wanderings in exile...

Snow Still Falls...... my translation of Agnishekhar's Hindi poem......

2011-11-14T05:23:00.000-08:00

Snow still falls
abundantly
like in our childhood days

Crows still
caw on the chinars
from the rooftops
snow slips
like loose edges of a glacier
dogs leap,roll and play

Snow still falls
abundantly
like in our childhood days
but we are not the same
life now pulsates differently

neither do we make a snowman
in our compounds
nor we throw snowballs
on one another

without celebration goes
the first snowfall..nausheen

no more ecstasies
on unhurt slips
no more shooting of nicknames

sitting near the window
for a brief while
we watch the falling snow

and with memories of good old days
move away from the window....

Amrita Preetam on Sahir Ludhianvi's death in 1980.....

2011-11-14T05:13:00.000-08:00

Meri sez hajir hai
Par jute aur kameej kee tarah
Tu apna badan bhee utar de
Udhar mudhe par rakh de
Koi khas baat nahin
Yeh apne apne desh ka rivaj hai...

(I am ready,
But keep aside your body and keep it on the chair there,
like you have put off your shirt and the shoes
This is nothing serious
This is just matter of a different custom of different country...)

On the night between October 25 and 26, around 2 AM, when I learnt on the phone that Sahir was no more, the night mingled with the night exactly 20 years back. I was in Bulgaria then and the doctors had warned me of possible heart-attacks. Then, that night, 20 years back, I had written the poem that went, "aj aapne dil dariyaa de vitch maiN aapne phul parvaahe [today I offered my own ashes to the ocean of my heart]'. I looked at my hands. With those hands I had offered my own bones to the ocean of my heart, then how had the bones changed? Did death make a mistake or did these hands?

Along with that came memories of the time when the first Asian Writers Conference had taken place in Delhi. Poets and writers were given name-tags which they had affixed on the lapels of their jackets. Sahir had taken off his tag and put it on my jacket; he had taken my nametag and put it on his. Someone noticed it and said that we had put on the wrong nametags. Sahir had laughed and said someone must have made a mistake. We neither fixed the 'mistake' nor did we wish to. Now, years later, when I heard the news at 2 o'clock at night that Sahir was no more, it seemed as if death had made its decision on the basis of that nametag - it had my name, but was affixed on Sahir's jacket.

My friendship with Sahir had never had to employ words. It was a wonderful relationship of silences. When I was awarded the Akadami award for the verses I had written for Sahir, the press-reporter had wished that I pose as if I were writing something on paper. When the press people went away after clicking the photographs, I saw that I had only written one word again and again: Sahir, Sahir, Sahir...

After this madness, I was apprehensive that the morning paper would have my picture and the name on the paper would be clearly visible. What would happen then? But nothing happened. The photograph was published, but that paper seemed blank.

It is a different matter altogether that later I wished to God that the paper which seemed blank were not so...

The dignity of that blank paper is still the same. The story of my love is recorded in Rasidi Ticket. Sahir read it, but despite that, in none of our subsequent meetings, did he or I ever mention it again.

I remember, in a mushaira people were taking his autographs. Everyone had gone, and I alone was left with him, so I laughingly opened my palm out to him, like a blank paper. And he had signed his name on my palm and said it was a blank cheque that he was signing - I could fill in any amount and cash it whenever I felt like it. Although that paper was a palm made of flesh, but it too had the fate of a blank paper, so no letters could be written on it...

Even today, I have no letters, no words. Whatever is there is Rasidi Ticket, and today this as well, is the story of this blank paper..

The beginning of this story was silent, and the end too, all through the age, has remained silent. Forty years back, when Sahir used to visit me in Lahore, he would come and quietly smoke cigarettes. When the ashtray was filled to the brim with cigarette-stubs, he would go away. After he had gone, I would light and smoke those cigarettes alone. The smoke from me and his cigarettes would mingle in the air, the breaths too mingled in the air, and words from poems as well, in the air...

I think the air can travel any distance. Even earlier, it used to cover the distance between cities, now it would certainly cover the distance between this and the other world.

(From a later edition of Rasidi Ticket, titled 'Kora Kagaz' - 'Blank Paper - dated November 2, 1980, hurriedly translated by Sundeep Dougal)...

Arjan Dev Majboor: Poets Never Die....

2011-01-03T10:09:00.000-08:00

Each day
I light a lamp in the whirlwind.
I am a stage of the caravan.

Peep into me
and listen to the ancient ballad.

It is endless…...

(from one of his poems)

Wherever Arjan Dev Majboor is at present, I know his ink stained fingers would be twitching for writing, for putting to paper what has remained unsaid, unfinished. The poetry of snow, silence and turbulence of longing will continue to resonate deep and far and remind us in which heart Majboor has taken a new birth. He will continue to live in our hearts, in the songs of our future generations. For now, he seems to have found some secret place to keep humming his soulful poetry, his songs of earth and solitude, of exile and longing.

Thursday morning news of Arjan Dev Majboor’s passing away has brought a flood of memories and a wound that will keep on bleeding. With the demise of Majboor, one of our greatest Kashmiri writers, something has died in all of us too, who love Kashmir and its ethos.

I often used to talk to him over literary issues. I used to do stories on his literary projects, often wondering about on his tremendous zest for life, youthful passion for writing, unexplained dynamism despite being ill. His insatiable urge to be creative even at the dusk of his mid 80 life was inspiring and humbling experience.

When I met him last, two years ago at his residence in Jammu, I pressed him for writing his autobiography- which would have been a priceless contribution, documenting literary ups and downs spanning, cultural movements, oral history of over six decades, from a man who had interacted with most of the stalwarts of Kashmir during last over half a century. He told me that he wanted to write, but due to illness, couldn't do so. He told me that if someone was ready to take dictation, he would go down the memory lane. I promised that I will try to find someone, but I could not. I regret.

Those days he was passionate about writing Vanwas (Exile), a novel intending to portray the saga of exile from the eyes of a poet, which he wanted to finish as early as possible, perhaps knowing well that his ill health won’t give him much time. I don’t know whether he has finished the novel or not.

I have many fond memories of this grand old man of Kashmiri literature. He used to come to our house in Jammu and my father used to visit him intermittently. He would sometimes scold my father affectionately for not visiting him often. I used to tell Kashmiri writers and scholars that Majboor has not been given his due credit and recognition, for what he has done and what he has achieved, especially on the part of authorities, who many a times embellish neophytes on their average books with awards.

One scholar even told me that had Majboor been from the “Other Faith”, he would have been in a much better place, and much better recognized and credited. I don’t know how much truth is in that, but posterity will have to answer such questions

His contributions are immense. Besides authoring over two dozen books, he also translated Neelmat Puran- the 6th-8th century AD Sanskrit text that depicts the then cultural and social history of people in ancient Kashmir, as part of a project by Jammu and Kashmir Academy of Art, Culture and Languages. The project was entrusted to Majboor, as he was among the very few scholars who were proficient in Sanskrit and Persian, besides being well aware about the history and culture of Kashmir. After three years of painstaking research, ailing Majboor completed the work in a 400 page manuscript.

When I talked to him about doing a story about it, he told me “Neelmat Puran is a historical work of immense importance, which had to be made available to wider readership in the Urdu world. It has given me tremendous satisfaction to translate this text from Sanskrit, which is one of the most quoted texts of Kashmir. I not only translated the 1400 verses of the Puran into Urdu, but also wrote nearly a 100-page introductory background about the Puran for the benefit of the Urdu readers, who may not be aware about the backdrop of the Puarn’’.

To make 3000 years of history available to people in Kashmir in their own mother tongue, he contributed in the mega project of translating Rajatarangini (River of Kings) into Kashmiri. The Jammu and Kashmir government took his services among others for the ambitious project in 2001-2002.

When I talked to him about the project, he told me, “Rajatarangini as a text holds very important place in the history of India as a whole, as writing history was generally not a tradition in ancient India. Though ancient literature is rich, it lacks history, with most of ancient texts dominated by sciences, philosophical, moral and metaphysical issues. In this light, Rajatarangini is a unique Sanskrit text which has all the ingredients of history”.

His infectious passion for literature and aesthetics was a source of inspiration for the budding writers in the state. For his wide knowledge of the Kashmiri literature over the last six decades, many people used to call him a walking encyclopedia of Kashmiri literature.

Though Majboor primarily wrote Kashmiri poetry, the contribution of this multi-faceted personality extended to other languages that includes Hindi, English, Sanskrit and Persian. Majboor’s first collection of poems Kalaam-e-Majboor was published in 1955, followed by Dashahaar in 1983, Dazavuni Kosam in 1987, Padi Samyik in 1993 and Tyoll in 1995’’.

Proficient in Sanskrit, Majboor was the first person to have translated Kalidas’s Meghadootam into Kashmiri verse. The English translation of his poems under the title Waves by Arvind Gigoo has been critically acclaimed by the literary community across the globe.

The best tribute to Majboor will be remembering him through his immortal works and bringing them to a wider readership. And introducing the young generations to life and works of this man, who defied age and its vagaries from touching his spirit.

I am reminded of his poem WILDERNESS……..from poetry collection Waves…

I spent my age
writing this legend.

But the pages
leapt towards the sky.
A dusty cobweb
Besieged me.

Time was at work.
The fault was not mine.
A few moments were given to me in trust.
The world maligned me.

Now
stranded in wilderness
I
wait for
the tree,
the water
and
the light.

I am the mosaic.
My glass-house will not crumble..

Each day
I light a lamp in the whirlwind.
I am a stage of the caravan.

Peep into me
and listen to the ancient ballad.

It is endless…...

Love and sex in ancient Kashmir....

2010-08-02T01:46:00.000-07:00

``O descendent of Kasyapa, best among the brahmanas, on the12th, a pitcher full of cold water and decorated with flowers and leaves should be placed before Kamadeva, and before sunrise a husband himself should bathe his wife with water (from the pitcher).’’.

--from Neelmat Puran

Much before Valentine’s Day became popular in India and fundamentalists started opposing it as a Western construct, people in Kashmir used to celebrate sex and love through a festival dedicated to Kamadeva, the Indian God of sex and love, with much gaiety and aplomb.

More than a thousand years ago, Kashmiris celebrated Madantrayodashi, a festival of love celebrated on 13th of the bright half of Chaitra (March-April), when Kamadeva , the Indian equivalent of Eros of the Greeks and the Cupid of the Latins, used to be worshipped with various types of garlands and diverse incenses. Madantrayodashi comes from two words- `Madan’ which means he who intoxicates with love and `Trayodashi’, which means the 13th.

The 6-8th century AD Sanskrit text Nilmata Purana says that ``on the 13th of bright half of Chaitra ``Kamadeva , (painted) on cloth should be worshipped with various types of garlands and diverse incenses’’.
In verse 680, Nilmata Purana records that on this day, ``One should decorate one’s own self and worship the ladies of the house. O twice born this (13th day) should be necessarily celebrated, the rest may be or may not be celebrated’’.

On how this festival was celebrated, the famous text mentions, ``O descendent of Kasyapa, best among the brahmanas, on the12th, a pitcher full of cold water and decorated with flowers and leaves should be placed before Kamadeva, and before sunrise a husband himself should bathe his wife with water (from the pitcher).’’.

The importance of Kamadeva in the life of Kashmiris could be gauged from the fact that there is reference about a pilgrimage in the name of Kamadeva. In verse 1365, Nilamata Purana states, ``Having bathed at Kamatirtha, a man obtains the fulfillment of his desires and having bathed at Apasarastirtha, he becomes possessed of beauty’’. At another place the text mentions,``One obtains happiness and becomes beautiful after seeing Kamadeva erected by Agastya on the mountain’’.

There is another connection of Kamadeva with Kashmir, the land of Shiva. There is a legend about Kamadeva’s annihilation and subsequent resurrection at the hands of Shiva. It is said that wishing to help Parvati, the daughter of Himalayas, in gaining the favour of Shiva, Kamadeva shot his floral arrows at Shiva to disrupt His meditation and help Parvati gain Shiva’s attention. Enraged by this, Shiva opened his third eye, and annihilated Kamadeva with a single glance. Later, at the behest of the Gods and Parvati, Shiva resurrected Kamadeva to life, thus ensuring the procreative continuity of the world through desire, love and sex. It is said that it was Kamadeva who succeeded in bringing Shiva who had turned away from love after the death of wife Sati, near to Parvati.

Kamadeva, who is also called Madana (intoxicating), is represented as beautiful young man, having a bow made of sugarcane and five floral arrows in his hands, traveling through the three worlds accompanied by his wife Rati, the cuckoo, the humming bee, gentle breezes, all symbolizing the spring time and the ambience of romance. And Kashmir, with its natural bounty, seems made for love. Kamadeva’s ornaments are the conch and the lotus, both related to water, the symbol of creativity and fertility. And Kamadeva’s this ornament, is found aplenty in the emerald waters of Kashmir .

Some critics feel that V-Day is being propagated by some market forces as a whole new industry has come up to market ``love’’. Some rightwing activists have been opposing V-Day celebrations on the grounds that it is a Western concept and is diluting the age-old Indian culture. V-day may be a Western construct, but love itself isn't Western or Eastern. In our tradition, Kama is the personification of the divine will which leads and propels the ray of creation.....

My haikus on love….

2010-08-01T12:40:00.000-07:00

buzzing heavy night
glowworm’s surprise..
where stars make love silently…

snow falls
silently into the eyes of virgin mountain lake
just like that I saw you

snaking down
settlling in her breast-valley
a teardrop raises its shining hood

her pheran
sketching the veiled curves
nib of hard pencil breaks

dense cloud
of powder couldn’t hide
young moon on her neck

last windswept snowflake
lands
on her bare upper-back

that familiar scent

dry flower you kept in my book

memory of a lost spring that doesn’t go

many loves die

on the altar of bed

I love dragonflies making love in midair

heavy snowfall

all gravestones look alike

where is my friend’s grave …?

sleeping on the ground

i feel breasts

mother earth

moon

cupid’s tablelamp

under which lovers read their secret loveletters.

Van Gogh's love....

2010-07-30T02:01:00.000-07:00

"For love is something so positive, so strong, so real that it is as impossible for one who loves to take back that feeling as it is to take his own life".
from Van Gogh's letter..

A widowed first cousin, Kee; a prostitute named Sien; shy, spinsterish Margot Bergemann; the seventeen-year-old peasant girl Stien de Groot—van Gogh knocked at the doors of their hearts…..and none of them journeyed with this great soul as his better half…
Van Gogh hungered for love all through his turbulent life……wounded…bruised……and still left us enough gifts......to be discovered and re-discovered....

A love letter of Van Gogh….. illumines the passions that rocked his sensitive heart ....He was desperately in love with his cousin, but his cousin refused to marry him. This letter was written by Vincent to his brother, Theo, talking about his love for his cousin.
Some selections from a letter from Vincent van Gogh to Theo van Gogh, 7 November 1881

Old boy,

This letter is for you alone, you will keep it to yourself, won't you?….. In the first place I must ask you if it astonishes you at all that there is a love serious and passionate enough not to be chilled even by many “never, no, nevers”? I suppose far from astonishing you, this will seem very natural and reasonable. For love is something so positive, so strong, so real that it is as impossible for one who loves to take back that feeling as it is to take his own life.

If you reply to this by saying, “But there are people who put an end to their own life,” I simply answer, “I really do not think I am a man with such inclinations.” Life has become very dear to me, and I am very glad that I love. My life and my love are one. “But you are faced with a `never, no, never,' ” is your reply. My answer to that is, “Old boy, for the present I look upon that `never, no, never' as a block of ice which I press to my heart to thaw.”

To determine which will win, the coldness of that block of ice or the warmth of my heart, that is the delicate question about which I can give no information as yet, and I wish that other people would not talk about it if they can say nothing better than, “The ice will not thaw,” “Foolishness” and more such nice insinuations. If I had an iceberg from Greenland or Nova Zembla before me, I do not know how many meters high, thick and wide, then it would be a difficult case, to clasp that colossus and press it to my heart to thaw it. But as I have never yet seen an ice colossus of such dimensions loom up across my course, I repeat, seeing that she with her “never, no, never” and all is not many meters high and thick and wide, and if I have measured correctly, might easily be clasped, I cannot see the “foolishness” of my behaviour.

As for me, I press the block of ice “never, no, never” to my heart; I have no other choice, and if I try to make it thaw and disappear - who can object to that??? What physical science has taught them that ice cannot be thawed is a puzzle to me. It is very sad that there are so many people who object to it, but I do not intend to get melancholy over it and lose my courage. Far from it. Let those be melancholy who will.

I have had enough of it, and will only be glad as a lark in spring! I will sing no other song but aimer encore! Theo, do you like that “never, no, never”? Indeed, I think you don't. But there seem to be people who like it and, perhaps unconsciously - “of course with the best intentions and for my own good” - they occupy themselves with trying to wrench the ice from my breast; unconsciously they throw more cold water on my ardent love than they are aware. But I do not think many pails of cold water will be able to cool my love soon, old boy…

Do you think it considerate of the family to insinuate that I must be prepared to hear in a short time that she has accepted another, richer suitor; that she has become quite handsome and will no doubt be asked in marriage; that she will take a positive dislike to me if I go further than “brother and sister” (that was the utmost limit); that it would be such a pity if “meanwhile (!!!) I let a better chance go by (!!!) …”

Does a man who has not learned to say, “She, and no other,” know what love is? … When they said those things to me, then I felt with all my heart, with all my soul, with all my mind: “She, and no other.” Perhaps some will say, “You show weakness, passion, stupidity, ignorance of the world, when you say, `She, and no other.' Add another string to your bow, do not commit yourself definitely.” Far from it! Let this my weakness be my strength. I will be dependant on “her, and no other”; even if I could, I should not want to be independent of her. But she has loved another and her thoughts are always in the past; and her conscience seems to bother her even at the thought of a possible new love.

But there is a saying, and you know it, “Il faut avoir aimé, puis désaimé, puis aimer encore” [one must have loved, then unloved, then love again]. “Aimez encore: ma chère, ma trois fois chère, ma bien aimée - “ [love again: my dear, my three times dear, my beloved -]. I saw that she was always thinking of the past and buried herself in it with devotion. Then I thought, Though I respect that feeling and though that deep grief of hers touches and moves me, yet I think there is some fatalism in it.

So it must not weaken my heart, but I must be resolute and firm, like a steel blade. I will try to raise “something new” which will not take the place of the old, but has a right to a place of its own. And then I began - at first crudely, awkwardly, but still firmly - and I ended with the words, Kee, I love you as myself… Then she said, “Never, no, never.” What is the opposite of “never, no, never”? Aimer encore! I cannot say who will win.

God knows, I only know this one thing, “I had better stick to my faith.” When it happened this summer, though I was not unprepared for it, it was at first as terrible a blow as a death sentence, and for a moment it absolutely crushed me to the ground. Then in that inexpressible anguish of soul, a thought rose in me like a clear light in the night: Whosoever can resign himself, let him do so; but he who has faith, let him believe! Then I arose, not resigning but believing, and had no other thought than “she, and no other.” You will say, On what will you live if you win her? Or perhaps, You will not win her. But no, you will not talk like that. He who loves, lives; he who lives, works; he who works has bread. So I remain calm and confident through all this, and it influences my work, which attracts me more than ever just because I feel I shall succeed. Not that I shall become anything extra-ordinary, but “ordinary”; and by ordinary I mean that my work will be sound and reasonable, and will have a right to exist, and will serve some purpose.

I think that nothing awakens us to the reality of life so much as true love. And whoever is truly conscious of the reality of life, is he on the wrong road? I think not. But to what shall I compare that peculiar feeling, that peculiar discovery of love? For indeed when a man falls seriously in love, it is the discovery of a new hemisphere. And therefore I wish that you were in love too, but then a woman must come into your life; however, as with other things, who seeks will find, though the finding itself is due simply to luck, not to any merit of our own.

And then it is a great surprise when you have found someone, and - and - and - if you then find yourself faced, not with a “yes, and amen,” but with a “never, no, never,” it is not pleasant at first, but terrible. But as Uncle Jan rightly says, The devil is never so black as he is painted; so is it also with a “never, no, never.” Now when you have received and read this letter, you must surely write me soon if you haven't already done so, for since I've told you everything, I long very much for a letter from you.

I do not think you will take what I have told you in bad part, but rather that you have pretty much the same thoughts about the question of the necessity of a “she, and no other” in general. However it may be, write to me soon, and believe me,

Yours sincerely,
Vincent

Some Haiku poems on terror and exile.....

2010-07-29T11:13:00.000-07:00

lonely dark night

on the unmarried militant’s fresh gravestone

two glowworms make love

     All the stolen silver of those
     childhood moons
     who has melted them into dazzling bomb blast….

   Cold canvas
    a gun shot
   still silhouette of a silenced cry.

gravestone engraver
    stops his hand in mid air…
a gun shot …a new name…

Snow falling
   on the cemetery
Please open the coffins!

(For Nietzsche)

   Ancient pond
   silently sitting frog
   `Dhaddaaaaaaaaaaaaaaammmm……….’…..a bomb blast.

(For Basho)

Calligraphy in darkness

struggle in red on walls of our deserted house.
alternative history

Spider weaves thread

on the rusted door latch

a dream in exile

Looking at lonely moon

a childless mother

stretches her arms towards the sky

Spiritual orphans: Is it the end of Kashmiri Shaiva lineage ?

2010-04-13T06:23:00.000-07:00

Has the lineage of Shaiva Masters,especially in the context of oral tradition and guru shishya parampara, that existed in the Himalayan valley of Kashmir for over a millennia, ended? Was Swami Lakshaman joo last in the lineage? Is Shaiva tradition on decline or dying in the land of its birth? Is observing some festivals and rituals giving us a false feeling of being Shaivites? Are we being hypocrites who keep on harping about Shaiva roots and ignore the fact that Shaiva traditions are fading from the Kashmiri ethos?

If renowned physicists are discovering the parallels between Spanda and quantum physics, why our leaders and scholars have failed to teach us even the simple Shaiva traditions and their significance in the modern idiom. Do they really know or understand it themselves. How many of them would have read all the volumes of Abhinavgupta’s masterpiece Tantraloka, forget about understanding it and teaching it.

It pains me that our elders have failed in passing on the teachings and the essence. Our generation is like potted plants lying on dusty staircases of high rise buildings, content with our stunted and claustrophobic potted roots. Phony words and claims of great Shaivist heritage are no substitute for the real transmission, for real earthy touch.

In this sense, I feel like a spiritual orphan, who is trying to fathom the sea of Shaivism on his own with few paper boats (books, cyberworld) and limited knowledge. Nietzsche says somewhere ``One repays a teacher badly if one always remains nothing but a pupil’’. Given the stature of Shaiva Masters like Abhinavgupta’s, Vasugupta or Swami Ram, we have really been very bad repayers.

Our generation watches the rituals and traditions of our community in exile with great amusement, unaware of their underlying spiritual significance. The fact is that elaborate rituals are now skipped on most occasions and short cuts are being taken- be it in rituals related to birth, death, birthdays or marriages. Gloss has overtaken most of our functions, while the spiritual side has taken a backseat. It seems that we are slowly moving towards a collective spiritual amnesia.

The realization of this spiritual blackhole dawned on me, when few years back I met world famous authority on Tantra and Kashmiri Shaivism, Mark Dyczkowski, who originally hails from Russia, in Jammu. It was a dream come true, an encounter that exposed my ignorance about the real significance of Shaivism and my superficial academic understanding of it.

I had always deeply desired to see a real Shaiva master and talk with him or her or at least be face to face with a real scholar who knows the secrets of Shaiva tradition of Kashmir. I hardly know of any living Kashmiri who can be said to be a living Shaiva Master or a real scholar who knows the mysteries of Shaivism. May be there are secret Masters, but almost no one is in the public domain who can be given the credit for taking the Shaivist lineage forward.

Dyczkowski was in Jammu to attend a conference. When I came to know about it, I was very excited. After few enquires that day, I came to know he was in the famous Raghunath Sanskrit Library, looking for some ancient texts. I was not aware where the famous Library, whose catalogue of nearly 6000 rare Sanskrit texts was prepared by Sir Aurel Stein himself in 1894, was.

I knew it was somewhere near the Raghunath temple. After half an hour of search and directions from the local shopkeepers, I reached the Library. I made a mental map of questions in English, which I had to ask. For me, Dyczkowski was a Russian scholar, who had studied Shaivism. A foreign scholar. I had imagined him as a high brow scholar, with an air of aloofness and absentmindedness, who would dish out replies in Hinglish accent. But when I saw him, I was taken aback. He was antithesis of everything that I had imagined about him. He was sitting comfortably in a chair in front of the Library. Basking in winter sun and conversing with scholar employee of the Library, he was eating groundnuts with a laidback approach, his demeanour never suggesting that he was the man who wrote the famous Doctrine of Vibration. Wearing a casual kameez payijama, with silky white beard and a shining face, he seemed a rishi from some ancient era. His eyes had the freshness of wonder and a soft glint of a child. He spoke in fluent Hindi, surprising me further. And I switched over to Hindi as well, loving his gentle sprinkling of Sanskrit shalokas intermittently.

After introducing myself, I started asking him general questions, trying to cover-up my ignorance of the higher topics of which he was a master. When I told him, that even now there are no institutions or research centres dedicated to the study of Shaivism in the land of its birth, he was surprised, but didn’t show much emotion. He told me that it was indeed surprising that while in many parts of the world, hundreds of institutions and scholars are dedicatedly researching various facets of Kashmiri Shaivism and the works of various Shaiva masters like Abhinavgupta, Vasugupta, Anandvardhan, Bhatta Kalatta and so no, here, in the birthland, nothing like that was happening .

When I asked him how he was initiated into the mysteries of Shaivism, looking far into the distance, as if looking at the fast collage of the past events, he recalled that it was great Shaiva master Swami Lakshaman joo who had initiated him in 1976. Even after studying different aspects of Shaivism for the last four decades, I could see the reverence in his eyes for his Master.

Then suddenly, as if hinting that my earlier question was not that important or foolish, he said, ``To understand the mysteries of Shaivism, one needs grace of Lord Shiva and then dedicated efforts in the right direction’’.

As if questioning my stress on books and institutions, Mark said with a childlike innocence, ``If the grace of Shiva is there , then only the spark will aflame your soul, then only access to the teachings of Shaivism through different mediums like books, CDs, audio cassettes, book exhibitions, workshops, seminars and lectures of scholars will help and mature your recognition’’ .

On his relations with the Ishwar ashram, the ashram of Swami Lakshaman joo, he said that he is not much in touch,….hinting subtly that how he got disillusioned with the ashram affairs after the departure of the Master.

That day I felt I had met a person, who has transcended the scholarship of Shaivism and was now moving on the higher paths as a seeker. His life is evident of his dedication towards understanding the mysteries of Shaivist tantra. He has devoted his whole life to the study, collation, edition, translation and interpretation of manuscripts of the Shaiva and Kaula Tantra. Dyczkowski, who lives and works in Benares is a Masters in Philosophy and Indian Religion from Benares Hindu University and has studied Sanskrit grammar and literature with Pandit Ambikadatta Upadhyaya. After graduating from BHU, he went to England, finished his doctorate in 1980 at Oxford University where he studied under the eminent Prof Alexis Sanderson, on the Spanda School of Kashmiri Shaivism. In 1980 he came back to Benares and started his research work.

This man who is author of The Aphorisms of Siva, The Stanzas on Vibration, 14 volume work on the Kubajika tantra, had no scholarly air about his being. He seemed a simple Shaiva bhakt to me, a modern day rishi . His simple demeanour, seemed to defy the fact that he is arguably the most original and wide-ranging scholar of Hindu Tantra alive today. As a community, I feel ashamed that we don’t invite him in our functions, for lectures, discourses, workshops for young or for felicitating him. Most of our leaders are busy in petty organizational politics, factionism and mini power struggles.

If this generation fails to carry forward the Shaiva traditions and the lineage, a day will come when all that will be left will be a swelled fan list on Shaivism groups on social sites like facebook and hollow claims of our great Shaiva heritage. The real touch of a master, a real seeker is missing somewhere….words and clicks help to a certain level…but primarily one needs grace, guidance and guru….

That day when I accompanied Mark Dyczkowski back to his university guestroom , where he was staying, in an auto-rickshaw, I felt his silent grace and love……it was wordless….when we departed….he just smiled with his eyes beaming with childlike wonder….that day I felt as if all Shaiva masters of last one millennia were smiling through him…. I recognized in his eyes a somewhat similar expression that I had once seen as a kid in the compassionate eyes of Swami Lakshaman joo, while he blessed me and gave me handfuls of prasad at his Ishwar Ashram in Kashmir….

Fall of a Sparrow.....

2010-03-19T14:39:00.000-07:00

Can you remember the last time you saw a sparrow on your windowsill . ……There may many reasons why the world famous birdman Salim Ali called his autobiography Fall of a Sparrow, I feel that it is somehow a cryptic prophecy about the dangers or side-effects of our so called `` civilizational advances’’.

Our selective amnesia about these vanishing little winged beauties is symbolic of our collective apathy towards Mother Earth. In the world awash with wired links and em waves, our most common bird has got entangled somewhere. And we remain perched atop our so called ``achievements’’. While we are aiming high , we are losing sight of ``vanishing act’’ of our most common bird, a little down here.

Being in Delhi for the last few months, I have failed to spot a single sparrow, the bird of my childhood outings. It was so common that I generally used to take this brown beauty for granted. I loved bulbuls, crows, but sparrows were there, a general background on the avian scene, a background chirpy noise, which merited no special attention. I realized their presence, when suddenly one day I felt that they no longer perch on my windowsill or flutter here and there around my house for a nesting site.

In my childhood, I used to hone my aiming skills, shooting stones at sparrows that landed in our compound in Kashmir to peck at the grains.My grandfather held me one day and warned, ``If this bird dies because of you, we will have to make a similar bird of gold and donate that. Otherwise, in next life, this sparrow will kill you in the same manner. Or the curse of dying bird will cause some misfortune in our family’’. Now that this bird is slowly dying and declining in numbers, will we collectively have to pay a heavy price in some other way? In the crazy rush of our lives, we fail to realize that whatever is making this bird to die, will also make us vulnerable in some near future.

I have loved birds all through my life. A bird in flight always reminds me of freedom and solitude. No two birds can fly together wing in wing, like we walk hand in hand. They just soar in the blue silences leaving no wingprints. Many years ago, I had bought the wonderful book, The birds of India. Those days sparrows had not become so rare. But I kept on searching Salim Ali’s autobiography. It was only few months’ back I finally found the book in a Delhi bookstore. And now its title really haunts me with its suggestive symbolism. In The Fall of a Sparrow, Salim Ali recounts his exciting experiences about birds during his expeditions to different parts of the Indian subcontinent. As I leafed through the pages, I kept on wondering how many birds must be meeting the same fate.

Why is house sparrow vanishing from our houses and lives? Bird experts and scientists have come up with various theories, ranging from increased use of mobiles, cats, lead-free fuel to our obsession with perfect houses and glassed complexes.We have indeed succeeded in creating beautiful houses, without any nooks and crannies where these winged guests could make their nests. Urbanization and concretization has left little green spaces where these birds can feed upon insects.

Scientists are claiming that birds tend to avoid places with high levels of electromagnetic contamination. Denis Henshaw, professor of physics at Bristol University had pointed to tests where the egg-laying ability of chickens had been affected by electromagnetic waves, adding that electromagnetic waves could affect a sparrow's ability to navigate. He pointed out that animals navigate by the Earth's magnetic fields and as such the increased waves could be a major factor in affecting the bird's ability to find their way around.

Other reasons claimed for the decline include, volatile organic compounds within lead-free petrol affecting bug population that sparrows feed to their chicks, squirrels preying on sparrow nests, lack of insects to feed their young due to pesticides, planting of exotic species of grass and trees, competition for food and shelter from pigeons and mynahs (I see so many of them in Delhi) and so on. It was felt that increasing the green spaces would help in checking the decline, but experts point out that such a move has increased the numbers of their aggressive competitors like pigeons and mynahs.

I often wondered why these sparrows don’t move towards friendlier countryside.Why they want to suffer with man, who has compromised with claustrophobic spaces. As I searched for more information, I came to know that in their lifetime most sparrows usually fly up to 2 kms from where they were hatched. Such a small world for our little birdie!

Are we waiting for its extinction? Will it be only then that we will awaken from our slumber and declare it threatened and take some action? Are other countries more conscious than our own country that takes pride in revering animals and birds, many of which are vehicles of our Gods? In UK, according to the reports, between 1977 and 2000, house sparrow numbers declined by 65 per cent। Accordingly, in August 2002, in UK the house sparrow was added to the Red Data list of bird species of conservation concern.

One of my cherished childhood memories is that of a sparrow bathing in a puddle of water. Now a days, I don’t see sparrows either bathing or chirping on the electric lines. The worst thing is that it now flies only in my memory. The decline of sparrows shows something is declining and dying in me also. The sudden fall of sparrow is the fall of man, though slowly....but in the longrun we will know it...we will know it.....

Vitasta Ka Teesra Kinara

2010-01-14T04:13:00.001-08:00

Unnhuney rait parr banayey ghar

aur peechey cshoot gaye nadi ke yaad main

banayee kagaz ke kishtiyan....

veh kehtey hain

itihaas saakshi hain

humney paa liya

jeeney ka hunar.....

aakhir

humney dhoond he liya

Vitasta ka teesra kinara....

On Van Gogh's Wheatfied with Crows.....

2010-01-14T04:13:00.000-08:00

"I do not intend to spare myself, not to avoid emotions or difficulties. I don't care much whether I live a longer or shorter time… the world concerns me only in so far as I feel a certain debt toward it, because I have walked on this earth for thirty years, and out of gratitude I want to leave some souvenir..". from Van Gogh's letter

Whenever I think of Van Gogh’s Wheatfield with Crows, claimed by some as his ``suicide note on canvas", I am always reminded of yellow mustard fields in our verdant Lidder valley in South Kashmir, in the backdrop of the mighty Himalayas.

The contrast of bright yellow mustard fields and beautiful snowcapped mountains created magic, which has always haunted me. May be this is why I have always loved this painting so much. For years I have been searching for its copy but I had to be content with just a high-resolution copy from internet that now adores my desktop background.

I don’t know why Wheat Field with Crows fascinates me. Has it something to do with the yellow mustard fields I have lost in exile. The absence of yellow in my life, trying to make a living in the dusty gray shades. Or is it just the mystical force of this painting that was painted shortly before Van Gogh shot himself in a wheat field, which he loved to paint. Is it because this painting conveys the turbulence, loneliness and melancholy, so characteristic of much of the Van Gogh’s life and sensitive souls in the capitalist world these days.

I can imagine Van Gogh going for the last walk in the fields on the evening of July 27, 1890, looking at the overwhelming colours all around and then suddenly shooting himself with a revolver. I can imagine the agony of the wounded Van Gogh when he makes his way back home and two days later dies with his brother Theo at his side.

When I first saw it in some coffee table book many years ago, I knew, I had fallen in love with this painting. I loved it just as I have love Leonardo Vinci’s The Virgin of the Rocks. That time I had no inkling that this painting was Van Gogh's one of the most powerful and fiercely debated paintings.

Though many claim that Wheatfield with Crows was his last painting, most Van Gogh scholars deny it. The painting was painted in July 1890. Though it is not known when exactly it was painted, however in letter 649, written about 10 July 1890, Van Gogh describes three canvases: ``They are vast fields of wheat under troubled skies, and I did not need to go out of my way to try to express sadness and extreme loneliness. ….. these canvases will tell you what I cannot say in words, the health and restorative forces that I see in the country…..’’.

In this sense, the painting is a paradox. On one side, it evokes sadness and loneliness and on the other side, it hints how Van Gogh sought succor and solace from painting in the countryside in the fields. Was it that through painting loneliness and sadness in his soul, he tried to put some broad stroked ``restorative’’ colours in his life, some restorative forces...

When I look at the painting, the central path in brown and green, winding up towards the horizon, evokes a sense of lonely journey to some faraway mysterious horizon. The multiplicity of paths, with two paths on the sides of the painting, has been often linked to confusion and lack of direction in Van Gogh’s life.

Was it the ``indecision of three paths going in different directions’’ or the conscious choice he made before choosing the path of suicide, a merging of sorts with the heavenly yellow spot at the end of the winding central path, that ends mysterious near the horizon.

The turbulence in the sky with broad strokes of blue and black, represent the chaos in Van Gogh's life or equally it could be that he finally sought solace for himself in the cover of the darkness towards the horizon. Here I am reminded of Nietzsche’s lines, ``one must still have chaos in oneself, to give birth to a dancing star’’. How true theses lines seem for Van Gogh.

There has been much speculation on whether the crows are flying towards the painter or away from him. Besides, the dominance of crows, being symbolic harbingers of death, has also led to some debate whether the flight of the crows subtly hinted the end of Van Gogh’s journey or they were just crows in the sky. Was Van Gogh unconsciously painting the subliminal messages from the depths of his own being through his broad brush strokes, which sometimes remind me of automatic writing.

Given Van Gogh’s reverence for life, it seems he simply used crows for giving more movement and vitality to the painting. Many scholars have spent much time looking for hidden messages in his paintings. I wonder why can’t we enjoy his paintings without any interpretations, hidden symbolism or messages. They stand for themselves and convey an aesthetic experience and give us some hints about how one of the greatest painters who ever lived perceived the life around him.

I always imagine the last moments of Van Gogh, his last journey. What must have gone through his head. Why this man who passionately loved life so much, cut short his life so suddenly at 37. Van Gogh was buried in Auvers, with one mourner Emile Bernard describing Van Gogh’s coffin, covered with yellow flowers, and his easel and brushes lying on the ground next to the casket.

For Van Gogh, life meant intensity. He must have abhorred a long fruitless life. What mattered most to him was manifesting beauty and inherent rhythm and chaos in life and Nature, which he perceived and which intoxicated him with its paradox and richness. I realised this while reading his letters. Actually one day I stumbled upon this treasure in the Sunday book market of Daryaganj in New Delhi. The book I was searching for years had finally found me. I bought the book from the poor pavement seller. I was so ecstatic that I wanted to pay more to the pavement seller. I felt pity for him that he gave it so cheap.

When I opened the first page of the book, there was a quote from one of his letters, which made me so emotional that my eyes welled up with tears. The lines were, ``I do not intend to spare myself, not to avoid emotions or difficulties. I don't care much whether I live a longer or shorter time… the world concerns me only in so far as I feel a certain debt toward it, because I have walked on this earth for thirty years, and out of gratitude I want to leave some souvenir...."

And not one, Van Gogh left us so many souvenirs, so many gifts. Van Gogh transformed his pain into gifts, never allowing his struggles, difficulties and rejection to embitter his soul or his sensibility. Whenever I read his letters or look at his paintings, I feel more reverence for life and gratitude for gifts of Nature.

Your history gets in the way of my memory.....

2010-01-10T05:21:00.000-08:00

“At a certain point I lost track of you.
You needed me. You needed me to perfect me.
In your absence you polished me into the Enemy.
Your history gets in the way of my memory”

…Agha Shahid Ali from his poetry collection ‘The Country without a Post Office’

She lived alone in that window-less one room tenement at Muthi migrant camp with memories of her son and husband who were killed by the militants in early 1990s in Ashmuj, a quiet hamlet in South Kashmir. Though many years have passed, but the expression in those eyes, reflecting the only light coming from the door, still haunts me. I had gone there to cover a human interest story. And I felt, no matter, how much try, I can never translate that moist expression in the eyes, into dry words. The fog of a lifetime of memories precipitated, giving a vacuous look in her watery eyes.

The claustrophobic room bore a melancholic look with its very few possessions, some old sepia pictures, few framed gods, few small booklets, perhaps prayer books and an almanac. For seventy plus Shyamrani, memory was a double edged sword. She wanted to remember her good old days, but those very memories would bring pain too. Memories gave a starker contrast to her life in the camp.

She was just waiting, with her sunken eyes, oblivious to rhetoric on peace, return and separate homeland, going on in numerous conferences and seminars outside. She was waiting not for the peace to return, but for her death- her “return to peace”.

The small lane that led to one room tenement in the camp was so small that two persons could not have walked hand in hand. They had to follow one another. Shyamrani, dependent mainly on the relief money, reminisced her days in Kashmir where they had a big apple orchard, a big house, a big compound, a shop and a joint family to back on. “Every thing is lost now … death is the best home now for me…”, she rued, with anger and uncertainty writ over her face. She point blankly told me, “ I will never return. For what I should return…..who is waiting for me there….’’

Shyamrani had two other sons who too lived Jammu, but they were busy in their own lives. I don’t blame them. Like them, many married couples have over the years moved away from the migrant camps, as the “all-in–one-rooms” do not provide them the required privacy. This is one of the factors that has led to the disintegration of the joint family system amongst the Pandits, leading to creation of nuclear families, many times at the cost of the elders of the family. Good or bad I don’t know.

Shyamrani’s all hope was pinned on two children of her dead son, who were facing the world without the protective ambience of their father. “ I wish they get some job. But I don’t think our children feature in the priority list of the government, that is busy in their useless talks with God knows whom. My children will move away from Kashmir, get good jobs elsewhere and then take care of me…give me a decent funeral..”, she said, adding, ``Let Kashmir go to hell. No more…..’’.

That time I felt centuries of anger had crystallized in that moment. There was resentment simmering in her heart that had turned to a clear cut rejection of any pluralistic coexistence in Kashmir. Can she be blamed ? Can she be labeled non secular?

I always think of those eyes. My inability or frustration, label it any thing, I didn’t say any consoling words to that elderly lady, which could have brought some glint of hope in her eyes. I closed my notebook, over which I had scribed some useless notes for my ``so called human interest story’’. I took her soft little hand in my hand, and held them for sometime. She looked at me in a way, I felt as if all my ancestors were looking at me through her. As she blinked her eyes, the welled up tears rolled down her wrinkled face.. Suddenly I got up and left. I didn’t look back…..i couldn’t… But the unasked questions in those parched eyes have always stayed with me…..

Buddha's daily routine

2010-01-07T10:57:00.000-08:00

Over the years I have read dozens of books on the Buddha, but rarely I have come across a detailed account of the Buddha’s daily routine and what he ate.

Few days back I stumbled upon a little book on the Buddha by Siridhamma which talks about the daily routine of the Buddha. I was fascinated. I love Buddha and to know about his daily routine says so much about this unique man, who on one side, talks, walks, eats like rest of us, but on the other side, there is a different quality to his being, daily activities, the way he raised his hand, the way his silence pierced, the way his radiance defied his earthy ordinariness.

My interest in knowing Buddha’s daily routine was not in the sense of imitating it or getting influenced by it. But I felt curious. Like a lover feels about his beloved whom he has been encountering for years and yet he is not aware how she lives her daily life and what she eats.

I am not attracted to Buddha’s daily routine or life for imitation, but for a subtle hint. Millions of people during last two and a half millennia have imitated the Buddha and missed the point. Even Buddha’s elder cousin and his chief personal attendant Ananda, who remained with the Buddha like a shadow for most of the Buddha’s preaching life, missed it. When Buddha was about to attain nirvana, Ananda started weeping. He had been closest to the Buddha, soaking his vibe, his field all the time during Buddha’s routine, listening to his sermons and yet he missed. He could not get enlightened. He attained enlightenment only after the Buddha’s nirvana and prior to the commencement of the first Buddhist council.

Those who have eyes can see through the Buddha's daily routine. It is ordinary and yet mysteriously beautiful and haunting. What Buddha attained, can be attained by each one of us. Buddhahood is available to all of us. All we have to do is to light our own lamp , Appa deepo bhava, and forget about the outer Buddha.

It is said that Buddha's daily routine comprised of five parts: the morning session (4.00 a.m. to 12.00 noon), the afternoon session (12.00 noon to 6.00 p.m.), the first watch(6.00 p.m. to 10.00 p.m.), the middle watch (10.00 p.m. to 2.00 a.m.) and the last watch( 2.00 a.m. to 4.00 a.m.)

The Buddha would get up at 4.00 am, have a wash and sit down to meditate for an hour. From 5.00 to 6.00 a.m. He would look around the world with his mental eye to see if anybody needed help. Perhaps the ripples of his love in the Buddhafield would make the needy awash with his compassion and lessen their misery. At 6.00 am he would put on his robe and either go out and help the needy or beg for food. Sometimes he would go begging with his disciples, who would walk behind him in single line.

I can imagine the serene figure in orange walking calmly…If somebody invited him to their house for lunch, he would give a discourse to them and his followers. In the afternoon the Buddha would usually answer queries of monks. Then the Buddha would again retire to his room and look around the world with his mental eye to see if anyone was looking for his help. He would then go and meet people who were waiting for him. During first watch, followers would come again to the Buddha to either listen or ask questions to clarify their doubts. During the middle watch, it is said that Devas (divine beings of light ) would go to see the Buddha and learn from him.

During the last watch, for the first hour, the Buddha would walk up and down meditating and freeing himself from the discomfort of sitting all day. Then he would sleep for an hour.

For knowing, what the Buddha’s ate, I searched a lot of sources and googled a lot. There has always been a controversy regarding whether Buddha’s last meal sukara-maddava was pork or mushrooms. The meal had led to food poisoning and resulted into his exit from the body. There is also controversy whether the Buddha ate meat or he was strictly vegetarian. Many Buddhist scholars claim that the Buddha ate mushrooms, which may have been poisonous and led to his death at the age of 80, when Buddha completed his 1000th full moons.

One Buddhist text mentions that the Buddha was once served sukaramamsa (Pali) with jujube fruit. The term mamsa means meat or flesh. The text says that Buddha ate it out of compassion. According to the Buddhist lore, the three most important foods served to the Buddha were the final meal, (mushrooms or pork), the meal just before enlightenment, which was the milk rice served by Sujata, and the meal right after enlightenment, which was barley meal honey balls.

A scholar, David N. Snyder has complied a list of the vegetarian foods from various Buddhist texts that the Buddha was offered on various occasions in his life. The list includes thick milk-rice porridge and fresh ghee, wild rice, rice with grains, barley meal honey balls, rice with curry, rose apple, mango, myrobalan fruits, steamed barley and rice, lettuce and fruit salad, vegetables and rice, milk, conjey (watery rice porridge) and honey lumps, vegetables and bread.

Why is Buddha’s personal life or pictures or statues important. Even though Zen tradition, the highest flowering of Buddhism, maintains, if you meet Buddha on the way, cut his head. Perhaps when one sees the outer Buddha, our inner Buddha knocks on the door of our heart….Our inner Buddha echoes back the outer Buddha.

Somewhere Osho says that ``Just looking at the statue of Buddha you will feel some serenity within you - the proportion of the Buddha, the body, the posture, the way he is sitting, the half-closed eyes. You just sit silently, look at the statue, and you will start falling into a silence....In the East a statue is not made for its own sake. It is made as a code language for centuries to follow. Scriptures may disappear, languages may change, words may be interpreted. Doctrines can be wrongly interpreted, commented upon. There may be dispute about theories…Now what dispute can there be about the statue of a Buddha..? …Watching a Buddha statue is watching a yantra. The figure of the statue, the geometry of the statue, creates a figure inside you. And that inside figure creates a certain vibe…..Watch the state of Buddha sitting so silently, in a certain yoga posture. If you go on watching the statue, you will find something like that is happening within you too’’.

Let Buddha’s daily routine, his pictures and statues inspire us to recognize and achieve our own Buddhahood…to inspire us to light our own lamp…Appa Deepo Bhava.

the eternal quest

2009-10-02T11:37:00.000-07:00

Buried the dead squirrel
under the same mango tree

her melted essence
ascends the tree she

loved so much
She knew so much

Another way
Another life

Village elders say, this summer the mangoes of that tree were little more sweet...

A Kashmiri Love Story....Three Datura Flowers....

2009-10-02T01:51:00.000-07:00

It was a chilly December day, when he saw her for the first time. And it was perhaps snowing high up in the mountains, in the Himalayas, the abode of Shiva. Seeing the sheen on her face, an ancient favourite Zen saying echoed in his heart– “Every snowflake falls at the right place”.

Can Datura change a person in some subtle way, make him or her fall in love? Nagarjuna feared that whosever comes in contact with Datura is affected by its strong presence, by its aura. In the Cult of Shiva, this plant is a Rudra plant and can be ferocious, if not approached in the right way. But when approached rightly, with respect and love, doesn’t it reveal mysteries; doesn’t it open new vistas of consciousness, giving glimpses of the `Other Shore’?

In the heart of every Datura seed, lies also the mystery that tells it about the moment when its fragrant white flowers will perfume the night breeze, intoxicating the distant receptive feminine, opening the doors of consciousness. At that time, Nagarjuna hardly knew that she had researched on datura, the celebrated plant in the cult of Shiva, the plant that had secretly fascinated Nagarjuna for many years.

Distant, aloof, non-socializing, skeptic, serious, practical and a certain sense of coldness about her being, an aura of intense detachment, some unexplainable traits like that of sacred Datura, some mercurial alchemical like mystique. Cold girl, the metaphor of a snowgirl, Himkanya. But despite all this, there was something that transcended all these and struck his shore, making impressions on the chaotic sands of his being. He felt awash in the experience, the experience of some distant waves clearing the familiar patterns on the sand, making it afresh, giving it some order again, some illusive virginity again.

This is the story of a Kashmiri girl who loves researching but hates PhD boys, who doesn’t talk much (strange for a girl), who loves her solitude like the busy scientist in the lab on the verge of making a breakthrough, wishing not to be disturbed. This is the story of girl who takes her lunch on the staircase of her research institution, while basking in the winter sun, with frill lighting giving radiance to her forehead. This is story of a girl who researched on Datura, the celebrated plant in the cult of Shiva, the plant that encouraged many people on the path. Engrossed in her own world, who rarely takes interest in the current developments, politics around the institution or who is moving with whom these days?

There was something strange about her, something unusual about her. The way she walked-it was raw countryside girl walk, with no urban sophistication. Her gait was little different, with a tinge of some ancient wound. There are many secrets about her, to be revealed, to be hidden in this story. Why Datura? Why she? Why Shiva?

The first time Nagarjuna saw her, he felt the faint impression of her being a Shaivite girl, an ardent devotee of Shiva in some ancient ashram, with a bhasam teeka (ash mark) on her forehead that added to her spiritual aura. She seemed to him an ancient sadhika, a seeker, struggling with the complex modern constructs around her, trying to make sense of this consumerist world, hurt perhaps by the non-understanding non accommodative relationships.

Simple and pure like snow and yet complex like snow again, she is the daughter of Himalayas, born again, to seek the path of Shiva. She held so many secrets.

After he met her for the first time and perhaps for the last, she told him that Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist was her favourite book. He had read some of Coelho’s books like The Witch of Portobello, but not The Alchemist, though he had it in his library back home and had been planning to read it for some time, but couldn’t do it for want of time. When he returned home that day after meeting her, with his inner sky little overcast, he took out the copy of The Alchemist from the bookshelf in his study cum room. As he did on such rare occasions, he turned to the book, to consult it as an oracle, as has been tradition in Eastern cultures since antiquity with epics like Ramayana being consulted as oracle in difficult situations with different questions, like Chinese do with I Ching, the Book of Change.

Held the book close to his heart and asked the all pervading field, or call it God, with the secret wish in his heart. Closed his eyes and opened the book, to see what sentence or paragraph came before him, and what meaning it held for him. To his surprise, when he opened his eyes slowly, it was page 100 and the sentence read….……`` `I came to tell you just one thing,’ the boy said. I want you to be…………...’ The girl dropped the container, and the water spilled…’’

He was not sure what it meant really. He had not read the book. As he came to know later, the story in The Alchemist teaches us about the essential wisdom of listening to our hearts, to read the omens strewn along life’s path and following our dreams. After he read the book, considered favourite book of so many people, he felt that the book was much overrated; just a plain inspirational book with a simple narrative weaved into a mystic tale.

Was he listening to his heart? Had he read the omens carefully? ``And the water spilled…’’ Coming back to the paragraph in the book, what meaning it held for him and what it hinted at? What synchronistic event it was unfolding? ``Maktub’’.

He thought what a joke. He couldn’t hold his smile, though some inner clouds had by now precipitated, surprising him. Soft rain…made him remember light showers he loved to watch from the window of his ancestral house in Kashmir. Soft non-aggressive rain with gentle swaying winds, as if echoing the romantic sentiments of still mountains. He remembered the image of that grand old chinar tree near his ancestral house in Kashmir, fresh and a little young, after the first downpour, with mist playing hide and seek with mountains high-up there, the peaks flanking the Lidder valley. The image of cloudy mountains in his eyes got little blurred, as water welled up in his eyes, almost taking him by surprise.

She too loves rain; because he saw the faint reflection of the distant white clouds adrift in her inner sky, in her deep clear eyes, which could have rained anytime, small-unwept drops. How can a girl born amid the Himalayas, not love rain or snow. He could see little ancient hidden water in the depth of her eyes. The secret storms of her past they were holding. No doubt her soul was cold.

If eye is clear, one can see clouds floating in many places, in objects and persons. In this paper too. Buddhist Zen master Thich Nhat Hahn says somewhere, `` If you are a poet, you will see clearly that there is a cloud floating in this sheet of paper. Without a cloud there will be no water; without water, the trees cannot grow; and without trees, you cannot make paper. So the cloud is in here. The existence of this page is dependent upon the existence of a cloud. Paper and cloud are so close’’.

Nagarjuna liked to imagine her watching rainfall on the grandfatherly-old Chinar tree in the compound of her ancestral house in Kashmir. He imagined her sitting in a favourite corner, listening the soft patter of drizzle on the rusted tin roof and the creaking of the thick-wooden hand-polished doors against the beating night wind.

The rain days here in exile, the aroma of earth after first rains, he imagined, should remind her of childhood days in Kashmir, where she must have watched snowfall in the backdrop of magnificent Himalayas, with her warm breaths giving some succor to her cold trembling fingers.

But to his surprise, she was not reminded of Kashmir much. No trace of nostalgia on her face. It was clear to him that she was not much attached to Kashmir, having spent very little time of her childhood in the valley, where she grew up near the famous Dal Lake.

Is attachment to one’s roots always good: does it impede one’s growth, impede one from achieving the full potential on favorable soils, which could be anywhere, far away in exile? Isn’t evolution also defying one’s roots and moving ahead, trusting the journey to uncharted paths ahead? Is not the earth same everywhere? Don’t we carry a part of our roots in our branches, in our marrow, in the spirals of our DNA, wherever we go? Don’t we grow new roots again in the course of time, though not always to our liking? Sometimes even not being conscious of it for a long time! Roots are always in transition too, and after some generations they change. Are roots always fixed?

She lived somewhere near Dal Lake. So she told him. So he believed. But he thought, in those innocent days, she must have fed crows on Kaw panim, the birthday of Crows, on the little square grass-platters from the window of her ancestral house in Rainawari Kashmir where she spent the initial years of her childhood, before exodus in early 1990s forced her parents to leave the valley, with its black well-fed crows and silent stone gods.

Has she forgotten the long icicles hanging from the tin roof outside, about which her dad had warned, that they could make a person fall ill, if eaten. Eating icicles was a forbidden fruit for young in snowy winters. Most of them relished it, despite the parental thrashing later. Has she forgotten the tale her grandfather Bobji told her that evening while it was snowing heavily outside and she clung to him for warmth, with hot kangri under her feet, doing shalfa (sharing Kangri) with bobji under his pheran.

While having coffee with his friend Sameeksha one day, near his favourite café point near her institution, Nagarjuna told Sameeksha, pointing to one girl nearby talking to her friend under the shade of some trees:

``There is something in that girl, some countryside innocence, some familiar ancient aura, a melancholy on her face that somehow adds to her charm. She is the one with whom I would love to cover my journey’’, he told Sameeksha, in a very low voice, fearing as if manipulative Devas would listen their conversation.

Sameeksha was both excited and little shocked, when he told her this. He had generally not shown much interest in any particular girl in recent times, though she knew that he was a born flirt and was often associated with many girls. She knew he was a kind of man who would often say, ‘’flirting, polygamy is in the DNA of every true man, if he is perfectly healthy. So-called monogamous men are either liars, hypocrites or there is something wrong with their biology, their DNA’’.

But he had never spoken like this before, with an emotional tinge that couldn’t be mistaken. But this time it was different, she could feel it. She was surprised that without knowing anything about the girl, he had said so. She couldn’t understand how can one take such a decision without even having talked to or met the girl, or knowing anything at all about the girl. She felt it was foolish, it was gamble.

Excited to help Nagarjuna anyhow, Sameeksha went straight to the girl and told her many things about him, his interest in her and what he had wished. Sameeksha told many things about his background, his family and his work and also tried to have similar information from the girl.

Where he met her first? That is a little difficult question. Hasn’t she has always been there? ``A canvas we fill with our colours patterns. A blank page we give meaning by putting our words-thoughts in the right order. A girl that mirrors our inner being, our inner world, seems someone who has always been there and yet the miracle happens-one day suddenly you see someone and feel that finally you have met her. The inner feminine confronts the outer feminine’’, he thought.

To tell you that he first saw her in matador or on the staircase of her institution will not be entirely true. In a sense, he felt, he had known her much before. Looking at her, suddenly, in a flash, he was reminded of a particular stone he had once found during his wanderings. It was still there in his stone collection. That stone somehow resembled this girl, or the qualities she evoked. The being of that cold stone, ancient as the earth herself, somehow evoked in him the feelings which cannot be described. Some stones are very expressive, while some are serious and hold much gravity, hold many secrets within the visible surface. Some are simply cold and don’t reveal their mysteries so easily.

From the core of his heart, he expressed gratitude to her, for awakening something of beyond in him, as he mostly drowned himself in his work and research, leaving almost no time for the mysteries of a relationship, the experience of letting unknown waves thrash ones shore. To let the hardened academic sands loose a bit, to the call of the distant, to the call of the chaos.

And when there is this experience, it doesn’t matter much whether that person, that wave, reciprocates or not, whether that wave later remembers the moment or forgets it. In life, at the end, the moments that remain etched on one’s heart are the moments when one’s being flows oceanically, when one’s love flows unconditionally, like sunshine, like rain, like waves, like starlit sky that doesn’t discriminate, to somebody somewhere, to all everywhere.

Loving anybody or anything means loving a part of Shiva, a part of Shiva attracted to another part of Shiva, to have the experience of the whole. A Zen koan flashed in his mind, ``If you meet Buddha on the way, cut his head with the sword’’. The final let go. The final let in. The mental bullshit !

He just went to her, straight. He had thought he would be nervous, while going to her. But surprisingly, he felt access to some timely reserve of courage. There he was before her, under the canopy of trees, under the open sky, with white clouds adrift over the Shivalik hills in the distance. Was his path too the way of the white clouds? Ever wandering clouds?

Understandingly, Sameeksha went to get some coffee, to allow them to talk one to one. One solitude talking to another. She was little uneasy, and he too felt strange.

He was quiet for sometime, gathering his thoughts like a shepherd trying to keep his flock together while moving along a mountain path. But this time the familiar sheep-thoughts in his mind-field were behaving oddly. There was a strange commotion, as if some deity had suddenly appeared before them and they were unable to make out how to respond.

When there is little more to say, it is difficult to put coherence in words, to begin a sentence, to animate a gesture. To talk about certain special experiences in just spoonfuls of words is sometimes difficult.

But he started, saying, ``I am sorry, if I have hurt you in any way. I understand Sameeksha was too fast in all this. It feels like being too aggressive and intruding into your space on the part of a stranger. But I never thought it will be so fast and she will actually go and tell you everything’’.

She said, ``It is ok. Don’t worry. I can understand. It is fine. Don’t feel so formal’’.

This gave him a lot relief and he felt better, but he was hit with the fact that there was no emotional string in her voice; it was pure formal practical voice, used generally by girls against street boys who stalk them or propose them.

She added, ``I understand, even I can start liking somebody…what can one do…’’.There was silence for some time. As he saw around the café, there were groups of young boys and girls talking to each other, some gulping coffee over peals of laughter, some munching sandwiches while trying to make sense of their strained relationships, some trying to be intimate with someone special in the group, their body language so clearly showed it. Nagarjuna thought, how many love triangles, quadlaterals, straight lines and confusing spirals of relationships such groups must be having.

The geometric definition of straight-line made him remember another imagined definition: true relationship emerges when the shortest distance between two hearts becomes zero. Can distance between two points ever become zero? Given the fact that space is curved, how many people fool themselves with simplistic and exotic definitions, the faith on straight-lines. But in his heart, secretly he wished the success of all relationships in the groups that were either strained or taking form, and in whatever geometric form. He laughed within, he felt foolish. He felt good.

``I did not want to keep you in darkness. I am engaged. I have seen the boy just once. He is in Delhi, an MBA working in some software company. Perhaps we will marry next year. I was asked to see the boy and I said it is fine….’’

She packed much in just few words. He wished he could rearrange the words she had said, like the game teenagers play with words, making different sentences with fixed number of words. Wish I could change the position of `not’ a few times, he thought. What could have been the different outcomes… see:

I did ( ) want to keep you in darkness.
I am (not) engaged.
Perhaps we will (not) marry next year
I was asked to see the boy and I said it is (not) fine.

Does Godfield orchestrate or write the fate of people like this, rearranging words, enjoying the game, the permutations and combinations, the leela? Does He know the implications of his simple words, the seed vibrations that ripple across, the steps he orchestrates? Sometimes just one word, one flicker in the eye, one drop or one gesture, that makes all the difference.

Even if I could, I would never change or rearrange the words….For she had spoken those words, he thought and felt good at his never-to-be-known inner gesture, even if imaginary.

``Well, best of luck for your journey. I hope you will invite me in your marriage. I will come if I am here’’. She was silent; a faint smile crossed her serene face, meaning perhaps no, to a stranger like him.

He could see in his mind’s eye: the distant image of a monk in saffron robes, serenely walking along an ancient moss laden path, with his back to him. This image had haunted Nagarjuna for many years.

``I saw you here on the staircase and in the matador also. You appeared simple and innocent and I liked you. I wanted to cover my journey with you, rare thing for a flirt like me who fiercely loves his freedom. I felt that was the best and shortest way to approach this. But I did not know you are engaged. Besides, you have every right to reject or keep your secrets or say anything. I respect whatever decision you have taken. I am again sorry if I have caused you any inconvenience’’, he said , while gathering enough courage to say so. She kept silent. He was content, irrationally, for having said this

She was silent.. Generally he didn’t like to talk about such feelings like this. He always felt that articulating such feelings was like being too loud. One should be silent about such things, he thought. He believed that it should be the fragrance that should speak for the flowering. But perhaps in this too intimately wired world, in the cacophony of market sounds and software buzzes, people have forgot to listen the simple. Perhaps in this consumerist culture of exotic smells, simple fragrances get lost, he thought. But he too at some level was curious about exotic smells, he too often googled in the cyberland, he thought, feeling a little guilty for acting so funny.

Two parrots perched on the nearby tree. Perhaps a couple. It is said that parrots are monogamous and live for nearly a century, devoted to their partners. Nagarjuna wondered who must have kept a watch to establish this fact, on whether a parrot flirts with some other parrot or not. He imagined how this he-parrot must have proposed to the she-parrot? And where they would have frequented for dating, some favourite branch, some good cover of dense foliage, with some good view of the setting sun. He imagined their little downy feathery bedroom atop some tree, with night breeze cradling them to sleep and …. Ha ha

``If I can help you in any way as a friend in future, I would feel very happy’’, he said. She snapped back, ``please, don’t mind if I don’t talk to you in future. Because I don’t talk to many people. I am a little reclusive. I have just two to the three friends. And with them I talk a lot’’.

Anyway he respected her wish. Then they talked about more mundane topics- her present research topic, her earlier research. He was wondering why she didn’t continue her work on Datura, readily available in the Himalayan state, the abode of Shiva.

Nagarjuna thought, ``wish I could tell her my own interest in the Cult of Shiva and his favourite plant, Datura, the consciousness changing plant used for centuries by our Rishi-scientists for inducing mystical states in the seekers and encouraging them on the path, with Datura helping them in loosening the known fetters, opening the unvisited vistas of consciousness and perception, making it clear to the seekers that there are uncharted paths they can seek and move ahead. How I too had researched on Datura long back, as it was used in Shaivite cult, especially in the tantric traditions’’.

When he asked from which part of Kashmir valley she originally hailed, she replied, ``Rainawari Srinagar’’. So she was from the area of Vetalraj Bhairav, one of the eight Bhairavas that are said to protect different regions of Kashmir. Bhairava means a protector, the protective aspect of Shiva. All Kashmiri Pandits in Kashmir valley, in their own specific areas, had their own Bhairava, whom they prayed for their welfare, longlivty and safety. It is said that there are about 40 to 60 Bhairavas in different parts of valley. Tradition holds that it was King Praversen II in the 6th century AD who laid the foundation of Srinagar city and divided it into 8 zones, as per the instructions of his family deity Vetal Bhairav. These 8 zones were protected and looked after by 8 Bhiaravas respectively- Ananadeshwar (Amira Kadal, Ganpatyar, Sathu, Maisuma), Bhokatkeshwar (Safaakadal, Chattabal), Jayakesan (Zaina Kadal) Puranaraja (Hari Parbat, Haval), Toshkraza (Habba Kadal), Magalraja (Fateh Kadal, Bohri Kadal), Vishek Sen (area beyond Zaina Kadal) and Vetalraj, (Dal lake, Rainawari), where she lives.

Animal sacrifices and yellow rice (Tehar) with meat offerings were offered by our ancestors to Bhiaravas to keep them happy and have their blessings. If there was any mishap or any thing went wrong, our forefathers used to say that their Bhairava was unhappy or angry with them. Some Bhairavas had distinct personalities and could turn out to be very moody. But now after exodus is nearing two decades, most of us seem to have forgotten our Bhiaravas and the associated rituals, many intricacies of the Shaiva lore, including the original tantric use of Datura, which had intrigued Nagarjuna for many years.

Nagarjuna wanted to tell her something about the mysterious traditions related to the use of the datura in different world cultures, especially in the Indian and Native American since ancient times. He wanted to ask her many questions about Datura, as he never found any person who knew much about this mysterious and dangerous plant. He was not sure what sort of research she had done on Datura.

He wanted to tell her about his own fascination with sacred plants, especially the ones revered in the cult of Shiva. He also wanted to tell her about his apprehensions that working with the Datura might have changed her personality.

Datura is such a strong plant that people since times have held it sacred for consciousness changing powers, and in certain cases the change has been permanent. Is there a possibility that while working with Datura inoxia, which has a strong ordour, one could have breathed in some fragrance wafting from the plants parts of the Datura or the chemical extracts of the plant while working on the same in the lab. Has Datura changed her in some way? He feared that whosever comes in contact with Datura is affected by its strong presence in some way. This tree is Rudra plant and can ferocious, if not approached in the right way.

In the cult of Shiva, Datura represents the male polarity, the polarity of ferocious Rudra, while Bhang (Cannabis) symbolizes the feminine aspect, the polarity of gentle Devi. When the two are smoked together, the inherent powers of these sacred plants are transformed in union, helping in or giving a taste of invoking Kundalini, fast asleep at the base muladhara chakra to higher levels of consciousness.

For thousands of years, Datura has been regarded as sacred and especially valued for its power to induce visionary dreams, to divine future events and to reveal the causes of disease and misfortune and to gain entrance to ``other worlds of existence’’. These plants were so sacred that in some cultures only the priests were allowed to use them as it was believed that it helped them to have conversation with the gods and divine future events, find the location of lost or stolen objects and know many others things. Virgins who resisted to becoming prostitutes were given Datura brews due to which they are said to have actively contributed to the loss of their virginity and later had no memory of their actions.

In recent times, famous mystic saint of Kashmir Bhagwan Gopinathji (1898-1968) is said to have used Datura during his intense sadhanas. It is said that he would sometimes take handfuls of Datura (Stramonium), opium, panak and other intoxicants during his period of intense sadhana in 1930s.

Nagarjuna’s first memory of Datura was that of a woody-stalked, leafy herb growing in their kitchen garden in Kashmir that produced spiney seedpods and large white or purple trumpet-shaped flowers. He still remembered the splitting open of the pod when ripe to release the numerous seeds. It is said that Datura’s flowers open and close at irregular intervals during the evening, earning the plant the nickname Moonflower. Most of the parts of the plant emit a foul odor when crushed or bruised. Datura flowers have a reputation as a powerful aphrodisiac and have even been mentioned in Vatsayana’s Kamasutra.

Nagarjuna’s love for this dangerous plant originated from his love for Shiva. He loved all the facets associated with the cult of Shiva, be it Shaiva tantra, the serpent, the moon, the bull, the rudraksha, the Shaiva masters of Kashmir, the sacred plants, flowers and trees revered by the Shaivites and Himalayas, the abode of Shiva and Shakti. Shiva is also called Aushadhishvara, the lord of herbs and consciousness changing drugs. Bel, Hemp and datura being his favourites. In the garden of Shiva, we find that he is worshipped on special days, with special flowers, including Datura flowers, the moonflower.

Was it because of the Shaiva connection that Nagarjuna was attracted towards the girl.

He was not sure why he gravitated towards that girl. Perhaps there is something deeper for him from this synchronistic event that may unfold slowly. I have to go more within, he thought. Synchronicities are events, people, places, books and even plants or stones our soul attracts into our life to help us to evolve or learn some important lesson. It is said that if one desires something with a strong will, the whole universe orchestrates the dance of events to fulfill that desire.

While he was saying good-bye to the girl, Nagarjuna was reminded of an incident in Franz Kafka’s life. It is said that once when Franz Kafka visited the house of his friend Max Brod, he noticed that Brod’s father was asleep in his room that he had entered. Feeling that he had disturbed the old man, Kafka tiptoed out of the room. Fearing that his sudden entry might have awakened the old man, he whispered in a low voice while leaving the room, ``please consider me a dream’’. Nagarjuna also wanted to say the same thing, but he didn’t.

While tiptoeing out of her life, Nagarjuna wanted to leave something for her. He took out of his bag- Thich Nath Hanh’s wonderful book on the life of Buddha, Old Path White Clouds. She didn’t take the book; no gifts from strangers. New Path, New Clouds for her.

Some feelings are like snow; the softer they fall, the longer they dwell upon. That evening somewhere a warm drop tripped down on the snow. It froze and turned snow, crystallizing into white silence.

When Nagarjuna went home later that evening, he penned his impressions about the incident, with his favourite stones by his side on the table. In the refuge of his favourite poets, their poetry, that night, he felt so good. Splashing white silence on the paper.

In the night he felt much gratitude in his heart, that he couldn’t contain himself. He went upstairs on the roof and watched moon for a long time. Moon, the disc of Shiva, seemed to have assumed life of its own, moving behind the mountain of clouds, as if going to meet somebody. The distant, years-away stars, shivered in his view. He felt cold. Cold like the whiteness of the moon, like the datura flower, like the rain drenched bulbul with a hippy wet style, like the old monk in the high mountain retreat, like the Himkanya.

After a few days, one night, Nagarjuna had a strange dream, a dream with perhaps some cryptic message. He saw himself wandering in some far away land, as if he had lost his way. He saw he was searching his way, when some village girl tells him that there is an ancient Shiv temple just near the hill in the area. She tells him that he should visit the temple; he should not miss it, as having strayed so far. That girl also tells Nagarjuna that the ancient temple is called Shahadhwallh Shiv Mandir (Honey Shiv Temple). He enters the temple premises and has a feeling as if the temple had not been visited for years. It was all in ruins. From the state of the age-worn sculptures, he gets a feeling that the temple is thousands of years old. Even in the dream, he wonders why it is called Honey Shiv Temple, as he sees no bees or beehives anywhere. As he moved around the temple ruins, in the backside of the temple, he finds a Datura plant.

He goes near the plant and uproots it with the intention to take it back home, as he loved the plant loved by Shiva himself. But the plant comes out of the soil without roots. The roots were too deep and entrenched tightly with the soil and could not make it. Perhaps they could not shake off the pull of the centuries old soil. And without roots the Datura couldn’t have survived in the compound of his home. It would have perished in just a day or two. Taking it as a signal that perhaps he had not delved deep into the Shaiva mystery, he placed the plant back in its soil, hoping it would continue with the grace of Shiva.

A gush of wind shakes off the pollen from the Datura flowers nearby and drenches his body. Fearing that he might get high on the pollen, he shakes off the pollen from his body, feeling joyous in his heart, feeling as if he was blessed by the plant spirit to penetrate its mysteries further, to penetrate the mystery of the real essence of the Datura that pervades the whole universe, the fragrance of Shiva-consciousness. From the nearby Datura plant, he took three fragrant white flowers. He placed two on the Shiv Lignum in the temple. While the third one he kept in his hand…to understand the real aroma of Shiva that still eluded him. He felt that he had not understood the real meaning the Shiv Sutra ``Udhamo Bhairavah’’ . And then he just walked away…with that white flower…. without looking back…..

That morning, when Nagarjuna woke up, he had faint idea what the dream hinted. He looked at his hands; they were empty. There was no third datura flower. As he rubbed his hands ritualistically to touch his face and eyes, as Kashmiris traditionally do, he felt a very faint smell of Datura coming from his hands, or it was in his heart. He looked up for a while and smiled…

He felt joyous and full of gratitude. The image of a golden yellow Chinar leaf falling from a high branch on the clear Lidder waters suddenly flashed in his mind. It was a distant childhood memory. The leaf got adrift and finally became a yellow drop in his blurred view... and then suddenly in his view, the yellow dot morphed into a monk with golden orange attire, walking serenely towards the misty horizon.

The mists were rising and he just walked away…to enter the silence of the snows…to understand the aroma of Shiva… to understand the white silence crystallized in the Himalayas… He just walked away…..

Haiku on a flower soul....

2009-10-02T01:40:00.000-07:00

Only if I can

write a haiku

two lines on your two beautiful delicate wings
with the movement of my shivering breaths
or whisper them in your flower soul
and then see you flutter away

O butterfly
The rainbow in your wings
unfolds a song in the distant almond orchards… white almond flowers near the monastery

your every flight seems to me
the search for that illusive third haiku line

to distill the nectar of myriad hues into one essence

A Lost Window.....

2009-10-02T01:27:00.001-07:00

I remember looking at rain one fine afternoon from the second-floor window (Kanee Dhaeer) of my ancestral house in Kashmir. My grandfather Tathya, while sipping hot Kahva, Kashmiri tea, was telling me a story about some king who had lost his kingdom. I had irked him by asking continuously why the king had lost his kingdom, why he had to leave his land. Tathya loved to tell stories and I loved to listen them. I loved the way he would punctuate them with his inimitable Te che maej deevi raksha karinay (And may Mother Goddess protect you).

The trail of the long forgotten scents is set in exile. The ancient seeds lost in the belly of earth feel the coming of the drops.

It is raining here today. Some ancient water wells up in my searching eyes. I know windows are absences, absences in the walls. But sometimes windows can themselves get walled in one’s memory as a fixture of a sorts.

I know, there in my village when it rains that empty window, where Tathya told me numerous stories, misses me too. Its empty frame is a picture pregnant with thousand questions. Everybody who has an eye can see the ‘familiar absence’.

Empty windows have always seemed to me as big questions marks. But that was my first window to the world, literally and metaphorically. It was from that window I had for the first time seen the wonders of rain and seasons and the few pretty neighbour girls, whom I later knew I could not have loved any way. So no regrets. Really? Am I speaking the truth! Zorba must be laughing somewhere.

Whenever there is a downpour, I miss that window here. We were the companions of so

many rainy days for years. Those were the days when I would let raindrops fall in my eyes-wide-open that always liked their pure crystal coolness.

I have lost my little window to rain, to my past, to my own small world. I don’t know how that window feels, when no body looks to the new blossoms through it, or the rain or those chirpy red-bottomed Bulbuls.

Today it is raining and night is immensely beautiful. Whenever it rains here, in my room, a few drops of gratitude for that window also fall from my eyes. The absence of that window has somehow added perspective to my life.

Wherever I see, I feel I am seeing through it, or so I imagine or so I want this world to be seen through.

The sound of rain in the windy winter night is immensely beautiful. Cold shivers go down my spine and some ancient longing is awakened. In rain, I feel some one in the distance calling, someone beyond ages, and someone beyond mountains and clouds. I feel the ancient movement and struggles. I feel the beat of ages in the patter of rain. I feel the mystic wriggle.

The primal urges of animal origin or may be the memories of my childhood, or of even beyond, touch the inner strings. Does rain remind us of the comfort of mother’s womb, where everything one needed was showered, just like earth showers rain, sunshine, air on us without asking?

I can still see it clearly, like it was yesterday. The childhood image of looking towards the sky, from the window of my ancestral house. It never leaves me. I used to wonder, from where all these drops come and how high in the sky I could see a single drop and follow its flight and final kiss with earth. Those small pools and the reflection of those cloudy skies in the pools. And the small concentric ripples in those reflections. I used to watch the play of drops for hours. It was then I understood the power of a single drop, how far the ripples go and the fact that they never actually stop.

When it rains a strange unrest clouds my inner sky. There are flashes. In the darkness I see something in the distance so beautiful. I want to go out, far away. Somewhere far far away, where I can dance in the rain, leaving all my clothes far behind–all that covers me, far behind. Just rain and me. Wish Zorba could jump out of Kazantkis’s book and dance with me and become rain.

To a worldly wise it all might seem romanticism. May be that is true. In this shrinking world, and expanding universe, romanticism is a soft lens that masks the imperfections and gives you a feel of the translucent beauty amidst the harsh market realities.

Somewhere an all-pervading voyeuristic eye is noticing our all moves. From orgasm to dress sense, everything possible is being commodified. How to see a dream , how to make love, and how to say no to “How to..” books. Economics is increasingly shaping international relations as well as domestic relations. A simple glass of drinking water is being sold to us with the label “ Ingredients Zero”.

Don’t we need to leave behind our raincoats, and have a direct contact with out any simulation substitutes? Has not the remote controller become our most intimate controller? Has not the window of the computer screen become our Window to the world?

Does a deliberate romanticism or self chosen illusions help us to make the harsh edges palpable. Is mouse taking us down the virtual hole , in a world of end less loops and links.

In the world dominated by media generated hyper-realities, romanticism is at times very therapeutic, a timely antidote, a nice silky cushion over which one sleeps and tries to forget the unforgettable. Did Ghalib say the same thing, when he hummed - ‘Hum ko maloom hian jannat ki hakekat, Par dil ke khush rakhnein ka Ghalib yeh khayal aschha hain’?.

Somewhere in the distance a familiar faint song is in the air. Song of Rajinder Kumar’s film Arzoo. How I love the snow ambience in the song, reminding me of the snowy mountains, near which we lived in Kashmir. Scientists say the Himalayas are still rising, a few centimeters every year. They have grown in these 18 years, like me. Will we also get distanced from our roots slowly, like this? Inch by inch. Will folds obliterate our view ?

This reminds me of what Tathya told me once near the window, when I was low after having lost a cricket match to a rival team, whose captain eyed my neighbour girl: “Nothing stops, in the eternal flux- a drop that we drink today has passed the bellies and veins of billions of organisms. The raindrops the girl next-door receives in her fist must have been once a part of some earlyman’s urine or semen. Learn to see things differently and you will never feel low again. See a thing or a face as if you seeing it for the first time. See thing or a face, as if you are looking a it for the last time ”.

Music, memories and rain have some common link. Some times I feel rain is music of life meandering rhythmically ahead, of falling back into the womb with a thud. The very throb of life. When the first drop fell on the waiting parched lips of earth, was not it the Primal music, the primal sound, the mother of all sounds, that set the symphony going.

Rain saturates my being. Night is immensely dark and wind makes the leaves rustle and stirs primal desires in me. Here they stop. Here it starts again, slowly. Each leaf dances its own unique dance. Unique music. Unique songs.

Rain becomes more severe and patter on the roof is more audible now.

If death comes, it should come in a moment like this–silently without sound of any footsteps. Like a downy feather falling slowly from the nest. Like a long forgotten friend suddenly opening the door and embracing you. Like a song you had heard in the childhood.

Rain. Wafting desire.
Longing. Grey restlessness.
Forgotten umbrella.
Empty wrinkled hands of my nani. The face of mist.
Fading sepia memories.
New seasons. Rain on weathered petals.
Waiting branches of an old decaying tree (Brunn Kull).
Old crow perched on the electric line, drenched in rain, in an intellectual pose.
The shivering puppy looking for a shelter.
The undrenched smile of that girl.

The drop kissing the seed, sleeping in the lap of earth. And the seed sacrificing itself for some future seed, for some future branch, for some future flower dreaming of romancing the elusive moon.

Isn’t rain earth’s answer to eternal quest, eternal invitation for the penetration of its deeper mysteries? Isn’t every raindrop a love letter- of the distant clouds to beloved earth, of desires hidden to the fragrances adrift, of the oceans to the mighty mountains? And doesn’t earth take every letter to its heart and answers later in blossoms, in the freshness of the green grass, in the sweetness of the fruits, in the crystalliness of the gushing mountain springs.

Wish, before my frame returns to the elements or the frame of that window returns to the elements, we meet each other and I am able to watch change of seasons again as I used to with my grandfather Tathya.

Let Tathya’s stories never end, though his own ended half a decade after exodus, exactly on his eightieth birthday, with eyes wide open and looking across Pirpanjal. Tathya still tells stories through me, but in the absence of that familiar window, the stories are missing something. Familiar absence.

Tathya, I still do not understand why the King had lost his kingdom?