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The Trip to Jerusalem pub, Nottingham by John Wright |
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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*
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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Eyes gaze at the grandiose being, follows its path, amazed and overwhelmed by the unbelievable. What is so grand in the way dragons fly? It is just in its element, it is its utmost self.
The dragons are awed by every mind that is familiar with its stories. Fire breathing, winged, snake like, four legged, cave dwellers, treasure keepers, proud and wise.
Flying high above the clouds, quasi-free from bondage, they come back on the ground to quench their thirst. They don’t kill for joy, they understand the laws of nature.
Mythical or not, dragons are glorious creatures. I say mythical or not for a storytellers’ imagination is an entity in itself, very much alive, though in thoughts, formless and fluid, but true.
Found in a story, the dragons thrive in this other realm.
Storytellers gave something more than just a pair of wings to the dragons, that something is splendour and beauty. Thus, right in the thought there was magnanimity and ferocity. What else is a dragon if not a magnanimous lovable beast?
Ah, here is what sprinkles magic in a dragon’s story, they are lovable beasts. Our storyteller friends didn’t suffer, at least, and I thank every heaven, from poverty of mind; they dared to imagine and realized that nothing is more powerful than true love, not even a dragon.
So rhythmically every dragon’s story is about love; a hero either fights back or fights along the dragon and wins back her love/ life and is showered with unheard grandeur.
Always a talk of antiquity, dragons are, but worth noticing is not the ‘antiquity’ bit, it is the ‘always’ bit. Always remembered, locked in the heart.
But what is so grand in the way dragons fly? It is just in its element, it is its utmost self.
Exactly, it is its utmost self. Like the storyteller who thought of it with utmost concentration, power, passion and love. Maybe just for a few minutes the storyteller was in her element, she was her utmost self, and thus, she gave birth to the dragon.
These legendary creatures ruled the sky once upon a time, and they still do, just travel to their realm and witness how majestically they fly.
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I am complete in this moment. Not in parts, the picture is clear now, the puzzle is solved. I breathe in quietness and the quietness decides to stay. Nothing binds me, I stay stationary, yet I flow in space. The cacophony dies smoothly and turns into a wave of delight.
I hold this wave and throw it on the ground breaking it into a rainbow.
Towards the light I walk and the light walks towards me. We will meet one day, the journey begins in this moment.
*
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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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Yes, all your talks are papyrus talks; that is why your breath smells of quaint urns. You’re still trying to sell old gossips that were packed and preserved in those canopic jars.
I have seen you dancing your fingers on the rock faces. And you hold that old text so dear to you. Don’t try to hide your love for it only confuses you and the listener.
Oh, that beautiful Nile song of yours, it shimmers and shines and colours the time into desert gold.
But mystery remains says the hourglass… probably that is why all your talks are papyrus talks.
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Chantal didn’t finish the story. After gazing through the few lines that she had written, her search for a known voice abandoned her.
She sat near the window, still holding her pen, playing with it in a steady rhythm, Chantal thought of something and rushed back to her seat. She wrote in her notebook–
It appears as if the joy within
Knows nothing about the war within
And vice-e-versa
Pausing for a moment, she then closed her notebook with a rough jerk. Chantal got up and walked back towards the window, this time leaving the pen behind, letting it rest on the table.
Her gait reflected her confused, unsure, restless state of mind. Chantal took a deep sigh and then without giving it a thought, wrote the word ‘Incomplete’ on the windowpane; a hazy layer of fog on it allowed her to.
Chantal’s eyes fell on something interesting, something which was moving towards her house, she smiled. Her hand poked her cheek as she pondered over the matter.
Suddenly, she opened the window and shouted, ‘Hi, how are you? It has been so long…’
A muffled voice replied, it made Chantal laugh heartily.
A smiling Chantal then closed the window and ran towards the door, opened it and left. Her footsteps on the wooden floor made a fine music.
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Walking in that old lane by the red house, who is that, oh, that is me. I turn left and bump into someone. Someone who happened to be a part of a long queue. Queue to meet Rossetti and his friends.
Don’t push, I said out loud, so that ten people before me and ten people after me could hear it. I said so in advance. And when the twenty some whispered, I shushed them.
*
From the Frontispiece: Rossetti in Childhood to the last one, Rossetti’s Name is heard in America, I maintained the same attitude. I warned and shushed with an irresistible polite smirk on my face.
Walking in that old lane by the red house, who is that, oh, that is me. Allow me to bid goodbye now, I am in a rush, for those twenty some, god-knows-why, are following me.
Read about Rossetti and His Circle by Max Beerbohm here.
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Sujata – The Voice of the Unheard
Sahib Bibi Aur Ghulam – A tale of role-reversals and downfalls
Chalti Ka Naam Gaadi (That which moves is called a car)
Mrinal Sen’s Aakaler Shandhane (In Search of Famine)
La Strada And The Round-Faced Clown
Sherni – Even in the dense jungle, the tigress knows her way.
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.
Essentially Gold, The Lavender Hill Mob
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.
Regina Spektor’s Musical World – Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V
Of Monsters and Men and This Journey
The Circle Game, Joni Mitchell, You and Me
The Answer Is Blowin’ In The Wind
The Wonderful Mr. Tambourine Man Song
Weather Forecast Says Listen to George Ezra
The Choir and Their Toads Sing ‘Double Trouble’
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.
A joy so complete without any rise or fall, so free without any time corners, so real without true being false, false being true.
