WritersWorld

Fresh Air for All?

Mixed Fiction

Mister, why would you cut down trees?

The sound of an axe against the giant tree’s trunk breaks the quiet air, chopping it off into pieces, bit-by-bit, the air is stunned.

Mister, why would you cut down trees?

The fragrance of the giant tree’s old life, full of a mixture of rich air, earth, water, light and love, now bleeding, sharpening the axe with every hit, giving-giving-giving with every touch, revives the stunned air then.

Mister, why would you cut down trees?

Them sparrows, squirrels and owls, eagles look at from a distance, them lizards, beetles, butterflies, bees, run towards a new shelter, them ants keep crawling for they know they must find a new path for the giant tree is being hit by a sharp message.

Mister, why would you cut down trees?

The creepers and crawlers were cut down first, they are lying in a bundle chopped off there and there, life in their slippery veins still taking in the thick grim air moving around the tree. The air hugs the tree tightly, now and then, and every time it does, the axe gets stuck in the trunk, stunned by love.

Mister, why would you cut down trees?

The fungi and lichen that sat on the giant tree’s trunk and branches, meditating for ages, open their eyes to observe carefully everything, every hit, every drop, every turn of the air around the giant tree. It observes and becomes one with the slow killing, seeing, dying along, yet living to pass it on.

Mister, why would you cut down trees?

The giant tree is about to fall down, the birds know it, and so does everyone that is alive there, but the man doubts and waits. The man pushes and picks the axe again, in a hurry for a solo reason. The giant tree sways a little, it is ready, look, hear, it comes down kissing gravity.

The man shudders, for the giant tree is down and it says nothing, it cries not. The air feels heavy, almost dead and the man senses it not.

Mister, why did you cut done the tree?

“For fire and to build a house, a garden, a giant building, a bridge, a highway, a dam, a runway, a platform on which one can stand and address thousands and thousands, explaining them the many ways to live a better life, a peaceful life, a cleaner life with fresh air for all.”

Fresh air for all?

**Love is in the air.**
[Source – Pixabay]

Somewhere, a seed comes alive and is gently caressed by the sun-soaked bright air and the rich wet earth; and so, like it happens every time, with the very first step that the seed takes, it knows of love.

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The Ocean of Air

Posted on February 16, 2025 by Jagriti Rumi Always Haiku Life Love Ocean Of Air Revive

Haiku

**Love is in the air, always!**
[Source – Pixabay]

The ocean of air stood

Heavy with impurities, until it rose again

With love to revive life.

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The Unseen

Posted on January 5, 2025 by Jagriti Rumi Clouds Eyes Flowy Free Of Time Half-Moon Love Mixed Fiction Mountain Top One Movement Painting Stars Sun Rays Uncaptured Wind Winter-Warmth

Mixed Fiction

Photo by Jagriti Rumi
Photo by Jagriti Rumi
Photo by Jagriti Rumi

Today, now, painting a picture with eyes, fresh eyes, a picture uncaptured before, uncaptured still after I finish painting, of course, for I am not a collector, why to collect, why to tie-up or get tied to, when I am living the moment in all its glory… free of any fear or want… free of thoughts… free of time.

Patches of white on the sky-blue ocean, shape-shifting, these clouds, now right above me, now near the giant tree, now hiding the shy half-moon, now pulling the snow-covered mountain top closer and getting pulled towards simultaneously.

The wind playing on its own, swaying to-and-fro, dancing in a whirl, breathing through the trees, blowing a kiss to every broken leaf, falling gently with it on the ground.

The greens, browns, yellows and the spots of red and orange, all soaked in sun rays, full of winter-warmth, tease the cold shadows, shadows that keep whispering and slow dancing following the sun rays in sync – like one flowy movement.

Even though the eyes doze off, the picture paints well – the crimson sky and the crimson clouds, the twilight mix and the twinkling dots, winning over the night with love, falling stars, falling, falling in love.

And now, I open my eyes, afresh, I paint a picture with my eyes, it is all new, it is all unseen.

[Source – Pixabay]
[Source – Pixabay]
[Source – Pixabay]

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Decision – Already Taken!

Posted on January 1, 2025 by Jagriti Rumi Already Taken Decision Flash Fiction Granny Hug Joy Living Llamas Snow Tap Dance Walking The Green Village Winters

Flash Fiction

It snowed last night, cloudy white joy now sits hugging Joana’s village. She has seen it through the glass window. Decision – to step-out later!

Huh, huh, huh! “Butter tea, you want some, granny, so-o-o-cold, tell granny, butter-tea-you-want-some?”

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.

Decision – already taken!

**Punnu and Zeenz back at home, on a sunny day!**
[Image by Joanna Jankowski from Pixabay]

We lived, then, in our days, we lived! We didn’t talk-talkie-talk about living!
– Granny

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Apples

Posted on December 29, 2024 by Jagriti Rumi Apples Fruits Of Love Identity Little Bundles Of The Now Live or Die Long Gone Ode Rise Or Fall Sin-Free Story The Truth The Unknown

An Ode

**A life of freedom.**
[Source – Pixabay]

Up on the tree defying gravity,

Red or green or the golden me

Appears the same like the rest on the tree.

Fruits of love mixed with manure, sin-free

In one, sinful in yet another story;

An apple, that is writing this ode to apples like me,

Reveals the truth that it has no identity.

Hear-ho, hear-o! Here-here, go slow!

Don’t rush to grasp, to know

The unknown, here-here, go slow!

Apples in chronicles

Apples in stores and wars

Apples – rhyming schemes

Apples and vitamins

Apples packed in tins

Apples starring in films

Apples rotting in bins

Is truth but also the past that doesn’t last

Until you carry it along for too long,

To understand that which is long gone,

Never seeing the o-so-fresh song,

You carry the long gone.

While we, the apples, are little bundles of the now,

Up on the tree, now on the floor,

Now fresh, now rotten, now gone,

Now a seed, now born,

Never-never-never in a hurry to rise or fall,

Never-never-never in a hurry to live or die,

For we, the apples, are little bundles of the now.

**The joy in action!**
[Source – Pixabay]

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The Rise

Posted on November 10, 2024 by Jagriti Rumi Colours Dance Dawn Dusk Flash Fiction Horizon Joy Melody Oneness Rise Thought-free

Flash Fiction

Dawn.

Black sky begins to break, fading into a soft white bluishness. All is still, witnessing in each other the daybreak. A gushing of joy silently takes over.

Fresh piercing air, like a giant wave, bathes us in one go. It is everywhere, not word-heavy, yet firmly present. Those who matches its ferocious calmness and coolness, live a long life.

Then a bold crimson red is poured at the rim horizon, complementing the darkness before devouring it fully as the red yawns and stretches into golden orange, sprinkling, spreading throughout, directionless, embracing every nook and cranny warmly.

The dusk sings and sleeps, the dawn rises and sings. And the birds and rivers sing along.

It may appear like an orderly routine, but it is truly a disorderly dance of colours, a splash of melody, fresh and wet, a sweet yet melancholic search at first, but actually a thought-free light oneness.

It is the break of dawn, it is the rise.

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From the Perspective of a Chicken

Posted on October 20, 2024 by Jagriti Rumi Blood Bundle Chicken Cluck Perspective Poem Upside Down

An Ode

**Pay *in kind*.**
[Image by Gordon Johnson from Pixabay]

From the Perspective of a Chicken

Hung upside down

Tied in a bundle like a bundle

I, yes me, clucked alone,

Cluck-cluck-cluck!

Were them other chaps sleeping?

Silly they, how could they

When hung upside down?

Whirring the scooter went

And I, and my folks, went along.

Sleep evaded and anger rushed

In my chicken veins and heart and brain,

I, yes me, clucked alone

And I concocted a simple plan!

Cluck-cluck-cluck!

Raised neck feathers, I’ll jump, peck, spur and flog,

Them two rascals whirring on this scooter.

See, do see, you will see, the fight

For I, yes me, am clucking alone.

Cluck-cluck-cluck!

Brethren, chaps, wake up

There is a shop

That’s the battleground

Them two rascals whirring on the scooter have professed

Ha! They say it’s a chicken shop

We own no such shop.

Blood!!!

Clucked the Chicken!

They’ll see, who is stronger

When not tied in a bundle like a bundle

And hung upside down.

**Brethren, attack!**
[Source – Pixabay]

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A Storyteller Appeared

Posted on August 18, 2024 by Jagriti Rumi Beasts Birds Blessed Earth Chinese-Whispers Circle Dancing Rivulet Gatha Giant Tree River Stories Storyteller Storytelling Wind Words

Tribute/Short Coverage

**Listening to the storyteller with care.**
[Image by Bianca Van Dijk from Pixabay]

A storyteller appeared… and cross-legged, excited, whispering, wondering, quiet, blank yet touched by warmth, we sat in a circle around him.

As if the giant tree with creepers, fungi, lichens and company, stepped back humbly, only to create a space for us listeners and the storyteller.

As if the wind played softly, swaying, singing a chorus in the background, only to live the tale being told, only to collect and pass it on.

As if the quiet birds stopped chirping or playing Chinese-whispers, only to let the melodious melody of the storyteller resonate.

As if the fragrant river turned into a dancing rivulet, only to water the story.

As if the blessed earth, steadied the spinning sky for a bit, only to partake in the narration.

As if the jungle beasts, big and small, furry and feathered, befriended the now and stopped the time, only to witness the storyteller’s old and endless Gatha.

As if the words, rhymed and bold, simple and gold, measured well and sold, performed in unison, only to let the storyteller’s story by all be known.

Glory to the known that welcomes the unknown.

Photo by Jagriti Rumi; Courtesy – KP
Photo by Jagriti Rumi; Courtesy – KP
First Indian edition. [Source – Wikipedia]

The absolutely fantastically amazingly brilliant book Beastly Tales from Here & There by Vikram Seth inspired the blogger to write this piece as a tribute to the author and as a short, crisp sort-of-a-coverage of the book.

It is a must-read for anyone interested in life, stories and the art of storytelling.

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A Dog Trying to Cross the Road

Posted on July 28, 2024 by Jagriti Rumi A Dog Dashing Cars Footpath Honk Metallic River Poem Road Whizz

Poem

In Pune, clicked by Jagriti Rumi

A dog trying to cross the road

I said to myself

Dashing cars dashed by

Whizz honk-honk-honk whizz

Right left, left right

This metallic river in a hurry

Tries to reach somewhere

Trying, reaching is living

I said to myself

But what about the poor dog,

Who is trying to cross the road?

The dog stood on the footpath

Aware about the hurrying metallic river

Trying nothing, reaching nowhere

Moving now, stopping now, living now.

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Of The Metaphysical Mood

Posted on July 14, 2024 by Jagriti Rumi Enough Fragmented Metaphysical Mixed Fiction Mood Sitting Down Thoughts Walking Wholly

Mixed Fiction

**The beginning of Aristotle’s *Metaphysics*, one of the foundational texts of the discipline.** [Source – Wikipedia]

The Patristic diagnosis of the decay of Greco-Roman civilisation ascribes that event to a metaphysical disease… It was not barbarian attacks that destroyed the Greco-Roman world… The cause was a metaphysical cause. The ‘pagan’ world was failing to keep alive its own fundamental convictions, they (the patristic writers) said, because owing to faults in metaphysical analysis it had become confused as to what these convictions were… If metaphysics had been a mere luxury of the intellect, this would not have mattered.
R. G. Collingwood

Dear Johnathan and Jerome, did you absorb this quote? Good!

Sitting down without a polite book in hand or rustling printed paper, without a smarty sneering touch-screen phone or tab or laptop, without watching the info influx or the dramatic tales, all this has become outdated it seems… and a difficult thing to do. Going on walk… just going on a walk, simply, quietly… by my own self… is a task, I tell you.

The plans I had stupidly made, the plan I am wisely making keep me tied up – am calculating and weighing and accepting and rejecting constantly. Separated from these thoughts, I laugh and cry, but my thoughts are ‘me’, when did I learn to separate these? Fragmented from within, I live.

I know… no, listen… I don’t, but please don’t explain, don’t even show me the way… don’t want to hear what the solution is… if I am asking the right question, then that’ll show, that’s enough.

But hey, tell me this, if you can sit down or go on a walk… calmy, quietly, wholly, not fragmented from within?

Then we will talk. Write back soon!

Ya-hoy to Charulata and my sweet Chihiro!

Tango-Charlie!