Corridor

It's a tale of contrasts.

Day peeps in,

night lurks, time unseen

meanders.

©

Words

pc: pngtree.com

 

Sue & Rue

Rue: As times change, words take on a different meaning.

Sue: Meaning?

Rue: Often they mean the opposite of what they are supposed to mean.

Sue: Like?

Rue: When you say something went off without incident, it could just mean there was no violence to report.

Sue: But when there really is none to report…

Rue: When you say there was no untoward incident to report, it would just mean nobody reacted or resisted.

Sue: So what do you really mean?

Rue: I mean, when “peace” becomes “lack of war”, “war” would become a “cry for peace”.

Sue: So what would you choose?

Rue: War or peace?

©

Serendipity of Sorts

My visit to the Wax Museum in Kolkata brought back to me the memory of a day I had spent narrating poems to my (poet) father. This was just over a couple of months before he passed away. Age had impaired his vision, so it was a strain for him to read. Therefore, I had these long and delightful sessions of reading and discussing poetry with him. He had this amazing ability to listen to poem after poem for long hours at a stretch. And he would respond to even the subtlest of nuances in every poem. Rarely, he would ask me to stop reading and we would discuss things unrelated to poetry. After a short interlude, he would ask me to resume reading.

At the end of several hours of reading, my father would be thoroughly drained from listening, and my throat would be painfully parched from reciting. However, both of us would be elated in a way only poetry could make one feel elated.

My visit to the Wax Museum was, by the way, happenstance. Especially when I didn’t know a wax museum existed in Kolkata (Newtown). Surprisingly, most of the people I met in Kolkata – all of whom belong to the city – have not been to the museum.

On this particular day, he had asked me to read out the entire series of my (forthcoming) collection of poems, The Eternal Garden. Writing those poems was in itself a stroke of serendipity. As though they had been waiting to be written by me, they flowed out all on their own. Added to that was the instant connection Achhan had with those poems. All in all, that would always be counted as a special day in my life. Those moments can never be re-lived – not even if Achhan were not to pass on, not even if I were to write another series of poems. That experience can never be revived – not even if I were to put back the clock. It’s like a one-time password. There you have it! Live it or leave it.

After the reading session, my father said the collection was one of my best ever and the concept Tagorean. With all humility, I accept this as inspiring words of encouragement from a father to his daughter, and a generous blessing from an accomplished poet to a still aspiring one.

An excerpt from the collection, The Eternal Garden:

I lose
and
rediscover myself
in you.
At a loss again,
I wonder
where you begin
and I end?

©

Unfurling

The never-ending narrative.

 Life unfurls

around every curve

in slow swirls.

©

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.

©