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.