Sky

The Dragon, Dandelions And The Twist In The Story

The dragon thought she was dreaming.
Image by Lilawind from Pixabay

While walking through the green pastures, the valley of colourful flowers, the dragon suddenly found herself in the desert where the scorching sun stroked her, burnt the sand, splashed mirages everywhere…

… when a strong stroke of warm air tossed the dragon off the ground reminding her that she has wings, which she then fluttered, crossing a gush of gold dust, she closed her eyes for a wink of a second and the world around her changed…

… as she saw the sky-scraping waterfall in front of her, amazed she thought am I dreaming, but did not wait for the answer and plunged towards the waterfall, shouting in joy and adding to its rhythm.

Oh, dragon you are so lucky, here the winters never seem to end and when it does, it is followed by another winter.

Who is asking for the spring? It will be a blessing if I see autumn.

Oh, autumn! The ocean of orange leaves crumple and swirl in my mind all the time, but what I see is the dry hypnotised land, grey and white, and dark and mossy.

Why cannot I be the witness of a twist in my story?

The dragon soared into the air; neither the hail nor the lightening could stumble her once, and crossed the clouds, the drumming music muffled soon as the lush rainbow appeared in full gusto.

You have got wings dragon, probably that is why you can bring twists in your story.

Ah! I have been walking since that cloud burst forced me to leave my hideout and I am still walking. The path I took glistened with frost and I fell twice.

Rough stairs took me up the mountain and just where I stopped to rest, I saw some dandelions dancing, happy about something.

When I smiled with them I was reminded of a wish and at the same time, the rising wind whispered a message, overwhelmed I resumed my journey, my story.

***Happy, dancing dandelions***.
**Image by DaphoGo from Pixabay**

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Humming Is Good For The Soul

Posted on March 18, 2019 by Jagriti Rumi Humming Is Good For The Soul Kites Magic Ruby Sky Stories Time Tune

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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Ambitious? Yes.

Posted on February 10, 2019 by Jagriti Rumi Ambitious Epic Faith Grand Life Mountains Night Jasmine Passionate Silence Path Storytellers

Flash Fiction

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.

**Shine-shine, you two!**
**[Source – Pixabay]**

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Intervals

Posted on April 21, 2018 by Jagriti Rumi Cool Sand Flash Fiction Intervals Moon Ocean Sky Waves

Flash Fiction

**Moony music in the air!**
[Source – Pixabay]

The beach was audible to her in intervals. She walked bare feet on the sand and still didn’t smile. Rhea had muffled thoughts, a cluster of it, covering her face. And that is why she couldn’t see the beautiful, starry canvas right above her. The sky didn’t twinkle, the waves didn’t play music for her. Like a ghost, locked in some tragic seconds, she moved slowly, that pale thing or maybe the world moved around her, and she stood still.

But the beach was audible to her in intervals. And she unconsciously moved towards the ocean. The interval ended, but it was too late for her to be locked back again… a wave rushed towards and caught her. Rhea took a deep breath and looked down, her feet were wet, the waves danced forward and backward. She smiled before she could stop herself.

Rhea could now hear the gushing ocean, see the sparkling stars, feel the cool wind and the cool sand. She started walking, this time not shying from the waves. She sauntered along the shore, opening her arms and welcoming the wind, the waves and the night sky… the interval overpowered unbeknownst to her.

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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.

Gloriously Ordinary

Posted on December 2, 2016 by Jagriti Rumi A Wave Admire Dancing Dirt Gloriously Ordinary Light Sky

Perception

**Starstruck by the ordinary.**
[Image by Jo Justino from Pixabay]

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.

And so I sit and admire the ordinary.

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A Seeming

Posted on January 15, 2016 by Jagriti Rumi A Seeming Clouds Death Life Moon Myriad Worlds Rosaline Stars Unique

Flash Fiction

That I am and that I am not is a seeming. Life is a seeming just like its partner, death.

**A beautiful sunrise/ sunset… a beautiful seeming.**
**[Source – Pixabay]**

Rosaline, sitting on the branch of a huge tree, was collecting the passing clouds. Though friends with the clouds, she didn’t like to see them at night, maybe because she also collected stars.

The day-night cycle confused her. Grandma’s solution “you’ll understand it once you become a big girl” didn’t help Rosaline at all.

And so she started living in different worlds – the-bright-blue-sky-world, the-mischievous-cloudy-world, the-paper-boat-rainy-world, the-sparkling-starry-world, the-moon-pie-world, the-ghostly-pitch-black-world…

Two worlds sometimes merged into one and formed something unique.

Whichever world Rosaline was in, she was always excited to live it fully. Happily, she always announced early in the morning “today I’ll be in the-mischievous-cloudy-world’ or ‘give way to Rosaline, the-moon-pie-world awaits her.”

Lost in her myriad worlds, she lived madly. She even recorded her visits to these wonderful worlds.

She was proud to be the youngest and the oldest member of her family, youngest by age and oldest by the many visits she made to these worlds.

On her 92^nd visit to the crunchy-autumn-leaves-world, she died. She fell from a huge tree.

Her last words were, “Grandma, you need to plus 22 more worlds to break my record”.

A crunchy-autumn-leaves-world.
[Source – Pixabay]

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I Can See Mountains from the Window, I’ll take this Window Along

Posted on June 6, 2014 by Jagriti Rumi Calm Rock Drawing Gratitude I'll take this window along Life Mountains Window Yin-Yang

Flash Fiction

The mountains are so grand; I realised it that day when I climbed one. The green velvety zigzag stretch left me overwhelmed.

A thought caught my attention and told me how beautiful and majestic the mountains were, how incredibly small I was, how peacefully colourful the surroundings were and how sublime the music played by the wind was.

**Portable Window! [Image by AnnaliseArt from Pixabay]**

I saw the clouds and they saw me; I blushed quietly. With my feet in the wet green grass, I stood there enjoying the drizzle. I sat on a calm rock calmly and opened the notebook. I couldn’t write for some reason, so I drew the scene instead.

Have you ever felt the same? Like when you feel something you cannot describe in words or otherwise? When the smell of an old book takes you back in a different century?

As if the leaf that fell near you was meant to fall there so that you could pick it up and observe it? And that the glamorous city lights were talking to each other and the moon was talking to you?

What about the smiley face drawn by a passer-by on a dusty car that reminds you of the one you had drawn? Have you ever felt the still mind?

The drawing that I made took the shape of the yin-yang without my knowledge. Opposites complement each other. I sat near the window and thought about it; the sun passed by and the moon came with white light very quickly and in the shadow, I saw the light and immediately, I agreed.

I again looked at that drawing, in gratitude but the drawing was no longer the same… there were dark green mountains and blue sky, white clouds and green grass and me, sitting on the calm rock calmly. And I looked through the window…

I can see mountains from the window, I’ll take this window along.

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The Green Grassland

Posted on January 22, 2014 by Jagriti Rumi Freely Green Grassland Prairie Stories Sunshine Trance

Diary Entry

**The joyous grassland.**
[Source – Pixabay]

The green grassland is calling me to come and run freely. As soon as I keep my feet on the green grassland, it says I’ll be liberated. And then I will also be able to fly.

I will run and I’ll not get tired and the surroundings will never change and nothing will end. The wind will be sweet and I’ll feel dizzy. Even if I fall, I’ll smile.

Then lying on the green grassland I’ll look at the sky, it will be blue in parts and green where the prairie will canopy me.

I’ll lie there and smile and feel warm and good and like the sunshine, I’ll shine. The green grassland says so.

Also, read what did the Green Lake said to Meredith here.

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Hiding From The Rain

Posted on April 5, 2013 by Jagriti Rumi Attic Clouds Football Hiding Podolski Rain Sky Stories

Flash Fiction

Mr. Podolski calls hiding from the rain ignoring.
[Image from Pixabay]

Mr. Podolski was sitting in the attic, smoking idly. He continuously ignored the noise that was coming from downstairs. Everyone was watching the game, football. Both the windows in the attic were open.

For a long time, he was gazing at the blue sky which had some white spots here and there.

‘That’s a goal!’, shouted his grandson, gripped in the game. Mr. Podolski gave a grim grin and lit a cigarette afresh.

He failed to ignore the clouds gathering, the blue sky soon less blue. He thought, ‘they are teaming against me, again, like…that day.’

‘That Day’ echoed inside him as the huge church bell echoed in the town. It revived his rage and furry. In spite of his daily practice, he merely feigned calmness.

He stood up from his rocking chair and reached the window limping. He sharply glanced above while the clouds replied with a thunder.

He tried, tried hard, very hard but failed. His mind’s eye presented a slideshow before him.

Green ground, heavy rain, his white dress no more white but muddy, 90 minutes almost over, scoreboard shining 2-1, the crowd going mad, fans screaming ‘P-O-D-O-L-S-K-I-P-O-D-O-L-S-K-I’, the commentator shouted, ‘it’s a penalty…all eyes on Heinz Podolski now!”

His mind de-fossilized the amber which consisted of the words spoken by his coach before the match. He had said, ‘for some people football is a matter of life and death…I can assure you it is much more serious.’

This was exactly what he thought before hitting the penalty and then…. ‘We won!’ said Mr. Podolski’s grandson, shouting at the top of his voice.

Mr. Podolski’s recollection died away. It was raining outside. He shut both the windows and settled back in his chair.

‘Should I tell grandpa?’ exclaimed the grandson, who was extremely excited to think before speaking up. In a few minutes, though, Mr. Podolski got the answer as his grandson didn’t come upstairs.

He sat in the dark attic with the steady smoke all around him. He soaked the thundering sound and the heavy rainfall that gave his face a plastic expression and his eyes some moistness.

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