Alankrita...

portions of a rain-forest cultivated for habitation...

 It was a long awaited occasion – a destination wedding at a spa resort.

Our square - quant red sloped roofs over penthouse suites and cane sofas with their bright red cushions sprawled on the verandahs. Lush green grass in the central square glistened in the evening light. At the centre was an ancient stone dome structure supported by carved pillars.

Golf-carts whispered over to Ananda, the cocktail venue. Heavy glittering saris and flowing lehengas, churidar-kurtas, or dark suits graced the occasion. The DJ’s beat brought a sparkle in the flowing amber, and moods mellowed.

The beat became heady as the youngsters took over. The rhythm of the night changed, became lighter, faster. The night laughed, sang, and danced with them, lighting up the darkness outside. They danced away the darkness, till tired, spent and hungry they came for breakfast with the morning sun.

The graceful life-size Buddha sat in welcome outside Prakruta, the well-side restaurant. Smaller figurines stood everywhere.  Amidst lush green growth, it was feasting within a jungle. South Indian, Continental and a live counter vied for selection. Hot dosas, cheese masala omelettes, and soft meat balls made it difficult to decide what not to eat. 

A hushed silence embraced the lush vegetation as we strolled. Tranquility flowed all around and within. Quaint figurines peeped out from behind leaves. One had to look carefully to spot them. As we peeped into the circular pond, tiny fishes darted across the floating leaves. The stone tortoise looking on as the Nandi, on its pedestal, gazed lovingly at the god above, lost in his peace and serenity.

As we turned the corner we came upon the figurine of a stone Goddess. It stood atop an old discarded, buffalo-cart, snuggling in the foliage. It stood blessing the world in love and eternal stillness. 

These were magical moments in the cusp of eternity.  

The marriage ceremony on the main lawn, open to the sky, was lit by the string lights stretched overhead and around. Towering trees and dense foliage was all around. And it was within this lap of nature, as the holy flames reached high within the dome, that the union was solemnized.

It was the formal coming together of all people as one.

The buffet lunch was special, being a Sunday. The spicy ‘Andhra chicken’ with the ‘baghara rice’ was divine. It reminded one of the tiny mutton balls served during breakfast.

The mince in the mutton balls was ground so fine that the mix was paste-like and constituted one whole. The secret lay in the mutton being ground on a stone sil-batta (similar to pestle and mortar) and not a mincer.

That evening was a time of letting go and surrendering to fun and joy. It was an evening for old melodies, ghazals on demand, and a touch of melancholy. Haleem epitomised the evening dinner. The flavour of the Indian spices was so subtle, that the aroma, wisp-like, would come and go. It did not overpower any of the other flavours but stayed on as a tantalising reminder demanding a second helping.

The youngsters took to the stage and danced. The DJ played. The music and their dance was a final good-bye. From diverse backgrounds, having grown up together at school, college or at work, it was in essence an “Auf Wiedersehen” evening.

A “till we meet again” goodbye to the place and its ambience, to the fun, joy and laughter and to each other.

The stay was a microcosm, tranquil, in the lap of nature, with its underlying message of timelessness. There was nothing to fret or worry over. Just be with each other in unending chats, walks, or just drift into a dreamless sleep. There was laughter, joy, love sprinkling all existence.

- A wonderful culmination to a wonderful occasion always to be remembered. 

And a lifetime embrace, with blessings for a bonding to last forever... 

The Soul of the Amer

As I sit quietly in the hotel room,
Looking out at the wall of the Amer
Stretching across the horizon,
I remember those evening bonfires
With risqué songs echoing
To foot tapping music of the dhaplis.

Songs that spoke of love,
And of the simple, harsh desert life.

Cupped in the mellow flow of the evening
And the nostalgia,
The wall, the grains of sand outside
And the scattered bushes,
Black in the night
Seemed to rise in the air and speak.
Their hushed voices recounted
The eternal vigil
Of cold, dark desert nights
From the ramparts of the Amer
Watching….
Always watching.
Forever looking out for enemies
Who came to rape, plunder, lay waste,
Not only the streets and people of Amer
But the very barrenness of the desert.

They
Spoke of the horror
Of those wanting to preserve,
Fall under killing swords;
Their rivers of blood draining away
In the desert sands
And the warble -
The mourning wail of the Rudaalis
Which reverberated in the desert air
Forever.

************************

Under their watch many had grown
Nurturing the land,
Their own, and themselves.
Carrying forward honor
And the legends of bravery
For coming generations.
With voices steeped in deep sadness,
They remembered
How these loving ones too had passed.

“Only we remained.
Grains of sand, nestling safely,
Under protective rocks.
And now, as the rocks
Wither away in the wind,
We too will pass.
For nothing is eternal.”

And the river of time will flow on…

Till one day,
The bushes will awaken,
Shrug off the sand.
And emerge slowly, tentatively, to peep out.
And as they reach up
The rhythmic beat of the dhaplis
And the singing of the desert winds
Will come alive once again.

For the magic of the desert never really dies.

 

A morning walk...

Moments in stillness, when all moves far away and yet dwells within, when sounds occur in silence. 

When the winds ruffle your hair and you are not there, and in that stillness, time and space wait, for you to return... 

The weeping lion

Sprinklers and the fragrance

Of wet earth

Stroked the fluttering flag.

The hot ‘tulsi-mulaithi tea

Trickled down my throat

In deep cleansing.

And by my side

The growling lion,

Carved in stone, wept.

On the waves of silence

Wafted by the morning breeze

Came the haunting strains of the chant

“Aauumm”.

"...ॐ..."

The ‘Aaa’ emerging from deep within

Reached out.

The ‘Uuu’, never ending,

Trembled in the breeze.

The ‘Mmm’ mingled with both, 

And as One, 

They embraced all existence.

Cocooned in the reverberations

I drifted away.

Within those syllables all was still.

I ceased being to be.

I was the scintillating morning glimmer

On the leaves and the grass,

The sun-rays streaming from behind the clouds,

And the chirping, so clear, 

That came from far far away.

Time and space, stilled within that moment,

Waited for me to return. 

 In itself and within the stillness was the belief:

“In this land of  three syllables 

The lost rivers never died.

They lived on in its people, 

Carrying love, faith, hope 

And an undying belief 

The humanity would one day prevail

And the weeping lion

Would come alive and learn to roar again.”

The forgotten legacy..

The plant, related to the legendary ‘Kalpavriksha’, is also known as Parijat, which appeared as a result of the churning of the Milky Ocean, the “Samudra Manthan”.

Though said to be a favorite of Lord Krishna, many call it the ‘tree of sorrow’ for its flowers bloom only at night. And yet, in those few hours, its fragrance heals the darkness, spreading peace.

They say the Gods touched the plant with gentle fingers, giving its seeds and leaves, life-granting powers, to heal the universe.

Harshringar – the night jasmine

We pruned the plants today.

All,

Except for one at the gate.

The pruning shears stopped

Their click-clack chattering

At the hint

Of an old lingering fragrance,

And the sight of small white flowers

Lying scattered on the ground below.

As darkness fell

And the cumulus scattered

Across the skies,

Under the softly glowing stars

The tiny white flowers bloomed again.

The street lights watched quietly,

As, wafted gently by the winds,

It permeated our room

And then the lobby

And finally the whole house.

The fragrance, tantalising,

Almost wistful in its hesitation,

Whispering awake dormant memories

Forgotten for so long,

Carrying just one message:

“Home”.

The haunting reminder of an old legacy.

The chattering shears knew

As did the hands holding them:

That it did not matter

Whether we held on to it or let it go

The legacy would remain.

For the eternal within, never dies.

Shared moments of joy, intangible, lack physicality and yet have a strange power to create bonds that go beyond space and time. They generate a sweet-sour ache, re-awakening old memories lost in time and an unstoppable urge to go back and walk those streets once again. 

Or just lose oneself in the grandeur of a heritage preserved over centuries or just sit and  watch the twinkling of time reflected on the waves as they drift by. 

Innocence rekindled...

From across the seas I watched
As she ran over cobbled streets

Arms akimbo
Reaching out to clutch the clouds
In the azure skies above.

I saw her
Leaning over the bridge parapet
To wave at the sailors
Atop barges
Riding the waves below
Laughing as they waved back.

Amorphous, vapor like
Her undiluted joy

Spread and scattered.

Free and whole of and in itself

It glistened on each blue-green wave

And rode on the winds

Touching all that lived.

A linking

To an innocence long lost

Rekindled

For those few moments
That were spent together.

The last refuge

To let go...

It is a place to rest, a place to let go and rejuvenate. 

- To allow the fast flowing waters to cleanse us of the dead or the dying - loved ones, our unfulfilled needs, wants and desires. There is much to discard, to leave behind in this river, the waters of which as so many say, remain forever clean and pure.

Carrying our burdens of grief, pain and sadness we light earthen lamps, diyas, and place them on the leaf-boats of the holy peepal tree and to let them float away on the rushing waves as they flow past the banks. 

Legends have it that these help light the wave home for the souls of the departed. Each such diya bobbing away on the waves carries within it remnants of the pain and grief that has accompanied each passing and is now cast away into these waters. 

For dreams that died and unfulfilled desires too, this becomes a final act of  giving up and letting them go, to let the fast flowing waves carry them away to their last places of rest. 

This watching of each such diya rush away on the fast, turbulent waves of the Ganga is the bidding of a final goodbye to all that is gone - and with it, tired and spent, when we immerse ourselves in the cold water of the river, we let go of  any vestiges of remaining regret, emerging refreshed, rejuvenated and perhaps with a hollow feeling, an emptiness, a void which only time will fill.  

March 8, 2017.

Let these moments of quiet weave themselves into a mantle of silence and take us into its fold.

Let the peace from this silence flow into our being.

And wrapped within those folds, when all else disappears, we will sense the stillness and within it, the essence of the music of all creation.  

The Silent Music

When the sound of the water

Falling in a cascade
Overpowers all other sounds
Of violence, fear and anger
And then slowly gentles
Itself,
Will the silence speak.

In the cacaphony of life
And the roar of its anger
The rhythm of its soundless music

Dissipates 
Like an uncared fabric
Worn bare.

Let it be alive
To grow and evolve
So that we may hear the music
And learn to live again.