The old house with long thin cracks and open windows, like those wise eyes smiling through wrinkles.
Party A has destroyed the nation. Party B has destroyed the state.
The other parties have no credible leaders.
Whom should I vote for? Independent candidate with a parrot symbol?
That guy will side the party that is seeking majority to form the government. Politicians are a bunch of cheats, born to destroy the nation, I tell you.
Wisdom on writing from Roger Ebert (RIP), echoing Chuck Close, E. B. White, Tchaikovsky, Jack White, and Isabel Allende.
No need to spell them out. I believe that if, at the end, according to our abilities, we have done something to make others a little happier, and something to make ourselves a little happier, that is about the best we can do. To make others less happy is a crime. To make ourselves unhappy is where all crime starts. We must try to contribute joy to the world. That is true no matter what our problems, our health, our circumstances. We must try. I didn’t always know this and am happy I lived long enough to find it out.”
“Life itself” by Roger Ebert.
Buds and branches. #Gulmohar
He walked out of the forest, looked back and heaved a sigh of relief.
The eyes that had watched him live there knew it was indeed a difficult life he lead. They knew the paths that led out. But wanted him to find it. For the paths that have been cleared with one’s own toil and hard work is valuable than the ones that have been already been paved.
The eyes know he can now judge forests in the future. He may take the challenging ones and avoid the mundane. He will sharpen his vision.
Hanuman and his sishya.
Summer air is special. It is delicious in the morning and ruthless in the afternoon. It wears the fragrance of flowers to soothe the night.
It was a crisp clear morning and I was wearing a beige colored hand painted cotton sari. It was well starched, neatly pressed, pleated and pinned. My three year old son was wearing his school uniform with a pink handkerchief pinned to his shirt. The wind played with the kerchief tenderly removing the sweat from his brow.
The little one started to sing the rules of crossing when we reached the main road. “Look right, cross. Wait at the median. Look left, cross.” Climb the footpath. “Turn left, count fifty steps, turn right, count twenty more and Voila! we reach school,” he continued.
We crossed the first half of the road. Waited at the median. The road had a steep curve at the far left as one stood facing it. It was a scary thought to know vehicles may sweep in from the curve at unexpected moments.
“Any vehicles to the left?” I ask him.
“No ma. Let’s cross,” he says.
I strain my ears to listen to any noise of oncoming vehicles from the curve. I hear none and start crossing the road.Suddenly from the curve I hear the honk of a speeding car.
“Quick,” I tell him and run to the other side holding him tight.
I trip on my sari and fall on the footpath. I hold him close. The car speeds by. “Thank God. We are safe,” I mutter in relief. I check him out, dust his knees, wipe his face and gather myself. A few scratches hurt my left elbow and I find the sari torn where it was pinned together. I set it right in a hurry. He looks at the blood on the elbow with horror.
“Don’t wear sari anymore. This is a bad sari. It made you fall, get hurt.” he cries.
“We are okay. Don’t worry,” I pacify him. We resume our walk….
I woke up startled. I had lived a few moments of a surreal dream. It left an indescribable feeling, a lingering in my heart. I do not know if it made me happy or sad. All I knew was the mother and toddler in the dream belonged to the past. Now they are two independent entities relishing each others presence.
He is no longer a toddler. Over the years, he has grown, evolved and taken charge of his life. He no longer holds my hand. May be he will, when I can no longer walk. It was reassuring that I was tender, vulnerable, overflowing with emotions, protective about the kid. A small world we have woven with his smiles, disappointments, happiness and sorrow.
Nevertheless, I haven’t taken my eyes off him yet. I am like the lioness who rests in the shade allowing her cub to explore the wild. Its just that my eyes are growing older.
This post appeared here. http://www.parentous.com/2013/03/30/the-ageing-lioness-growing-up-with-children-mother-and-children/
The green leaves offer themselves to the roots that hold them together.
They turn into manure and add more life to the tree.
I often wonder why dry twigs don’t fall away as dry leaves do.
They also turn into manure. But why do they still hang on?
Do they have a purpose? I’ve pondered.
Not until I saw a bird break a tender twig and carry it to build a nest.
The garden has answers.
Life is like a tornado. It is born in a moment of wilderness. Gathers a lot of unwanted things on its path as it grows and dumps them at an unknown place. Dies.
On the top branch of the Mast tree waits a butterfly~
Waiting to launch itself swiftly into the sky.
One good deed.