Blowing in the wind.....

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I met her long back when my eyes were blue. Together we walked through some unsaid moments. The slender path that was never trodden before bared all passions of her soul to welcome prime of a youth. And, before it was time to be, we parted with whispers flowing from trees to sky ... “Will there ever be another tryst?”

The boy had another path to tread on...but, she had nowhere to go, none to comfort and her passions slipped into hardened shell of life, ignored and unnoticed, for to row it on through an endless journey.

Years after, an old man walked back as leisurely as would make time furious of his neglect and he went on retracing beaten tracks of life only to reassure himself of that life hadn’t been just a dream. He met her again...still lying alone, ignored and unnoticed. Nothing had changed much...except that she had outgrown with weeds around and his eyes had turned gray. The moments sped by.. muted by resurrection of those gone by and promises of those would ensue. He gazed on ...savouring pleasure of immaculate presence of someone whose creation had buried all its essence in his vision only. Within brim of his dim eyes he could only explore some frozen moments so passionately treasured into a string of silent footprints of memories upon her ruptured soul....

They parted again....but, this time neither she nor he had anywhere to go....only driven to destiny through life’s inevitability....answer was blowing in the wind...

I enjoyed your pages, but preferred to leave some reflections here only to tell you an untold tale of an innocent path....

Wish you would meet her some day, somewhere in your life too.

This is one that I had long wished to share on my blog, but your post has inspired to put it here instantaneously...maybe, it will now feature on my page too.

Regards,

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This is just another page of those tousled leafs on my table that floated in a blowing southern breeze of new-born Spring to touch down the comment box of a blog post by Alex at http://philososphyofalex.blogspot.com/2007/01/short-story.html before it finally settles down here.

Far, so afar !

Where, so far and afar, does my soul wander in pursuit of
Those tunes of thy flute that lets the breeze moan?
Where does to an alien place my bankrupt soul seek to tread on
Along the path that loses trail beyond
All margins of land in its pensive quest?

(Another vain attempt to transliterate Tagore’s poem, “Dure kothay dure dure...”...yet, I wish to share it with those who could not listen to the harmony in its original masterpiece)

The Barman’s string

As I grow beyond myself, I grow up within,
Searching for if I’m not what I am;
Else if I am what I’m not
And I grow up faster in and out of me.
The spirit that I thought to have won,
To be of my own has so silently
Caged me beyond all margins of liberty;
And, I stay immersed as motionless,
As vanquished as the hulks of Titanic.
Yet, do I crave to crown the name,
Or fame or the title or laurels or thorns?
Or do I only dare to immortalise all passions
Of youth latently spread upon my memories?
I look for, perhaps, those years and decades,
Those moments of mirth and sorrow,
That carried a proud identity so intently
Along stretched stairs of my follies.
I read on scriptures of life, of my own
And, attempt to explore a man in its image—
Of an incomplete man despite Raymond’s
Boastful cloak—to renew life’s licence.
Yes, Barman, as I am; Not a man alike the
Bur of a creeper, but of a bar for a sipper.
I was born amongst countless men, women,
Children—dead or alive—in this grand pub of world;
And at a tiny counter, half-lit, under a smoky veil
I have endlessly failed since to sell a pint;
Yet they keep me there as they wish
To see me fail and fail again until resigned.
I press my soul in, dress me up, and brace me
In that tavern floor; and the revellers join
And the Bar girls start the show, and
I fail not carrying my shameless self.
Upon my glistened eyes dance the images
Of society, relations, its myths and triumphs;
And, within my quavering soul burn pages
Of society, relations, the past and the future.
I stare on bids that swirl in gust—
Fluent as a kite severed from its string—
And, bargains flowing from lust to lust;
I watch on dancing swans of light
Leisurely fading out in murky night.
When the bells go, beats are gone
I journey back to my dingy prison—
Of hundred years of solitude—
And, put my blistered conscience on
Beneath the sacred Cross alone.
In quiet flame of candle’s glow—
As decayed as have I or Bar girls been—
I hear a placid tune’s flow
That’s played so near yet kept unseen.
Hours go and the night goes too,
The candle dies for dawn to rise;
I ponder who and what was sold—
The Barman, Bar girls, moments or soul.
Upon wings of morn dance shining ray,
Dipping night into dins of day;
I listen on to hymn that plays
And whispers, “Neither you nor they;
In nights of delight, lust and pain,
Sold are not even the girls in chain;
But those who revelled to set bargain
And, souls get bankrupt, moments are slain”.

Life of an autumn leaf

It is a long pause! It has truly been a long pause since last August night when my page mirrored a few drops of my reflections. But, the essence of it has flavour of its own too! The year nine went past as fast as I would expect of the ten should, and left the least blog entries that I wouldn’t rejoice in the following. It walked with me, yet it was not me that walked with it. It was all its sweetness that touched me with marvel of magic realism—I existed the way I didn’t; I felt the manner I didn’t. Perhaps, only Tagore could express beauty of its petite presence in my life—“Tumi esechhile, tabu aso nai, janaye gele” (You came, yet you didn’t; for to convey that you did).
And, when autumn descended upon falling wings of September, I was floating on soft cradle of those white clouds that had just parted with monsoon breeze. I could still hear murmurs of their moaning souls. I wandered and wondered; over those snowy peaks, rusty alpine steppes and yellow vales. The earth seemed to wipe off all scars of boundaries that nations drew upon her innocent face. On neither side were enemies; on either side spread profound calmness of the Himalayas.
It was moments full of some unforgettable walk; some walkways full of those unforgettable moments. With souls embracing my soul, we treaded on to nowhere. It was the 27th evening when Vasundhara opened her innocuous eyes—two tiny emerald green and a blue—and, from deep within her unfathomable depth had risen crowning emotions of mount Kamet, Mana, Ganesh and Deoban. It was my birthday! It was special for it to be there by those sacred pools which merged countries and margins that are all meant to stay apart. It was more special to have my lone friend in childhood—lady of my love—and, one of her chosen creations, all by my side in an eerie dusk that cloaked us in its warm beauty from freezing chill of mountain breeze at 16000 feet. But, the most special it was for a lone tune that flew from her sweet lips...“Ud jayega Hans akela...”. I wept, in mirth, in birth, in death, in faith and within sleeves of my failings.
It was another winter night. A ten year boy spilled out on busy city roads for the first time to attend famous music conference. He walked on, softly clinging wrinkled palm of his father—still confident, still warm—to taste what he hadn’t thought yet to be blowing his mind of for the rest of life. It was the first winter for him—and his father too—to miss someone whom they had so dearly loved and so terribly missed then.
It was music of which I still have a little comprehension. Yet, it was quite unusual for me in not having passion for music in an environment where rich flow of its stream had so evidently had its impression. It was a nightlong programme and I was nearly asleep. And, then came a blow—a gust of wind, a tempest...it surged up and up....let all emotions swirl within an invisible stir and its resonance touched every corners, dwarfing the sky to stoop down and it blew on...“Ud jayega Hans akela...”.
I didn’t understand meaning of a single word that echoed out of trembling lips of the legendary Kumar Gandharva. It was not my age to value what they meant also. But, tears rolled down. A ceaseless stream flowed, unknowingly irrigating virgin valleys of a tender soul. It was all for me to get into an eddy where I would struggle to let free myself of pains of severance and also long for those nicest moments of bondage within the world where my mom and I only reigned in. I never knew before that music could be so potent, so sacred, and all pervasive. And, I wept on inconsolably for reasons I hadn’t understood then. When it was almost dawn—a new dawn—we came out; a life had a new life, a new dimension that it had never thought to be existing before. It was my father who gently said, “You will weep again when you grow more, and try to feel what it all means”.
It took me years to learn Hindi. I had to learn it to get through compulsory exams after I joined civil services; yet it was just a moderate knowledge which couldn’t empower me to appreciate literary contents expressed in that language. Again, it was she—the girl of my childhood—who eloquently explained meaning of some nicest literary compositions. Amongst those was a Kabir’s bhajan that once penetrated within a child’s soul so subtly like a falling autumn leaf knowing not why the fall was, what meant its past and where would the breeze carry it to.
The tune that slowly brought out me out of trammels in my soul, took all care to let me learn beyond set symbols had also enthused me to listen to melodies of life. Each word added newer melodies to my emotions, laid newer roses of faith upon my consciousness and, went on turning newer pages of my life.
From within its subterranean profundity flourished an ivy of my flowering appreciation of life that grew up embracing essence of being here, of life being born and reborn through myriad forms of creative sense and of its endless cycle in which imperishable spectra of an incomprehensible wholeness would go on sowing newer seeds of consciousness, let it bloom and leave newer imprints.
I learned again it was not my birthday; it was for another birthday of life !
I went on listening to her; somewhat with my soul submerged within her lips, within her soul, within the bliss of life, within emotions of creations....
“Ud jayega Hans akela, jag darshan ka mela,
Jaise paat gire taruvar se, milna bahut duhela,
Na jane kidhar girega, lageya pawan ka rela... ”
It whispered, “Alone the soul would fly away, leaving all allurements, all crowns of glories of this worldly presence behind. Who knows where would the gust of severance from unique wholeness carry it to while smudging images of its entire past embodiment? Who knows where would the tempest carry a fallen leaf of a giant tree and who would find it where it was and where it would be?
And, I let myself being immersed in a wide pool of recess—a long pause of silence !!