Fading away, parting as tears fall with a fear that there is no return, it starts to brighten up and slowly gets closer to a pure hope that the present will always be magical.
Only when she rises and turns, she feels the fresh rhythms, standing firmly, breathing deeply, she walks ahead, a half smile looking good on her face.
“Excuse-me, waiter! Please take our order. Hello?” [Source – Pixabay]
*
So Carl saw a crow feasting on a Lays packet thrown on the roadside by an insensitive/ a silly/ confused/ messy person. That crow croaked and called his friend to join. Carl stood there for a long while, thinking and thinking.
*
When did this switch happen that the crows are opting for Lays, that also spicy flavour, rather than their normal diet? Is it by choice or the circumstances are no more junk-food-free for the crows?
The crows fly away and take the Lays for their young ones, who slowly adept to the tangy taste. All the crows sitting on the wire talk about it and the one flying far outside the city takes the news along. As time rises and sets every day, the crows become accustomed to the plastic packed diet plan.
And the story is rewritten… the thirsty crow finds a pot of water and a half-eaten doughnut, he chooses to binge on the doughnut, because he isn’t really thirsty, it is just the spicy lunch that burned the crow’s tongue… and the crow knew that water cannot solve his problem, so, children, the moral of the story is, directly go for something sweet and easier when your mouth is burning and you’re struggling…
*
Carl was staring at the crows and the passers-by were staring at him. Suddenly, Carl rushed towards the crows and shooed them away. He then picked up the Lays packet and threw it in a dirty dustbin nearby.
A sigh of relief! Carl started to walk away, where ever he was going to when he first heard the crows. He turned, the crows sitting on the lamp post where looking at him, they croaked. Carl smiled and said, “Thirsty Crow is my grandma’s favourite tale.”
Carl knew the crows have understood his words, beaming, he walked ahead.
Aaahhh! A crow flew and pecked him on his left ear. So, Carl stood there rubbing his left ear and the crows took a flight to Hawaii.
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.
Today is boring, today is dull. How can I float up high without looking at the sky? Keener eyes not grounded, but in the middle of this and that, hers and mine, cries and sighs, laughs and jitters, cuckoo and balderdash, all this and a pinch more with a tinge of lustrous gold, confronts me every lethargic moment asking me to be agile and give an answer not a reply, one that is worthwhile.
Sham, it is a sham, I shout. The next moment I am out in the middle of that riddle, attacked badly by the crowd. Glares wicked or kind, I tell you are invincible.
Hush! Hush! Staying quiet is the key.
A fresh beginning, in between, for me as I get up to admire the quagmire that glows and shows me nothing. And what do I do? I hum a rhythm, I jig a little. Smoothly I begin dancing, hand movements and the twist and then the circle. Round and round and round.
I see an image in and around me crystallising, a translucent image, spreading like a wave, filling the ceiling, passing through the windows, leaving behind glorious dirt particles and a thin film of light.
Golden Leaves Art. A painting by Jose Tonito. [Source – Deviantart]
*
In this second when I think about the bluish green, maroon flower and the wavy lines, I am reminded of the golden thought full of bright light and a rush of sparkling trail which, if I follow, and I do follow, I reach a melodious moment, it is certainly true as I feel its charm and floating I land back, touching the soil I understand my presence and the leaves sing together a hymn of the past, I smile and feast on the warmth of this meaningless meaningful journey that quietly adores the skylark’s secret and freely shines, glad to be and not be, everything merging in this second.
Happy dandelions with yellow friends in the sun. [Source – Pixabay]
This bright light that surrounds, that has soaked, that is soothing is one with me. This cottony soft memory is a truth. I breathe, I hear it.
A melodious tune played on the lyre flows in the air. We are all dancing to it.
A sea of dandelions… Running as if I have wings, golden wings, I cross the sea. When did I start swirling? A gush of harmonious wind surprises me and I fall down, laughing loudly.
The dream continues every time I quietly see this bright light.
Keiji comes running to his elder brother Ryoichi and tells him about the bullies. Ryoichi, a great son of a great father, stands up and assures his brother not to worry. Keiji trusts Ryoichi. They can handle the bullies, they are confident. The next morning their father walks with them half way to the school and then leaves for office. Keiji and Ryoichi, near the school gate, find the biggest boy amongst the bullies challenging them. They then look at each other, deciding with a nod what they should do. They run away and don’t attend the school that day.
Yasujiro Ozu’s ‘I Was Born But…’, a 1932 silent film, will remind you of your childhood, the challenges you faced as a child – winning some and losing some, the faith you had in someone great and the dream of becoming someone great. Children’s world comes in contact with the adult’s world. The innocent child doesn’t understand hierarchy or hypocrisy, though he understands power as he finds it in his world as well; power to not to be bullied, power to bully the bully, power to be the group leader.
How in the adult’s world dreams become unreal, fantasies die and realities are numbered, given a name, a social status and bit by bit life is compromised, is what we see in the film, but from the children’s point of view. Children are lively and so is the film. Its comical timing is fantastically perfect. Slowly with the shifts from this to that world, the tone changes, yet maintaining the rhythm throughout.
*
Keiji, Ryoichi and their father, Mr Yoshii. [Source – IMDB]
Understanding anything, anyone is a tough job, some fail to and some refuse to do it altogether. This film takes up this job and finishes it successfully, understanding the child’s dilemmas, beliefs, hopes and displeasure, understanding the adult’s demeanor and how they accept a denouement, understanding the familial ties and the need of tuning it, understanding the melodies of life and how it makes everyone laugh all the time.
An amazingly marvelous film, it must be watched by all those who want to feel the magic of cinema. ‘I Was Born But…’ is one of my favourite films of all time. It is introduced as ‘a picture book for grownups’ and rightly so. The fact that it’s a silent, black and white film doesn’t make it a difficult watch at any point rather this masterpiece flows so wonderfully that colour or sound seems redundant.
All you have to do now is to watch this film, appreciate and thank Yasujiro Ozu for making this superlative work of art.
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)
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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.
