Unfurling

The never-ending narrative.

 Life unfurls

around every curve

in slow swirls.

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Matter or Maya?

PC: Smitha Keeran Warrier

[A Souvenir Shop at Boudhanath Stupa, Kathmandu, Nepal]

This little shop. And its pretty wares. Made from the grossest matter, by gifted hands. Such divine creations too! The artisans would have created them with so much love. So much care. And how they would have revelled in this process of creation! In that way, aren't these craftsmen quite next to God? But of course! It’s only second nature to them to mould such beautiful stuff while they go about their life and its more serious businesses.

I wonder what they feel about displaying their handiwork – these pieces of their heart and soul – right out there in the market. For millions of pairs of eyes to watch them and furtively look at the price tags. For as many hands to fondle them with desire, grab them at the conversion rate that's so favourable to the wallets they hold, or just flick them back and return them on some pretext or the other. By the way, who are we to speculate and haggle over the value of such priceless creations?

And what are these works of art made of anyway? Clay, wood, metal, cloth? Ropes, wires, threads, beads, stones? But they – the jewels, artefacts, prayer bowls, and all – beckon all our senses. They catch our eyes and we remain captivated.  We pick them up and caress them in our hands. We breathe in the smell of their earthy newness. We listen in rapture to the prayers that swirl and vibrate within them. What are they after all? Just matter? Or, maya, as per the beliefs the Stupa stands for?

Yes. Maya. The name board confirms.

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Fall

The finale. 

Watched for long, waited

all 'round the wall, breath bated,

for the final fall.

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Life

Intro... Drama... The End.

 A matinee
unreeled and wrapped up
by destiny.

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Moving Stillness

Sarangkot, Pokhara, Nepal

"The stillness in stillness is not the real stillness; only when there is stillness in movement does the universal rhythm manifest." - Bruce Lee.

I never could get the actual sense of Lee's words, try hard as I might to figure it out in the context of his own field of action. But his words made sense to me as I, along with my co-travellers, stood atop a hill at Sarangkot, watching the horizon, hoping to catch a glimpse of the rising sun. It eluded us anyway, hiding itself behind vivid cloudy folds.

Moving Stillness

Stillness. It manifests in different ways. Sometimes it's frozen and hard as a rock. Sometimes it drifts by like a gentle zephyr or a sailing wisp of a cloud. At times it's quiet like still waters. And at times, deafening like a roaring sea. Now and then, it would shed all its hues and yet again wear a vibrant collage of colours.

Stillness. Occasionally, you discover it within you. More often, you come across it around you, enfolding you, trickling into you, little by little, slowly, steadily. This stillness. This moving stillness.

Still silence
seeps, fills, overflows
hushed stillness.

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