#9 exile

Most of us love to create little gardens in our ports.Unearthing little plants and giving them a whole new place to expand in a selected area. They are ‘given’ the small pots as their settlements.

Green and brown make a great couple.

When the wanderer in me navigate my way through hosts of heads yearning to catch up with one smiling face, I must share: I return cold more than often. Everybody in an unfamiliar pot is robbed off their state of belongingness. ‘I don’t know you’ becomes the wear of community togetherness. From a distance the drums beat, the conches do not blow…the priest performs his time tabled ritual, Goddess of strength with her children look for it.

Autumn festivals are a great unwinding times bringing under their umbrella a prism of life. But with every move from one ground to another the gregarious creature in us dies a silent oblivion death. Doesn't it knock us all, a vertical ascend lets us lose…it tears into pieces the essential cords which make us a social being. The connection...the entanglements, the share of pranks and laughter,the coming together in pain, in grief gets squashed under the wheel of never at halt city traffic.

Yearning for a home not in a page, but a real mother,father, siblings and furthered home never leaves us alone. 

Our life in exile continues from where it all began. 

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# 8 season of mist

We all want to tell our stories. Warm, tender, twinkling moments we all want to share. 

When I opened the door this morning, thick mist blanketed the open field that greets me lush green every morning. This morning the open lay had some other share to do. It wanted to conceal, it wanted toplay hide and seek, it wanted to play the lamb. The mist was joyfully all over playing prank.

This is how autumn mist tenderly put her feet on my arid land.

White, moist sky and pasture land just in preferable sync.It is time to get frenzy in festive color. It is the time drum beatings and sticks would reverberate from the thick forests of human habitat. It is the time when most are packing for their bracketed homegoings.

My home in the hills must be raining. It must be cold. It waits for my autumn appearance and each time… I have atrocious narrative as an excuse knocking at the door, convincing those yearning, those waiting arms, “not this time, next year for sure.”

I wait for the next autumn, the “season of mist and mellow fruitfulness” every year. And each year the mist of a make up conceals the shadow underneath my eyes.

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#7 surprises

Books are never worth bartered treasures. They are worth every sink, every musty smell they leave as age catches up with them. Life breathes in the pages as a butterfly in the wide open.  

 Each of the pages hold rich texture. The blanks between the lines too hold a lot more than the fast racing eyes can catch up with. It gives us space to store our thoughts and images the text helps us to develop.

                                        

In each pages the search for meeting an assumed moment becomes a pulsating process. As the eyes ferrets out through the lines, our mind begins to travel through the similar tracks. There is this uncanny symmetry of peace, of getting carried away, of distancing from the present to the kingdom the book leads us to. It introduces us to new world encompassing,overwhelming, worth every escape.

There are twists and turns too. But who doesn't like surprises? Surprises are everywhere and they never leave without any teaching tips.Surprises make texts and life both worth every wait.

Surprises leave us smiles and tears alike. I am not strong enough to admit that they let us grow, but for sure they let us flow, like a brook that goes on forever.

                                        Aha... "Men may come and men may go

                                                             but I go on forever."

Life goes on filling each pages: flowing, splashing, augmenting.

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