Behind the scene...

On a breezy, cool December afternoon, an Express train chugs out of Pune…

In the S5 compartment, among the many occupied seats, there is an unoccupied one. Curious passengers eye this seat wondering whether the passenger may board the train at the next station. Or better still, whether this seat is available!

After an hour or two, the TC hands the empty seat (and berth) over to a waitlisted passenger and makes some quick money out of it. This was a train ticket not cancelled…

The waitlisted passenger puts his feet up; he is happy. Perhaps, he was in a last minute rush and could not plan his journey. Maybe some untoward incident happened and he is trying to make it in time. And this time, he got lucky.

The TC and the seat-buyer thanked the passenger who did not cancel the ticket. There sure must be some story behind this, right?

You bet there is.

What is life?

God. Enlightenment. Truth. Shunyata. Mounam.

All these concepts… They’re like defined spaces among undefined spaces. And all that has been defined exists in our mind(s). Outside, these concepts have no validity or utility.

Not able to write more… It is so tough to write what you ‘know’. So much easier to write what you don’t know, or what you understand, or at least, pretend to understand.

Alandi beckoned

Sant Dynaneshwar. I had heard of him and his contemporary saints way back in school first. I think, in 4th Std. My memory fails me. Sant Tukaram, Sant Ramdas, Sant Eknath, et al.

Visiting Alandi was on my mind ever since I came back to Pune last year. Somehow, the calling came on October 30 (Saturday) and I found myself biking towards Alandi.

The town reminded me of Thiruvannamalai though Alandi is still not as commercialized as Thiruvannamalai. And thank God for that!

Headed straight to Mauli’s Sanjeevan Samadhi (samadhi while still alive) spot. Sant Nivrittinath, Sant Muktabai, and Sant Sopandev (Mauli’s siblings) were all present when he took his Samadhi along with many other devotees and followers. Mauli (mother) was what Sant Dynaneshwar’s contemporary saints called him.

After pradakshina, bought the Haripatha and the Pasayana and began reading them in the blessed company of Varkaris. Thereafter, had bhojan prasad.

From what I could gather, the Varkaris were/are like “singing saints”… similar to the 63 Nayanars, I guess. Mauli had resurrected the Varkari sect/movement in the 13th century in only a brief span of 21/22 years that he lived…

Sitting under the Peepal tree near Mauli’s Samadhi is pretty much the same as sitting inside Virupaksha cave.
Nothing more to say.

Borrowed sorrows

Kuch baatein aisi hoti hain,
Kuch rishte aise hote hain jinke naam nahin hote;
Hote hain, toh sirf paigaam...
Warna sirf jaam.

Aap ne aisa jaadu kiya, ke hum hosh kho baithe.
Phir, aap ne aisa jaadu kiya, ki hum humko kho baithe.

Just another day in paradise

It’s one of those days… When you hum a classic song sung in your mother tongue. No matter how much you think and write in English, it sometimes can never relate to your ‘native’ anguish.

Have been humming (trying really hard) Engane njaan urakkendu and Kaliveedurangiyallo..kalivaakkurangiyallo from Deshadanam since morning. Though there is some cathartic effect, the anguish does not break away. It keeps gnawing like a hungry rat trapped.

Just now, another song walked into the remote crevices of my godforsaken mind… Vaalkkanezhuthiya makaranilaavil maamboo manamozhuki from Paithrukum.

Change

Evolution changes choice.
Choice changes evolution.
What changes the change?

Is there more to this than what meets the eye? Is this cyclical or linear? Do we know or as usual merely pretend?

As long as you have not grasped that you have to die to grow, you are a troubled guest on the dark earth. – Mircea Eliade, Romanian writer.

Fleeting lines from a song long forgotten

Main tujhse janmu…
Toh shayad mujhe panaah mile...

If

My life contains my life's most important word.

Gone?!

Gone are the good morning mornings and the good night nights. Each moment, a part of me dies and a part replaces it: trying to live.

Grrr...

Karta: I want to be inside Virupaksha cave right this moment. It is the only cocoon that protects me from the world. Protects the world from me.

Sakshi: What a deep level of attachment! Still have a long way to go...

Who am I: Who is observing the observer observing the observed?

Sound: Grrr...

Once more...

Sudden lovebursts and longings in every heartbeat I hide…
Yet, your deep, loving eyes won't say:
I'll stay.

Your deep, loving voice somehow careless of my heartbreak.
Yet, the broken heart whimpers, whispers, sighs and sings:
Our hindi love song.

Just love me...
At least, lie to me:
once more.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Mein aur meri tanhayee;
Mein jaanu aur meri khuda jaane.

Koi khalish hain hawaon mein…

Flowers have been nipped in the bud. Just before they could bloom together.
However, these flowers shall bloom again. When the cold-hearted winter gives way to sunny spring and summer…

Interestingly, there is no pain this time.
Maybe it’s the realization that promises can be broken even before trying to keep them.
Maybe it’s Thiruvannamalai healing me from afar.
Maybe it’s my belief that God is in his heaven and all is well on earth.
Maybe the love went deeper than my sore and numb nerves.

The sun shall rise tomorrow and I shall not dwell in the dark tonight. Every dawn, I meditate facing the east awaiting my sunrise.

I pray to God everyday that I may never get Alzheimer’s. For I believe that I live in my memories. They, along with hope, keep me alive. They provide the courage to love once again.

Once again, a part of me has died. It shall resurrect though. For I shall be reborn; and so shall you.

In a song

We are two teardrops in a song. We'll flow with the music. But eventually, we will dry up somewhere near smiling lips.

Just like that

Woh joh kisi ne naa samjha
Woh mein; woh tum...

Woh humne humse hii jaana.

An umbrella story/ Two mornings/ Mornings

Yesterday morning, she came late; drenched to the bone. Aakash was waiting for the maid. He was getting late for work. It was already 8:30am.

“What happened? Why are you late? And wet?” asked Aakash. “I don’t have an umbrella; my daughter uses mine to go to college,” Sunita replied sheepishly. She started her daily routine of sweeping and mopping the floor.

Just before she was done with her work for the day, Aakash walked to his bedroom, took his umbrella from the table, folded it neatly, and gave it to her.

Sunita replied, “Thanks. I’ll return this tomorrow morning.” Aakash retorted nervously, “No; it’s for you to keep. It rains heavily nowadays. You’ll get sick if you get wet like this daily.”

Today morning, Sunita arrived at 7:30am sharp. Aakash noticed that she had an old and abused umbrella in her hand. She was soaking wet from the heavy rain outside. Obviously, this umbrella was of little help.

Aakash asked, “What happened to the umbrella I gave you yesterday?” Sunita (proceeding towards the broom) replied matter-of-factly, “I gave it to my son; he took it to school.”

Such is her love. Such is her life.

A tagged post

A friend recently blogged on Ameen Sayani. When I read this post, my trail of thoughts travelled to Binaca Geetmala, the most popular radio show in Indian history.

Then I remembered listening to radio stations at night because my mom was a big fan of music and songs. She primarily listened to old Malayalam songs but once in a while listened to Hindi songs as well.

I remember Ravi Mama coming home one evening, during those chawlwallah days, with new toothpastes that were out in the market then: Binaca and Cibaca. Light blue toothpastes. For the first time, I brushed my teeth with toothpastes that came in a color other than white!

A little boy back then, I had no idea about market wars. Binaca and Cibaca had threatened Colgate’s leadership and monopoly in the market back then. Now, we see Binaca and Cibaca written on cheap plastic toothbrushes that come free with Dabur Red toothpaste.

Such is life.

End of a dialogue

A child (looking out of a window): Wow! Look! The breeze is so cool; the raindrops spraying on my face is so refreshing.

An elder (peering into the morning newspaper): Close the window; the furniture will be spoilt.

The catalyst

Muse.

The very word is amusing. It lives in its own existence. A muse is to an artist what a catalyst is to a chemical reaction. Basically, what God is to creation or life. As Osho says: The catalyst does not cause any reaction or creation though without its presence nothing can be created; nothing happens.

The relationship between a muse and her artist is the most indefinable relationship.

My desktop wallpaper

An ash-clad face with simmering piercing eyes. Sun-dried and wind-beaten long tresses. Agni surrounds him. He stares at me from my desktop.

Who is he? What is his journey?

All I know is that he was at the last Kumbh Mela (where some photographer captured his fiery gaze). Maybe that is all we need to know about him.

kahin toh

Kahaan kho gayi mere ghar kii chaabi;
Kahaan khoye maine meri raah.

Kahaan jaaon ab taala dhoondne;
Chaabi se pehle taala jo kho gaya tha... Kabhi.