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.
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.
Reverberating grand mountain range… here I come! [Source – Pixabay]
*
Recently ordained as a samurai or was she a veteran, no one knows for what is the difference between new and old journeys… Experience! Experience? Experience is always limited, tied to the past, a guide it maybe, yes, just that, but not a compass, for the working compass points towards the present, always.
And grannie, the samurai never called herself a samurai… she said, and I have heard too grannie, she called herself a walker.
Hmm… yes, yes, that’s right too, but listen what happened next. She crossed the ocean of the golden grass that swayed with the silken wind, her hands stroking the golden waves past her, dancing a little to the left, then to the right, dancing to dodge the crickets, grasshoppers and in some seasons the dragonflies. Some seasons? Some seasons, yes, for she has crossed this ocean of the golden grass many a times.
You mean the meadow, right grannie? Golden grass ocean is where we play? Because I have seen her passing by.
Yes kiddo! So, listen now, she crosses this ocean to climb the reverberating grand mountain range… mountains that speak and its white peaks touch the sky, its high peaks that speak that us chaps fail to see for we bend to sow seeds, our backs ache and speak a different language that doesn’t reaches the peaks that speak.
But the samurai’s footprints, when in the mood, talk and share anecdotes and so we know somethings like that she stands still to sleep and drinks fresh water for breakfast and dinner, skipping lunch altogether, that she takes different routes to reach the top in search of an answer.
Grannie, she bought flour from the market one day, I saw her. She knows how to cook too.
The footprints are complete, not weak, she is never in a hurry, walking ahead, different routes but one direction. Where to? What chasing question she chases? What can be seen that is hidden in these glorious mountains? An answer? Why again? Yes, again… isn’t the old answer relevant anymore? Or is the question too old, dimming the revelation in-turn? Or there’s no question, no answer to be known?
Kiddo? You asleep, good. Rest now, for you too have to go on a long walk soon.
The samurai, standing on the mountain peak, her hundredth journey, maybe, she mutters, for she stopped counting long time back, for it didn’t answer, it dated the time passed and that is all. Why hundredth then? For impact, she whispers.
Biting cold wind reminded nothing of its silken version that swayed the golden grass, the meadows that looked like a shiny river from there. The samurai looked in one direction for hours, concentrating madly, couldn’t see clearly when suddenly a brisk energy filled her fully, and she stopped looking in one direction, and looked at the panorama fully, the whole of it and not just a part.
The question, the answer busted in joy then, concentration took a dive into complete attention, a clarity dawned that stopped the samurai from checking time, for the whole movement moved in her wholly.
This one movement played like a melodious orchestra around her, that from that day, the samurai walker didn’t imagine her goal, but saw the radiant whole.
The job was done, yet the samurai walked, fought and caught the fallen and rose every time, looking, from a certain angle, as tall and strong as the mountains.
And those who have heard the peaks, mostly the oldies like our grannie, even once – the echoes of the purple caves – they have spent the days and nights in glorifying it as a legend, speaking in riddles, confusing all and never…
The state tree of Rajasthan. [Source – JaipurThruMyLens Blog]
*
Nibbling the leaves and thorns, reaching for its yellow flowers, suddenly, Jhui-Mui the little goat made a novel request to the Khejri tree, “please tell me a story.”
Jhui-Mui’s mum and other goats chuckled a bit, then continued surfing the shrubs spread around the Khejri tree for shade, water and love.
The tree which gave, for centuries, both food and medicine to all, with its ground bark to make a flour during the very many parched famine days, and its deep-deep roots that held the soil and directed the researchers to the cool water table, the desert’s old friend, Khejri, knew a pocketful of folktales too.
The Khejri tree told Jhui-Mui the little goat about a four-hundred-year-old tree, one who belongs to its own family, but lives in a far-off desert, alone on a barren hill, with roots fifty meters deep and long groovy, harmonious branches that welcomes every traveller and every story.
“What is its name?”, asked the beady eyed, happy Jhui-Mui. “The Tree of Life”, replied the Khejri tree and hummed an old tune that filled the arid air with cool magic.
What a wonderful, serene scene this is… I love mountains.
[Dev breathes in the cool air, then walks ahead and clicks pictures using his new camera; the funky-funny-machine-like clicking repeated sound is in sharp contrast to the peaceful silence present.]
Hmm… Hey, Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me/ I’m not sleepy and there is no place I’m going to/ Hey, Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me/ In the jingle jangle morning I’ll come following you…
[Dev walks ahead; his rough shoes making imprints on the kind earth; he continues humming and the wind plays the tune; he then stops and clicks another photograph.]
Who’s that? Does not look like a tourist… she is… why is she standing… on the edge of the cliff?
“Excuse me, you are standing on the edge… the cliff is quite steep… just, just be careful.”
[The girl does not pay much attention to him; she is looking at the grand mountains and the evening sky.]
What is with this girl… she is clearly… oh!
[Dev suddenly starts running; camera in one hand, he rushes, gazing like an eagle at the girl.]
“Hey! Wait! What… what are you doing?”
“Calm down, it is alright”, said the girl curtly.
[Dev halts; panting he takes a step forward and then looks up in the sky; he then presses his forehead with two fingers and sets his hairstyle before looking at the girl again.]
“I thought… I… I thought you are about to jump… sorry!”
[The girl smiles and goes back to looking at the picturesque scene. Dev feeling embarrassed hits his head gently and starts walking away.]
“Will you click a photograph for me? Such a peaceful place this is”, said the girl mesmerised by the view.
“Oh, yeah, sure”, said Dev.
Should I take her photograph or just the mountains…? Oh, she is looking at me and smiling, definitely posing for the camera.
“One moment, please”, said Dev.
[He changes the settings on his Canon DSLR and then gets ready to click the photo.]
Hmm… she is beautiful…
[As Dev sets the frame with the girl to the left side and the mountains in the centre, the girl takes a step backwards and jumps. The camera slips from Dev’s hand and he rushes towards the edge.]
Oh, no, oh, no!
[Dev gulps dry air and peeks down the cliff, he cannot see her anywhere. His heart beats madly and his head starts to spin.]
[Dev again looks down, a gush of wind hits him, this time it is playing another melody. Dev fails to recognise this tune. Dev steps back from the edge of the cliff, takes out his cell phone and turns; he dials the emergency helpline number and looks up. The girl is standing with his camera in her hands.]
Golden me and the golden light. [Source – Pixabay]
*
Four giant steps forward and six steps sideways, a room with no window, locked in it forever.
The thoughts buzz tirelessly, not letting the music of a quiet mind to settle.
The walls are painted daily, it shouts ‘I blame you’ boldly.
But there is light, it comes from underneath the door, sometimes mixed with the chirping of the birds. It fills the jail with a happy calm light. It does.
And the key, kept on a tiny table beside the door, never moves itself to unlock the door. It just waits.
Amusingly, the happy calm light never ceases to be. It wishes us to breakout.
After succumbing to the darkness I sat there quietly for ages. Did the wind play with the kite? Did the dew drop decorate the petals? I saw nothing, I stared at nothing, it was all dark. But I did hear them mocking, complaining, exclaiming, demanding. I said nothing, my voice had become dark too.
Then from nowhere a light emerged, glowing softly, fading now and then, but never dying completely. I remembered then that I can stand up, I realised then that I can walk ahead, I felt then that I am still alive. And I walked towards the light. I could see then, in the light, how dark it was.
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.
The flowers are ambitious by nature. Image by Marisa04 from Pixabay
Gori knows not where the path leads to, the wet air, the dusky flora, and the mysterious tunes do not guide either.
Soaking in the newness she walks forward.
And why is it that we always choose to walk ahead, why does not the uncertainty collapse us?
If we stop to rest, if we feel defeated, if we turn back embarrassed and ashamed, we still reach, in some time, at the glorious hour of a beginning.
The tired, wounded, and sullen eyes once again look up, once again fathom the depth, once again find the path.
Taking the rope bridge, climbing the echoing mountains, crossing the glassy rainbows, Gori saw that valley where her loved one awaited her.
The gush of wind cheered her, the dew heavy leaves blessed her, the clouds played the drums for her.
And why does it seem that the whole world dances when we dance and the whole world moans when we moan?
How come we hear the call when there is a concrete silence around us, when facts dispel hope and when dejection raises a toast?
In anger the head is alone, when rejoicing the heart holds it all.
The illusion rudely reveals the reality and Gori faces the brazen cold marshland.
What happened to the beautiful valley, to the lover’s promise, to the perfect dream? Hush! The monster rises, its shadow darkens Gori’s faith.
Thundering sky strikes with lightening that Gori catches with her bare hands. Heaving, she runs towards the monster.
Why is life so epic, so grand, so ambitious? Why do the storytellers talk about ‘once upon a time’?
If the legends appear amused by the mundane, then how many of us are at folly for it is the ordinary that becomes extraordinary?
The tales have never ceased to be melodious, we live perpetually enchanted.
Gori starts walking, leaving behind the triumphant air, gravity shining on her forehead.
She resumes the journey as a narrow track becomes visible to her now, a solo night jasmine tree on the way, showers her with its flowers, Gori takes its fragrance along.
Gori knows not where the path leads to, soaking in the passionate silence she walks forward.
Are the night jasmines very ambitious to wait for and shower a victorious warrior and not anyone else? Yes, they are.
Our house and Farrukh’s car. A painting by Coco. [Source – Pixabay]
In a hurry Farrukh forgot his wallet on the desk and left.
Down the stairs – nod to the watchman – walking towards the car – caressing hair – quick glance at the car window – slipping hand into the pocket – pausing for a second – no wallet – retracing steps – opening the door – “I forgot my wallet like an idiot” – bedroom – long pause – returns and bids me goodbye.
I smiled at him.
Just a few minutes ago Farrukh came to get his car keys. Of course, I tried to tell him about the wallet, but he didn’t listen and cutely replied “see you in the evening, Coco”.
Now, Farrukh will come back for the third time, yes he will, he has forgotten to put my food in the bowl. Look-look, it is empty.
When he returns, I will go near the table and bark loudly, for he has also forgotten his wrist watch there. O Farrukh!
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.
