Sometimes one dip changes your smile and temperature. It takes you then to places that can only be created in dreams through memories ofcourse. You walk long looking at forms, colours, patterns, walls, speculating age, sounds of children and cows, of burning dead trees and water ripples, hearing bodies visually and later language. Sometimes a small reaction changes the whole tail of events. Sometimes the start was the only end. But the dip is important. Because that is the door to nature. And nature is within. Advertisements
There is magic here. And no other word can come close to expressing the invisible, that India carries. The final push to the food. The hungry mother slept on my knees. I looked for water but left only the yellow fruit. The cold moving empty train. The quaint noise. Her warmth, laughter. Still innocence. Giving is receiving. Mother Ganga.
In one of my travels a sage asked me, what is the measure of happiness? I tried guessing but I could have never known ? As I softly asked him to please stop smiling only, and say. He took his time. And said the true measure of happiness is the average of sunrise and sunsets a man sees divided by days of life. Sometimes it feels inappropriate but it is kind of apt.
Sometimes from somewhere a may be comes. Now may be is hope. It is told to you if you can run till a point you might catch what you are seeking. The time is limited. You have no idea of the way. Your resolve at first will be far from achieving it. But in the now you start running. But you realize that light has started getting darker. The steps are uneven. Some slopes. Some roses with thorns of autumn. Some puzzles to make the way interesting. If you then just gain that rhythm of not merely running but enjoying the performance of just being. Using body and mind just as a tool. That when you will even reach. There will be no one to clap. But the rewards are going to be so multiple from all the oxytocin that you created with your thoughts, with your lungs. That whole space will start treating you as you are his own. Quietly.
– All say i have gone on my mother, slanting slope with a dead end like nose, high cheekbones, eyes watching from a socket, paler complexion. Today when i lied beside her listening, i saw a few lines sketched around her lips, tight forehead, intense she looked, and looked old. I leave for Kashmir the day after for a month and wanted to post this write-up which i wrote six months ago on the ghats of Benaras. I am drunk tonight. … Holi city, indeed Crowded by boredom Of new and the old Japanese is written on the walls, Telugu, Gujrati, Hindi, Marwari and deity of the falling doll, Walls are tall as lanes are narrow concluding steps Going towards the flow Ganga looks like one today The sun is shining on the polluted dark A bark flows with the river, with a free body, swelled liked a shapeless balloon Him, crows are murdering more. But the noon is calmer here, they say, river trudges up from there background chantings and prayers from sound systems …