Writer

Some-Lovely-Funny-Times

Observation

**Come along…**
[Image by James Smith from Pixabay]

Alice: How long is forever?

White Rabbit: Sometimes, just one second.

-Lewis Carrol

I closed my eyes and saw the stone cut stairs, broad and homely, stretching from the bottom of the hill to the top, where the age old, beautifully carved and gloriously coloured temple lives. Yes, the temple lives, breathing in prayers and breathing out peace. A magical quietness stops the spinning mind and grants the warmth of love.

Little feet try to reach the bell, failing, but trying, finally adding to the music flowing in the air a happy ‘tan-tan-tan’. Not understanding the images, the big bold eyes, the lion’s roar, its the splash of colours –golden, red, yellow, green- all sparkling gallantly, that enters within to stay. Round and round the temple, the giant smiling peepal tree, flowers in the wind, red threads tied in every direction, the burnt silenced diya, the rich kohl, and faith in miracles, all together makes the earth reverberate.

I am walking in the temple, eating the prasad and savouring the air, the green leaves and the time. Yes, the time, unknowingly I am moving ahead. What seemed eternal has now elapsed in what I thought were years, were just a few funny seconds. Funny because when I opened my eyes, I didn’t see the stone cut stairs or the old temple…

Following the melodies, the colours, the laughs, baffled at every point, blessed now and then, a bit complacent and a bit more naive, I have reached so far. I cannot foresee, but I know now that sometimes, forever and one second is just the same.

Weekly Newsletter

Recent Posts

A Dream of Twin Rainbows

Posted on November 30, 2015 by Jagriti Rumi A Dream of Twin Rainbows Blink Cage Clock Dance Fly Imagination Ocean See Sing Soulfully Thunderbolts Wink

Poem

**One, two… lucky you!**
**[Image by Jagriti Rumi]**

My imagination is strong and hence I can see

The waterfalls, mesmerizing clouds and the ever working bees;

I am very much alive with a working clock

Hanging on the earthen, painted, plastic wall saying ‘tick-tock-tick-tock’;

My ears don’t bleed anymore and though my eyes are shy to blink,

I have learned to bar the command and hide behind a paused wink.

Master shouts and thunderbolts hit the wall,

Faking to cry and tremble, I try to make the cage fall.

Yes! I live in a cage! But I have a dream, a dream of twin rainbows.

I will one day fly towards it, crossing the ocean of dead vows,

There I will soulfully sing and freely dance and just be me…

My imagination is strong and hence I can see.

Weekly Newspaper

Recent Posts

Boundaries

Posted on October 31, 2015 by Jagriti Rumi Boundaries Crazy Divided Beautifully Painter Planet Earth

What happens in the west doesn’t happen in the east and vice-versa. This is our country and this is our tradition. We love our motherland and we can die for it.

The North is different from the South. And this state, this city, this town, this village and this house is where I belong. I cannot live anywhere else but here.

Lines are drawn and everything is divided beautifully. If not entirely, the plan does work out fruitfully with minor problems here and there.

When these minor problems become big, it is dissected thoroughly and the offender is caught, punished and forgotten. Things turn back to normal; once again it’s a sunny day.

But, there is one story that no one can forget. An ordinary-looking fellow, who lived in the mountains and always painted the oceans in his notebook, once painted the planet earth on a grand rock, it was magnificent, but he was anyway convicted for it.

Maybe he was crazy, that is what most of us believe, otherwise, why will a sane person draw the beautiful earth and then divide it? Yes! That is what he did.

The blue, green planet looked so perfect on that rock as if it was alive, but then, that bloke painted a hand hammering the earth into two, a chasm that spread like the roots of a tree and divided the whole planet.

It was a violent crime, of course. How could he even think so? But then, they say he was crazy.

There’s another story about that painter.

You know that the earth is changing colour, you must have seen the photographs, it’s becoming reddish with each passing day. Some say that this change occurred only after that painter was hanged, which is true, but I don’t know if these events can be related.

It’s all crazy, no?

Weekly Newsletter

Recent Posts

She

Posted on October 18, 2015 by Jagriti Rumi Border Burned Guitar Doubtful Star Dreamlike Extraordinary Journey Joy Magical Milky Way Mirror Pride Puzzle She Spirituality Time

Flash Fiction

She is just ten years old. Talkative and curious by nature, she wishes to know, but only about the magical, the dreamlike and the pleasing.

Her world is of all the shades of pink. With the warmth of an honest, caring canopy overhead, she looks at the stars and floats in the Milky Way.

There is ample clarity in everything she sees and time’s her friend – blistering fast or dragging slow. There is only one melody she is tuned to and it is called life.

**She is living in her own world, within and without.**
**Image from Pixabay.**

She is young and brave. Quietly, she observes the world and the world within her, laughs at her.

Battling the questions and transforming the answers, she moves ahead with every failure and tries to fathom the success.

A mirror walks with her; she has broken it umpteen times but they are still in a relationship. Her cries, her sighs, her laughs, her smiles, her ways and one life… all packed in a rucksack is her pride and joy.

The doubtful star burns with her glare and the rhythm of change trespasses the old.

She is living for others now and has placed herself on the top shelf, in a green trunk, under an old book. Close to many and far from herself, she is standing on the border – this way or that way… her life is slipping away…

She just woke up and whatever was under the old book, in a green trunk, on the top shelf she burned that rusted world to dust.

Walking on ashes, she turns black and grey until the mirror returns. It is not going to be joyous all through, but she doesn’t mind the sound of a burned guitar.

They say she is weak and crouched, that she hears less and that her wrinkles make her a puzzle. A puzzle indeed and a child from within, no one knows what a good time she is having.

Her old eyes shine like a starry night and things magically appear and disappear with her touch. The words cannot express bliss; she is singing, hear this – ‘La-la, li-li, o, la-la, li-li’.

She is extraordinary. She is over there, can you see her? I know you can.

Weekly Newsletter

Recent Posts

Black Sparrow

Posted on October 16, 2015 by Jagriti Rumi Black Sparrow Dark Dream Eyes Fear Flash Fiction Rain Stones Stories

Flash Fiction

**Dream-like peaceful.**
[Source – Pixabay]

Her eyes… there is fear in her eyes.

It was blurry… but I remember it clearly. Old hands like my mother’s but she wasn’t my mother, then why do I see her? The place is cold and that is how I feel until I look at her, I feel cold and wet as if I didn’t run away from that day’s hard rain. Everything around was cold and wet that day and so was it in my dream. That day when I was strolling in the park I saw a black sparrow… Francis said he would rather be a black sparrow than fight in the war. I saw the black sparrow, and I left the park.

She is sitting on a wheel chair, she is wearing black. Today, when I picked up the burnt paper, I crushed it without knowing why; my hands can still feel the smooth blackness. But she was surrounded by a harsh blackness, she was in the sun, but everything was crude and dull. I hate myself for crushing the burnt paper, I can feel the crude blackness now.

Francis collected stones all the time, he had strange hobbies. Stones he said are beautiful unless we give them a shape. The old lady, someone’s mother, had an image in her eyes; a dull face as if sculpted, and I agreed with Francis that it looked utterly dead. It scares me every time I see the dream.

I am there to help you old lady. Who is it that you are holding in your eyes? What are you whispering? I can’t hear you? She isn’t looking at me Francis, she is looking somewhere else. Francis I can’t see you. I can’t see the black sparrow. I am tied to the dream. I see her eyes Francis… her eyes… there is fear in her eyes.

Weekly Newsletter

Recent Posts

What To Do?

Posted on October 2, 2015 by Jagriti Rumi Busy Life Destination Dreams Great Novel Mind Platform The Train of Thought Thoughts Travelling What To Do? Window

Literary Nonsense

The Busy Life (1953) by Jean Dubuffet
[Source – tate.org.uk]

The train of thought never stops, does it?

Standing on a vague platform, everything except me undergoes a peculiar kind of metamorphosis now and then. Bewildered, I stand in utter confusion, with a dazed expression and remain amusingly voiceless.

Waving madly for the train to halt or at least lazy down a bit, I am increasingly getting ascertained about the fact that either I am powerless or I am being considered as a crazy cheerleader.

Often, no, more than often, I have successfully boarded the train.

What happens then – settled quietly near the window, with a half-read great novel that I have tried to finish since one year, five months and two weeks, looking old and rich in my hands, I get lost in the dream world looking through the barred window; settled quietly near the window, with a notebook in front and a pen in my hand, I write down miraculous lines, tying down the strength to move the humanity and a saleable story together, staying humble myself throughout the reverie; settled quietly near the window, but loathing everyone around me and worshiping softly to reach my destination soon…

“My destination…” I say and I am kicked out of the train, back on that floating platform which dances every second on some idiotic tune and disturbs my balance.

I fall down, cry, raise questions, get answers, plan things and proudly compliment myself, with a touch of modesty of course.

And then what do I do? I go off to sleep. How much can the mind take? “So long, my friend”, says my mind and dozes off. Shut down! Power off!

Click!

Switch on and I am back on that platform. Trains have started passing me. I yawn, a full day of travelling to a gazillion places ahead.

Busy life, what to do?

Weekly Newsletter

Recent Posts

Papa and the Crimson Clouds

Posted on September 29, 2015 by Jagriti Rumi Flash Fiction Huge Tree Life's Agenda Mad Ascetic Papa and the Crimson Clouds Think Window

Flash Fiction

**The huge tree under a crimson sky.**
**Image – Pixabay.**

Papa said, ‘I am not a negative thinker’. I almost clapped in approval, but then I saw him drinking at 9:45 in the morning. I dared to speak and I did, reminding him of the 80% blockage in one of his arteries. Gulp! ‘No negative thinking’, he advised me.

His red eyes and newly ignited soul went into the garden to work. After a few hours, I checked the fresh hairstyle of the garden, it was almost bald. Papa said, ‘Plants should grow this way’.

Which way you must be thinking? Whichever way Papa wants to grow it, you fool. He replied so, I am just quoting it.

My sense of understanding is weak; I am the wrong person to walk left when the right is right.

I am also stupid if I don’t remind Papa, thrice, that he wanted to drink tea, which invariably loses all its piping hotness and turns dead cold by the time he returns from the garden.

Kindly ask everyone in the street not to stare at me. So what if I look like an outgrown, zigzag tree, my Papa will prune me.

I have the whole life’s agenda, second wise, installed in my brain. I am to wake up early every day and run to the office, work and be good in it and come back home to get recharged for the next day.

Every hour I am to be alert; I am allowed even to worry about security. I again dared and asked Papa, ‘Security from what?’ ‘That thing… that… something…’ he said.

I understood zilch about it. Patience please, I am a slow learner.

Every minute of the hour, I am to relish the complexities of the present. It is to be like the dogs, they are so cute and hold only one feeling at a moment – hunger, aggression, love or anxiety.

I reluctantly told Papa about my opinion. He laughed and then shooed me away like a dog is shooed away.

For your benefit, I am sharing that it is not a wise thing to do. Homo sapiens sapiens can do better. I have read so in a book. Of course, I didn’t say a word about it to Papa. Do you think I am stupid? Ha!

Every second of every minute, I am to remain lost in whatever shit crazy thing I am doing. This will result in an unhealthy body, but a good position and a reasonable flat after a few years travail.

I am a middle-class being, this means to me what nirvana means to that mad ascetic I once met.

Do you know what the ascetic told me? He asked me to sit under a huge tree, pointing in the jungle’s (point decimal of what is left) direction. That’s it!

What am I supposed to do there alone, I shouted behind him and he shouted back, ‘Think’.

Confused, I asked Papa about it one day – a day that showcased crimson clouds from the window. He didn’t say a word.

**Crimson clouds. Image** **– Pixabay.**

I looked at the crimson clouds once again. Then I stared at Papa. I didn’t know there were four clocks in his room, one on each wall, until that day. I was sweating when Papa suddenly opened his eyes and asked me to get some water for him. He coughed badly.

He is coughing badly right now. From that day the crimson clouds haven’t left the window. I mostly stay near Papa and only occasionally go to sit under that huge tree.

Weekly Newsletter

Recent Posts

No More Waiting For Godot

Posted on September 23, 2015 by Jagriti Rumi No More Waiting For Godot The Hindu

Estragon: People are bloody ignorant apes.

Vladimir: Pah!

Estragon: Charming spot. Inspiring prospects. Let’s go.

Vladimir: We can’t.

Estragon: Why not?

Vladimir: We are waiting for Godot.

Recently, I was reminded of Samuel Beckett’s classic play, “Waiting for Godot”. I was out for my evening walk and hadn’t yet plugged in to my smartphone, when I noticed Vladimir and Estragon standing next to a tree, lost in nothingness. I mean, I thought so.

The illusion broke as I reached near them and saw two boys busy with their smartphones. I almost broke into a fit of laughter but immediately got a lump in my throat. What if Vladimir and Estragon where present in these times and were waiting for Godot with a smartphone gleaming in their hands? What if Estragon instead of dealing with his boots was busy with checking his Facebook status? What if Vladimir shared his views about the story of the two thieves on his twitter page? And I don’t even want to mention a “what if” for Godot.

I don’t intend to hurt the Beckett fans, as I am one of them. But the image of those two boys standing next to each other silently, deeply involved in their smartphones, as if they were in a non-existent world, as if they were not together, as if there was “nothing to be done”, expect of course digging the smartphone, forced me to ponder.

Smartphones, considered to be the only tool/ instrument/ non-living thing in the history of mankind to have impacted our lives so strongly that we cannot function without it anymore, control our lives. Terms like smartphone gait, digital life, digital diet, etc., are quite common in the tech world. In fact in South Korea, one of the most digitally connected countries in the world, a new term – digital dementia – is being used to deal with the patients suffering from internet addiction and the over-use of smartphones.

Different researches and polls have proved that in countries like the US, the UK, China, India, South Africa, Indonesia and Brazil, one in every five people check their smartphones every ten minute. Maybe in not-so-far-future there will be billboards on the road sides, asking us if we are nomophobic – the fear of being out of mobile phone contact – and giving us suggestions to how to check and curb our addiction. What a joke! Who will read the billboards?

But of course, one can read such and many more suggestions/articles on their smartphones. The smartphone will, without any hesitation, reveal the information that over dose of its usage can lead to a slow or immediate death (car accidents etc.). After all, it’s not called a smart phone for no reason.

Weirdly, sometimes Gollum from The Lord of the Rings crosses my mind when I see people glued to their smartphones, as if speaking to it and saying – “Yes, wretched we are, says everyone, but you’ll not hurt us, will you my precious?”

I have not been using my smartphone for quite some time now, not because I have overcome the digital life’s addiction but simply because it broke. My life didn’t change drastically and I am still enjoying the smartphone free days. I guess it did change for others as I started getting complaints for not keeping in (24×7) touch from my friends and family members.

But this too passed quickly as they had no time to listen to my boring revelation. In fact, they avoid using their smartphones in front of me now, as free from this tech burden, I constantly blame them of being addicted to it, being a slave to it, of not paying attention, warning them about neck and eye sight problems, literally scolding them for being senseless to share silly Whatsapp jokes, etc.

If I tell my friends, while on a walk, that what a wonderful view it is, I am suddenly made to huddle together for a “group selfie” and before I can express displeasure in doing so, the photo is tagged, shared, liked and commented on. The next thing is that I get a call from another friend of mine saying, ‘Hey! You’re in the town? Let’s meet.”

When and why did the smartphones become of so much importance that we are having smartphone addiction problems? What is the need to be digitally active 24×7? What will we miss if we didn’t check our Facebook page/ Twitter page/ Instragram/ Gmail for (if it is allowed to say or even to imagine) a week? What is the rush? Why are there people in countries like South Africa and India who don’t get enough to eat, but proudly own two mobile handsets? What are the industrial lords planning to do?

Ignoring these lords for now, it will be better if we all start keeping a check on our digital life, our digital diet. Some tech health gurus suggest keeping Digital Fasts for a healthy and long digital life… It sounds stupid? Stupid it may be, but is not incorrect.

If you wake up with the smartphone ringing melodiously its alarm and you go off to sleep, after typing a good night message for the nth time on your Whatsapp, then it’ll be good to try, for just one day, leaving your phone behind and going outside to join Vladimir and Estragon, who probably are still waiting for Godot.

The article was first published in The Hindu.

Weekly Newsletter

Recent Posts

So Far

Posted on September 8, 2015 by Jagriti Rumi Alive Annihilated Certainty Childhood Memory Lightning So Far The Shapes Two Worlds Unite

Short Feature

I feel I am all alone in the two worlds.

Taking a step forward I see lightning as ‘the fast’ meets ‘the slow’. I am not injured; I can endure the lightning but not the confusion.

A beautiful path lights up as far as the mind can reach. Back and forth between a one-way; crashing becomes a certainty.

Quietly, I sit alive in the present.

I am understandably forgetful. Myriad revelations slip away like a childhood memory, leaving behind a warm aftertaste. The warmth turns into a glow and the rest I forget.

Infinity captured in a cage seeps away slowly. It is destined to do so. The two worlds are pulsating with this thought and I, in both.

But there is only one reality in me. The cube burns into a cylinder and the cylinder burns into a sphere.

The shapes finally unite and the two worlds are annihilated.

Weekly Newsletter

Recent Posts

A Stream

Posted on August 29, 2015 by Jagriti Rumi A Green Leaf A Paper Boat A Stream A Yellow Flower Time

Flash Fiction

First there came a yellow flower, flowing like silk on a surface. The stream turned into silk. It told me a short story about the silk thread that draped the yellow flower. They swayed together with the wind. Then someone came and took the silk thread and threw the yellow flower in the stream. ‘A happy ending’, were the last words of the yellow flower.

Then a green leaf floated by and said, ‘I always thought where the stream goes… I’ll get to know it now.’ It danced away with the flowing water.

The stones quietly listened to the stream and stayed there for a long time. Now each stone, of every shape and size, carries a story with it. If heard sincerely, the stones narrate the stories beautifully.

A paper boat rushed quickly and embraced the whirlpool. It then lowered the anchor forever.

The stream is musical; I have been sitting here for a long time now and enjoying the melodies. I dipped my feet in the cool, clear water. Then, suddenly, the stream started talking about the flow of time. I got up immediately.

I am walking along the stream. Twists and turns welcome me here and there, but we are walking.

Weekly Newsletter