Oh to be alive

In the morning light, imbued with colors’ bright, were spangled remnants, an artist’s delight. Had Heaven descended on earth, or had little elves visited last night? Brushes in hand, swishing nymph like, hues, perhaps from paradise. Yellow, ochre, crimson red, As far as the eye could see they’d swept, in a tawny tide. Underfoot too were traces as they’d tiptoed through the darkness, nimbly moving, arranging with the tiniest detail in mind. Is this autumn when, the trees shed their leaves? Nature’s every colour, is sheer delight.

Jaded walls, tell interesting tales, of a bygone era, hidden just beneath the ramparts, are whispers of   battles and lovers. Reflected off the shimmering rooftops, is the glorious time, beauty, fame and happiness pursuing which then, was divine. Reverberations of the past echo through, the hallways; some stark, some sublime. The edifice today seems forlorn too, looking for answers, across the divide.   Ambling through with a carefree gait, a sound arrests her move, a fragrance beckons like a lamp, leading even further. A touch as light as a feather, brushes past her brow. In the middle of time and space, lives overlap forever.     

The sky was overcast, a light mizzle greeted me as I walked out into the open, wanting to experience moments from my absolutely crazy childhood and teen-hood (sic), to coin a new word, as it were. Breathing in the moisture in the air and waiting for the downpour, I meandered through the streets, reaching the junction that divided the two worlds: the natural from the artificial. For quite some time, it was just the most pleasant experience, soaking in the whispering sound, as the drops of water kissed the expectant leaves; the fields’ verdant with the first beauteous touch, just a light caress, beckoned me to explore further. And then all too suddenly without any warning, ever so naturally, there was a deluge, an overwhelming, overpowering, downpour and all I did was take it on and in. Whispers changed to a constant chant, a rhythm that was simultaneously soothing and threatening, a rude reminder of our current plight as a nation and the world at large. As I let the rain pour dow...

Random,  could also be called hit and miss or arbitrary, but thoughts are thoughts, no more no less and have misted up my mindscape for a long time…woolly at times, at times crystal clear, they whiz through every now and then. They are all at once animate, vibrant and suddenly foggy or frozen.             Thoughts they say should be treated like birds flying across the sky…one needs to just look at them and not interrupt them in their flight across the firmament…at best one could fly with them for a while, hover, dip, dive and fly away into eternity or return now and then like the migratory birds.              The mind, it is said, is like a projection of the universe or an inversion of it, there are several time and space zones interlinking eons to myriad experiences, weaving a tapestry that has a varying manifestation through every being.    ...

             Poets have waxed eloquent about the rain; the ever elusive pot of gold is only at the end of a rainbow. Chasing it is both a challenge and a dream. Romance they say is in the air, cupid showers his arrows in the most unexpected directions, striking many a desolate heart. Even Eliza Doolittle the ‘Fair lady’ was taught English by Professor Higgins, by taking refuge in the rain…only metaphorically: The rain in Spain is falling on the plain. There is always something hugely poetic about the rains. Of course it can inundate, cloud and cause havoc too, but as of now I would like to elucidate on the beauty of the rain.               Over a period of time the rain has meant different things to me. Sometimes a friend walking along quietly, knowing fully well that’s all you need; sometimes a playful child, urging you to break free and romp in the deluge; sometimes a comforting, overpowering, overwhelming ...

If ignorance was rampant and you didn’t notice it, make a trip to Vadodara Gujarat, the erstwhile kingdom of the mighty Gaekwads. A legacy so abused, that it would perhaps go down again in the annals of history, as a land ensnared by land sharks, peopled by callous strange,  superstitious people, especially when it comes to plants. One often wonders how such an ironic paradox coexists, as the other side of the picture has the full of life, vibrant, vivacious, swearing by Navratri , globe-trotting, yet simple souls: happy revelling in dal-bhaat-saag-rotli. Generalised, though it may sound, twenty odd years is a long time to come to a conclusion, that most of them are anti-plants. Their oft heard, knee jerk reaction to a simple question like, “Why did you cut down that tree?’’ is simple and banal, “Well, mosquitoes are created here’’ (sic).  Not to mention their scant regard for cleanliness as a community, anything that is not consumed within the house, must go out. ...

In the daily rush of life, sometimes, ever so quietly, just per chance sometimes, comes a moment one wants to savour forever.  A moment so vibrant and yet calming, a ripple in placid waters or a restful instant beneath a storm, it is often difficult to discern. In the brouhaha caused by the criss-crossing labyrinth of life around, be it hyped and sensationalised simple everyday goings on, or earth shattering news; one is often inundated with a mantle of unnecessary information, bytes that bite, in fact gnaw into ones innards, like an omnipresent carcinogen. The consequence is not too hard to guess, individuals flailing around, battered, floundered souls; grappling with lots unknown.                     So how does one disentangle from this octopus like grip, of these so called hazardous situations/events?  There is a way, the middle path as the Buddha would have us believe or the Zen...