I Run… Yet I Remain

Whenever I lose a dear one, am hurt by someone close, or when I make a mistake—I try to console myself. The collective wisdom asks me to learn from life-lessons and move on. But the anger and the angst keep hurting. Memories never fade. Sadness doesn’t leave. Good, bad or ugly—sounds, sights and smells linger. Yes, with time it becomes easier to forgive. But can we ever forget? I can’t. I run…Yet I remain.

People and experiences are never alike. There is no template for life questions, answers and lessons. Each time I cry, my tears are different. My laughter is never the same in every situation.

The way each tragedy kills is unique. Happiness gives joy in myriad hues. We can’t copy- paste life’s dimensions, times and relationships. Perceptions differ and keep changing. These can’t be framed in formulae.

We live and die moment to moment. And each moment we are reborn, we are different—so is the world. My thoughts echo in Heraclitus’s words: “No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.”

Wondering Mind Wandering Thoughts Series

Self Portrait: Fireside Thoughts

Fireside Thoughts-Self Portrait

Living Bridges And Walk Of My Life

I was awestruck when I encountered ‘Umkar’—the jaw-dropping ‘living root bridge’—while exploring the woods of Cherrapunji in Meghalaya. The breathing roots of trees met, merged, and melted into a spectacular living bridge. ‘Umkar’ called me to connect, lured me to climb,  urged me to cross.

The primitive relationship between trees and people echoes in these living-root-bridges, such as the legendary ‘Double Decker’ of Nongriat village. Villagers of West Jaintia and East Khasi Hills in Meghalaya create these marvels from the living aerial roots of Ficus Elastica—Indian rubber tree. 

The merging bridges signify the possibilities emerging from enduring bonds among humans, and between humans and nature. These bridges implore us to build, not to burn or break. Trees and roots teach us the ancient law of existence, infinity, and eternity—to rise but to retain and remain rooted.

Walking in the whistling woods is the walk of my life—a journey within and without. Sights, scents, and sounds of surroundings seduce my senses; heart wonders, mind wanders. The wind caresses; the morning warmth envelops and spurs me to sing Denver’s “Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy.” Dawn enchants me, dusk enthralls. The stars and the moon play hide and seek among the silhouettes touching my melancholy.

I hear children laugh and clap when the birds coo and flap. My eyes see a lass flutter her eyelashes when the butterflies dart and flit. Swinging trees remind me of dancing lads drunk on youth.

The walk of life takes me to times, people, and places—near, far, and forgotten. Nostalgia overpowers, reason raises existential questions. The heart hums Tagore’s “Ekla Cholo Re”, while the wind whispers: “I am with you in your quest.” I discover the search is never complete, the journey never ends.

Great minds join my life-walks. I regain the lost paradise when the music of a Mozart or a Beethoven seeps into my soul. The world is worth and a wonder when a Wordsworth or a Wodehouse exhilarates with his words. My thoughts ask people petty and pompous to ‘take a walk’, but never with me. I imagine scenarios from Orwell’s “Animal Farm” when I see dogs on the leash—what if the roles are reversed?

People closer than closeness betray. Men and women use even the beautiful and the fragile—a flower, a ‘Parijat’—to deceive. Parijat wilts, love withers, memory mourns, treachery torments.

If we forget the count of time, forsake the weight of living, and embrace nature with abandon, we can drown in the ecstasy of “dolce far niente”—the sweet pleasure of doing nothing. Exhorts us Mary Shelley—to live by leaving: 

“Let us… seek peace… near the inland murmur of streams, and the gracious waving of trees, the beauteous vesture of earth, and sublime pageantry of the skies. Let us leave ‘life’, that we may live.”

Nature’s rhythms sing songs of bliss. Its spirit tells stories of love and kindness. Her sounds are symphonies of silence and solitude. With nature in the heart, soul breaks into a dance; the Wordsworth in us serendipitously finds a hidden beauty.  But this mysterious temptress never reveals all. It delights with the innocence of a nymph and entices with the coquetry of a woman wily and wanton. 

Mother nature provides shelter, solace, and sustenance. She gives us sense, sensitivity, and sanity, and sanitizes our souls. We return to roots and answer our calling when we come home to her. She invites us to feast on her, on life—to drink and devour from its abundance. Forever fecund, life pours from her pores; but we kill this very life. We pilfer, pillage, plunder.

The universe is unity. Humanity, the most conscious member of this singularity, must keep the harmony intact for its survival. Call it an epiphany, or awakening of ecological conscience—we share the pulse of existence, and in this sharing lie human hope and destiny.

“Wondering Mind Wandering Thoughts -Trees Series”

The edited version of this article was published in The Economic Times dt. 11.01.2021: https://economictimes.indiatimes.com/blogs/the-speaking-tree/the-living-bridges/

Images

  • Umkar Living Root Bridge Pic: Sukumar Bardoloi;
  • Double Decker Living Root Bridge: Arshiya Urveeja Bose

In Search of Mergings

Rooted apart, trees crave to unite, intertwine, interlock. They grow to reach out and connect. Their trunks long to meet, branches yearn to mingle, roots lust to merge. They sway in unison and sing the song of togetherness with whispering winds, or in silence. Trees dance in euphoria when they touch and embrace.

I see it every day when I look out of my window, when I take a walk in the park, or when I pass through a forest. Trees support each other, give space, share, and spread the shadows—but never sinister. Trees are the same everywhere.

Humans too are the same everywhere. But they differ from trees. They grow apart when they grow. They seek separation, not closeness. Proximity causes anxiety, affection is affected, feelings are faked.

Trees put me to thoughts like none else. I wish humans were less like humans and more like trees.

Robert Macfarlane captures the magic:

“I think of good love as something that roots, not rots, over time, and of the hyphae that are weaving through the ground below me, reaching out through the soil in search of mergings.”

“Wondering Mind Wandering Thoughts”—‘Trees Series’.

Pic: Jacaranda sings n sways to meet mingle n merge

Jacaranda Pic

Soul has no Secrets which Behaviour doesn’t Reveal

Recently I read a true story. Takeaways:
There are two kinds of advisors in this world:

(a) Those- who hear both sides of the story, filter all exaggerated nonsense and obvious lies, and give advice based on basic principles of truth, fairness, equity and empathy… If they err, they err on the side of kindness;
And
(b) Those who hear only one side and ill-advise—gloating in their bookish knowledge and wisdom without considering human values, and short and long-term repercussions. They put a price to each emotion and act, and dig long forgotten graves to bring skeletons out. They do enormous harm to all.

The ill-advisor and the ill-advised either have no soul or have sold it.

As a wise person had said— “Soul has no secrets which behaviour doesn’t reveal.” 

david-marcu-14AOIsSRsPs-unsplash

Wise in Foolishness

Religious rituals perhaps have their logic and use, but they don’t sit easy on my shoulders.

Not for me the rituals with no relation to the real. If feelings glisten my eyes, if emotions touch my heart, if sentiments stir my soul—I am alive. And being so alive exhilarates me.

If I can keep my sanity, achieve equanimity, and forgive myself and others for the dark deeds… I would have found Nirvana.

I believe—I am good enough if I am human, and better if humane.

My prayers were answered whenever parents held my hand; I find heaven in the smile of innocent children; I see Gods in the humans who are kind.

My simple routines uplift me—work gives me a high, reading a good book delights me, I am buoyed when I don’t write nonsense.

I am intoxicated in nature’s embrace; I am thrilled when children bring out the child in me; I am awesome and in awe of myself with friends.

My little rituals and elaborate idiosyncrasies—brewing a heady mix of Earl Grey, Assam, and Darjeeling for 3 minutes for that perfect cocktail in a cup, admiring swaying Jacaranda from my window every 33 minutes, listening to Richard Clayderman’s ‘Souvenirs En France’, ‘Theme from Romeo & Juliet’, and ‘Ballade Pour Adeline’ (only in that sequence) for 13 minutes in the shower every morning—transcend me.

These unadulterated rituals and routines fulfil me and reward me a life uncluttered, uncomplicated, and uncompromised. These put my feet firmly on the terra firma and the head high in the heavens while my middle meddles with the mundane.

I am religious about my rationality, fanatic about my fancies, and stubborn about my story. I don’t pretend, nor do I fake.

Perhaps I am wise in my foolishness.

“Wondering Mind Wandering Thoughts” Series

These are my personal thoughts. The intent is not to criticise or belittle anyone or any views.

Jacaranda Tree

To Guilty With Sarcasm

Some people perpetually impose guilt—in ways subtle or crude. Swinging like a pendulum from being aggressive to wearing sorrow on their sleeves, they resort to emotional blackmail, portray themselves as pathetic losers, and wear underdog’s hangdog expression.

They seethe, shout, and sulk; they throw threats, taunts, and tantrums. Locking themselves up, becoming incommunicado, or aiming abuses at themselves are their hallmarks. Leaving food untouched at home but hogging hamburgers in hiding, tossing the teacup to spill and spell their strategic sensitivity, or spewing sweet sarcasm are the tricks of their trade.

Brazen like crazy, to them flinging and foisting guilt comes easy. They cover their cruelty with cunning—wrapping it in sugary words which wound. Past masters at putting others down, they invent sophisticated systems to suffocate.

Bravo, good they are. They inflict injury with elan and hurl guilt with aplomb to hide their own.  They play victim to victimize.

Those who impose guilt are the ones who are guilty. Shall we then be guilty of feeling guilty because of someone’s guilt?

– “Wondering Mind Wandering Thoughts” series.

Pics: unsplashGuilty Sulkingadi-goldstein--KobSuU7b3g-unsplash

Cede & Concede… Lose Senses & Control

Decided to cede control? Cede all the way… And sooner the better.

Putting someone on the steering wheel and continuing to caution and correct from the back seat is a perfect recipe for disaster. The driver has a nervous breakdown; many times the passengers are burdened with broken bones and the unfortunate others suffer collateral damages. Two drivers are too many.

Having ceded management and control of affairs at home or work, why be a leech? It is foolish to nag, instruct, and enquire repeatedly. Trust people, let them make mistakes and learn on the job.

Try to pull the reins forever and be sure to lose respect… and self-respect. Limit yourself to offer help in changing the punctured tyre or filling the tank. Be subtle when pointing out a wrong turn.

Sit back in the back seat and enjoy the luxury of being driven around; after all, you have driven the people crazy all your life. Feel and fly like a bird and sing “Una Paloma Blanca” at the top of your voice. Consume chilled Corona*, sip nimboo-paani**, or savour a Shandy. Be sozzled, spill—it makes sense to lose senses… and control.

*the bottled version; ** lemonade

Wondering Mind & Wandering Thoughts Series

Image: LA Times

JPEG-backseat driving-LA Times

Not Lived If Never Lost

We have not lived if never been lost…

Wandering in whispering woods or in wondering thought,

Wrong to question, weird to believe…

Wily wilderness waits, wanton as I live.

The deeper I immerse, loftier I emerge…

Where conscious n unconscious meet n merge,

Swingers are silent and shadows sway n prance…

Living are still, dead and deadwood sing n dance.

Where when who why and what, is it worth n wise to ask…

Winter winds in the willows whistle, whether weather ever will mask,

Wistful wishes weave wonder worlds within and without…

Wait, it’s wound n waste; weary will wilts, whims whimper for a way out.

Photo: @rosenfeld.mandy

Let Them Weave The Tapestry Of Their Dreams

We give them the whole world

But in our measured mould…

Lame, limited and limiting

A bother, a burden, a binding.

Let go, let them break free

And soar in their own sky…

Paint their own rainbow

Live life, embrace it, or defy.

Let them push their limits

Happy thus they are, let them be…

Shackle them not in selfish love

With emotions teary n knotty.

The carpet we spread for them

Is warm and comforting…

But let them weave

the tapestry of their dreams.

Wistful…we wish with us they are forever

Alas! together apart, when distant closer…

Fist’s sand soon slips silently away from fingers

Are times and relationships, in palm, held ever?

 

Pic: Jump: Peter Conlan

What More I Want ?

What more I want

I don’t pursue happiness. Nor do I run after enlightenment. I have tiny times when I am content. That is when joy, like a dancing butterfly, enters and sits lightly on my soul.

I have this bliss when I bend to admire a Parijat*, and the dew on it flies to kiss my eyelashes. I smell it in the wonderful words of an old musty book. It touches me when a child tiptoes from behind and closes my eyes with little palms. It comes to me when the rains falling on the swaying trees wet my feelings. I felt it this morning when the season’s first fog filled my senses.

These sensuous moments make my life and are mine for a lifetime.

What more I want?

*Parijat: A tiny white fragile flower with orange stem

Image: Fog: Austin Schmid; Books: Peter Kratochvil