoes. When I stay absolutely quiet, I count it as a good conversation. Fear of everything rules a life.

But when death strikes, in the end or the beginning, it surpasses everything. Death comes without any motive or desire.

Fear of fear confuses me, shackles me, blindfolds me, stupefies me, breaks me… but oddly, never stops me to act.

If fear fears anything, it is action. Action requires knowledge. Knowledge gives you experience, experience makes you wise and a wise person fears nothing.

P.S – This post is written in remembrance of Gin Gin Bandri, a little kitten.

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The Journey

Posted on October 7, 2017 by Jagriti Rumi Auroville Bicycles Clouds Colours Dreams Earth Fire Hourglass Music Sky The Journey Water Wind

A Poet’s Travelogue

Amongst the clouds… yes, this is how the journey began. Mushy clouds, mushy dreamy clouds all around her. Whether she walked or the white dreams floated around her isn’t something the music ever revealed.

The music was busy playing and she was busy colouring. The sky and earth colours participated and turned rich.

Meanwhile, in a parallel universe, someone took a flight, landed, took a cab, halted for a coffee break, laughed with her friend and continued the road trip.

Warm waves of velvety starry blanket covered the existence and hushed those who listened to the happy silence. She stayed awake for a while just to witness it all. A simple melodious note filled her ears and she swam to sleep.

That someone talked to her friend, they ate pastries and called it a day. That someone, with ‘oh’ look, got up to brush her teeth and then went to bed. Phew!

She opened her eyes, awakened the self and stepped out to see the end of a long search. Birds and buds, earth’s aroma and touch, giant trees’ humble smiles, the sun’s vocals and the wind’s compositions, other human beings, all dancing, and of course, the bicycles… everything she laid her eyes on glanced back at her, welcomed and sang to her.

In Auroville, in a blissful place. [Images by Jagriti Rumi]

Tring, tring… tring, tring, she replied to them. Crossed leg sitting inside an apple she relished it, sweet, sour, juicy and fresh. When she jumped outside, she gave the left-over bit to a dog. Questioning her about nothing, the dog finished the apple.

Tring, tring… she went ahead and met a mathematician’s spirit, who gave her the map that took her to the grand golden lotus with twelve petals. Its beauty struck her hard and she kept standing there for ages in admiration.

Primary and secondary colours, in circles, pyramids and cylindrical shapes all passed by her. She blinked and found herself inside the grand golden lotus.

**The grand golden lotus!**
**Matrimandir, Auroville. [Image by Peter Anta from Pixabay]**

Earth, Fire, Wind and Water were there, she saw it, just a glimpse, but they were there in absoluteness. She blinked and she was back outside. Oh! The joy!

She danced all her way, lal-lal-lal-laaa, rotated and laughed, climbed the musical rainbow and listened to what the colours were playing and then surprised herself with her quiet self, quiet but not low, because her eyes were beaming and her soul still dancing.

By the hourglass the journey continued for that someone and her friend, click-click-click, pictures taken, tring-tring-tring on the cycle path, resting, eating and laughing.

That someone’s friend like a darling blue bird sang and danced… unable to resist she also joined her friend. Together they collected memories and both filled their hourglass with it.

Smart! Now time reminds them of those memories all the time.

**Auroville… the journey, the destination. [Source – eco-villages.eu]**

O journey, when did you start and when will you end?

O journey, can I stop and meet my friend?

The beginning is hazy, but true and the end will be a new beginning for you.

Don’t stop if you want to meet your friend, for she is on a journey too.

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Reflection

Posted on August 29, 2017 by Jagriti Rumi Golden Rain Tree Myself Quiet Reflection Smiled Steps Weather Wind Window

Flash Fiction

The window was closed and I stood staring, the reflection looked better, I thought.

I took a step forward and could still see myself, but also the wind blowing outside. The flying leaves passed right through me and the golden rain tree caressed me gently.

**The wonderful golden rain tree.**
**Image by Suanpa from Pixabay**

Few more steps towards the window and I got closer to myself. The reflection was quiet… unlike the weather outside. I could even hear the wind, the music it played was resonant.

I forgot the reflection and saw through it as I stood by the window. The live drama outside and the rhythms playing caught me and I hummed along. I smiled.

Just then like a flash I again noticed my reflection on the window, it was also smiling this time. Immediately I changed my focus and tuned to watching the wind’s performance, smiling the whole while.

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Cid Corman’s Blue Aerogrammes

Posted on August 9, 2017 by Jagriti Rumi Amidst Blue Aerogrammes Couple Direct Poetry Leaf Mask Origin Rain Drops Remember Root Sky Wind Words

Coverage

**Blue mail-call.**
**[Source – Pixabay]**

In a thin air-light piece of blue paper words were written, no space wasted, legibly shinning, beautifully written. It was for everyone, Cid Corman called it direct poetry.

A Selection –

If these words

don’t remember you—

forget them.

The leaf at last gets

the drift of wind and so

settles for the ground.

I wear the mask of

myself and very nearly

get away with it.

There is no end and

never was a beginning – so

here we are – amidst.

Rain-drops. Each

makes a point

of silence.

You are here – just as

I had imagined –

imagining me.

Nothing ends with you —

every leaf on the ground

remembers the root.

We wear out

but the sky

looks as new

as ever.

A COUPLE

She keeps coming home

to me – of all things – and I

remain home for her.

Has it ever

occurred to you

you’re what is oc-

curring to you?

Dear aerogrammes fly!
[Source – goodreads]

Cid Corman wrote for and ran the magazine Origin. He followed a lovely rule, he replied to each and every letter that the magazine received within 24 hours, if he couldn’t, he didn’t do it at all.

Lucky must be the ones who got his answer, that too in the form of direct poetry. The book, Famous Blue Aerogrammes, is about these replies.

I have just read a few of these, still I can say that it continues to create magic… blue feathery magic that makes you smile.