The sunburnt rose

 I’m a sunburnt rose in the little garden of a common man. My smile is singed with scorching May heat. These are the scorched edges born of my battle to survive and smile and spread fragrance and give nectar to these little creamy white butterflies that flutter around. They draw life from me and I take inspiration from them. Aren’t they small flying petals bravely flirting with the hot wind in this scorching heat?

I won’t say the margins of my petals are burnt. I would say they are the embroidery work born of my flirtatious ways to kiss the sunrays.  Well, no shame in that. My law is to smile, flirt, kiss and get kissed and spread fragrance. If that gives me burnt lips that’s no problem. And no problem with the sunrays either. They are what they are. I don’t blame them. Their law is to warm, mine is to smile. Don’t they give life to my frozen petals in the winters after a frosty night? When the frost melts on my lips to make me the seductive prince in the garden.

Well, that was then and now is now. Why compare dew-fresh lips with parched ones? Both are beauties in their own ways. Most importantly, both are smiles in different conditions. So no problem with the furnace of sunrays. Now they give me this beautiful embroidered smile, marking their craze for me over the borders of my petals. They can’t help it. They are in love. I look majestic with the mark of their love on my lips. Don’t I? I do, I know.

We are a few flowery soldiers fighting for love, truth and beauty on a branch. I’m in the front and would take the lead in getting my authenticity singed and branded on my petals by the fiery kiln. Then my deputy stands in wait. He would be leading the smiley charge once my burnt petals scatter to the winds. And after him, the little bud that you see just getting ready to hold the baton for love and beauty will take charge.

Love, beauty and truth are what we convey and carry across our generations. No wonder, we survive as a single entity named ‘rose’. A symbol of beauty and love. And of course smile. So we have to smile at all costs under any circumstance. If a rose won’t smile, I’m afraid smile would vanish from this small planet.

‘I’ and ‘we’ smile simultaneously. ‘I’ and ‘we’ are just the same. Due to this sameness between ‘I’ and ‘we’, I can still enjoy the full handsome youthful smile of my deputy as if it’s my own. I’m happy that all of us are roses only, not Mr. or Miss x, y, z, etc. For then our smiles would scatter and turn to pieces and my smile would become different from other roses. Thankfully we are spared of that fate.  

A smile isn’t just for full, luscious lips. It’s there for dry, parched, thirsty lips as well. A smile on parched, thirsty lips is a smile of bravery, conviction, wisdom, fortitude and determination, like mine as of now. A smile on full, luscious lips is a smile of youth, of romantic dreams, adventures and excitement like that of my deputy. A smile on a child’s lips is the purest, a rose itself. See, can you see it in the little daughterly bud? Now forget all the nagging facts of life and smile for a moment. If I can do it under the hot fiery sun, you can at least do it with all the equipment there to help you keep safe from direct bombardment by the sun.

The book of life

Aha the book of life! Every day a new chapter. Each incident, happening or phenomenon a fresh sentence with profound meanings.

The new sun rising on a misty morning arriving with the message that there is always light after dark to help us see and realize the illusions and unwarranted fears that we imposed on us in the dark.

The setting sun saying ‘a smiling bye’ with a message that one has to accept and willingly dive into oblivion after a dazzling day, after touching the peak of brilliance, after a full-hearted bear hug with life, after completing an innings in career or a relationship. That a ripe fruit has to drop, that once very dear people will go out of life, that smiles will be followed by tears as well. Accept. That we have to accept this play of existence in totality and that includes smiles-tears, win-loss, falling in love, partings, birth-death. Everything.

The shifting shades and reshaping clouds in the sky brimming with the message of change and impermanence, of new forms overtaking the old ones, of a smooth transition, of the old changing into the new without any drama, without any hassles.

Mother earth holding this portion of existence on her maternal palm with unconditional love and the undying spirit of just giving all that Her children need. The message of giving! How much more satisfying it seems in comparison to taking! That we evolve by a great margin just by giving a smile. And ‘taking’ also is highly undervalued. If we ‘take’ with a smile and gratitude, doesn’t it create a ‘giver’ who became joyful for the act? Mother existence prefers a graceful and full of gratitude ‘taker’ than a cranky ‘giver’. Give with a smile of kindness and empathy; take with a smile of gratitude. To mother existence these are simply two facets of the same coin.

The chirping of birds conveying the spirit of keeping songs alive on one’s lips even while engaged in the day-to-day commitments and routine practicalities of life. Their free flights spreading the fragrance of freedom, the urge to fly on one’s own path.

The trees with the message of growth irrespective of the changing environment and the divine instinct of giving fresh air, shade to the weary traveller, inspiration to artists, nests to the birds, fruits for the hungry. A new shoot sprouting from the cut on their bark. The message  that we too can get fresh colors and shoots to our personality at the points of cuts, wounds, adversities.

The flowers with the message that smiles carry the touch of divinity, that fragrant petals and nectar fuel the colorful sorties of many butterflies, that we too touch many lives positively with our gentle manners, smiles and sweetness of temperament. That our rainbowed touch can make many people joyful like nectar-satiated butterflies. We smile, say soft words, treat them gently and they soar high and become joyful.

Beautiful relationships with the message that our travel-weary heart, mind and body need a soft touch, a cool brace, a healing bonhomie; that friends, family, relatives, partners, lovers are all there to help us cross a milestone on our eternal journey and then melt and get reshaped like clouds in the sky. But we carry the invisible imprint of their persona on our selves. It’s firmer than a line on stone. People might have tears on account of you, once the pathways have parted, but ensure that the tears are accompanied by a smile as well so that the dry tears don’t singe someone’s soul.

A river in the hills, furiously cutting big boulders, passing the message that we have to raise a blizzard of karma to later enjoy a peaceful flow in the plains and later merge into the bigger serenity of the sea. That we have to cut karmic stones to come out of the stones, walk joyfully on the plain of relationships, kindness, care, share and finally sleep in the lap of mother sea.  

The silence in a forest loaded with the message that this is what all the words and languages point to, the language of silence, the mother of all sermons and preachings.

The exotic chaos and cluttering noise in a city heavily pregnant with the message that all of us are destined to wade through inner conflicts, puzzles, trauma and tension like common people beautifully engaged in the sweet-sour poignancy of the cities.

Falling in love loaded with joy, pleasure, care and share. It tells how important these feelings are for our wellbeing. Just recall the feeling of bliss while freshly in love! Isn’t that wonderful?

Falling out of love, tears, pain and suffering passing the message that we always could have been better lovers. In any case, it’s always for the best in future. We just become better lovers after partings.

Everything around us is full of messages. The book of life! Observe it, feel it, understand it. It opens the experiential dimension in life. With experiential knowing the phantoms of intellect and mind take a backseat. They always bow down to the confident sovereign, the soul, the observer now fully aware of its kingdom, its colors, shapes, hues, everything.

The beauty of carefully reading the book of life is that we learn to touch our own self, our own body, mind, thoughts and emotions with more empathy and self-love. We fall in love with life overall. We simply come out of the definition of life within this particular body and feel related to the life overall. Then we touch many lives very-very positively. We become healers without trying to do it intentionally. It’s just a natural state of being in that dimension. Happy reading the book of life!

Balance. Balance. Balance.

 Uncontrolled emotions will turn us suicidal, depressed and at the most a brooding misfitted poet. Uncontrolled mind will leave us open to the chance workshop of the devil. Anything negative may come out as a dark product. Uncontrolled energies will see us lunatics. Uncontrolled biology will find us turning into sex maniacs and rapists. Having control over life is only meant to avoid a 'part' of our nature or existence from becoming 'everything', thus shadowing all other dimensions of life. We get hijacked by one impulse. Then it's a stunted growth. Holistic growth, call it evolution, needs Balance among various aspects of our existence. As Buddha said Balance is the key to a really joyful life. Keep the parts in place. Maintain all the impulses firmly in place. Don't deny any part of your existence but please don't allow just 'parts' to be 'whole'. It's a multicolored bouquet with fresh flowers of body, mind, emotions, energies. Maintaining Balance among them gets us a fulfilling life full of nice relationships, jobs, growth, faith, love, kindness. If we are driven by just one impulse then it acquires too big a force, driving us in one direction, imbalanced, and we turn mere products of our impulse and randomly developing circumstances. Use all the 'parts' of your existence and we become creators of our own self. Because there is no excess of one particular driving force. As humans we can grow and evolve only as creators, not as circumstantial products. To be a mere product would be degradation and disregard for the tremendous potential of awareness that mother nature has given us. So again remember: Balance, Balance and Balance. At least listen to Buddha if not me! Everyone talks of Balance but how to do it, one may wonder. There is a very simple technique for it. Allow yourself to be softly braced by various aspects of life that touch and test the different parts of your existence. Live an experiential life in totality and allow mother existence to caress your multilayered and multidimensional self in various forms at the level of body, mind, emotions and energies. Don't run away or shun any particular aspect of life. Embrace the experiences that come your way. And where all are sovereigns, nobody would emerge as a tyrant to manipulate your life in an imbalanced way. 

A dandy lizard on a summer noon

 A shikra is a light-built hawk, ashy blue-gray on the top and rusty brown underside. It loves open, meagerly wooded country. It’s a swift flier, almost incredibly elegant, with quick strokes of wings ending in a glide. It flies close to the ground and shoots upwards to grab a perch upon a branch with solitary sovereignty. Hereafter, it gives a desiccating look for any mice, small bird, lizard or squirrel who, perchance, lowers its guard for a moment that may allow it to sire a successful hunt. It may seem to carry a kind of effeminate nonchalance for a hawk but its birdie persona is interspersed with enough skill to dispense with the life of any little rodent that turns careless even for a moment.

The predator gives a piercing, harsh, challenging call. Well, now it eyes a love-struck pair of garden lizards in the branches of the curry leaf tree basking at the peak of heat with its exotic elegance. Tiny clusters of whitish flowers leave aromatic pools of air around the couple. There are honeybees and butterflies enjoying the feast even in the noontime heat setting up a lifeful rhythm. Tiny guys expertly, uncomplainingly facing life’s gubernatorial challenges. The bees, the butterflies and the in-love garden lizards make it festively buoyant. A melding interface of food, love, death; the elements juxtaposed so nearby, side by side. I muse with a stoic smile: a circumstantial texture peppered upon the small tree; dismal indices of smallish ironies; and God’s inherent instinct of eternality above and beyond all this.

The noon is meticulously bright. Swathed in the distressing pools of longing, the male lizard is bright orange around its torso, she a shy soft pink. Hypnotized by the jingling placations of love-lust combo, they are perfectly oblivious to the hawk eye peering at them through the leaves from a top branch in the tree. Then the hawk falls through the branches like it has been shot dead, a free fall. They are lucky that the tree has enough leaves left on it to make it a noisy fall. The sexual energy quickly transforms into panic and they forget the tentacles of love and take onto their heels, individually, separately, for life. They become invisible. The hawk changes many look-out positions to spot the runaway couple. They are not to be seen. Changing colors in league with the times, a nice tactic to dupe and survive.

I have seen them a few times earlier also, enjoying the moments of togetherness; looking out for a healthy moment to join their bodies for the full fruition of love-lust combo. Seeing them together is almost mirth-exuberating spectacle. Looking at the way he has to change many colors, I feel that he is forever trying to deal with fresh tantrums from her bountiful books. As a dandy lizard, the male carries a lot of confidence of cosmic magnitude, a sort of self-assured, heraldic march, especially when its girlfriend is around. It raises its head and stares at you head-on. I have no doubt that it wants to impress her with a brave stance against we humans. I have faced situations where he has stared at me with gutsy posture from just a few feet away. Comfortably ensconced in a successful love’s saddle, anybody would give the impression of a king feeling robustly positive and on top of this world after self-coronation. Aaah, the heat, follies and dew-moistened rosy auguries of love, or maybe lust, maybe both together, sometimes one over the other and sometimes the reverse! In fact the combo is highly shapeless to define it in a particular way. But I’m happy that it didn’t repeat the same folly while facing the hawk and showed a clean pair of crawling paws, otherwise the lady would have lost her love necessitating her to go seeking love again after a few sad moments. 

A sunburnt summer flower

I consider myself a summer flower on account of being born right in the middle of summers on May 5. Fiery summers making me feel like a sunburnt summer flower. But a little astrological fact sooths with its cool brace. It was the Budh Purnima day when I arrived for my current innings on earth.

Here I’m basking—sedate, pensive and sensitive—in the solitude of pale fallen leaves, sunburnt roses and some odd butterflies still darting about on this late morning of my birthday. It’s a small corner, a little peaceful niche in a world embroiled in lawsuits, lamentations and calumnies. Here I sit as a sovereign of my dwarfish, puny world; the sun a bit short of the baking point at this moment of the day.

The curry leaf tree is laden with clusters of little white flowers. These must be very succulent. Hundreds of honeybees are quenching their thirst on them. It creates an opportunity for the red-vented bulbul couple. The two of them stretch out their necks to pluck the bees. Four butterflies are also tastefully busy in enjoying a breakfast. The purple sunbird couple looks somewhat irritated at the nectar-sucking pandemonium. They think it’s their prerogative only, so they harangue their witticisms from nearby branches. It’s a buzzing, delighted, entranced little world at the cusp of gastronomical delight; a world with its refractory charm standing wholly for me with its indispensable fidelity.

The same tree bears the fragile little nest that allows the doves to lay eggs without putting an effort to make a new nest. One more couple lands to inspect. Denounce the dolts for their laziness. I always do whenever various dove couples lay eggs in the same nest, one after the other, only to lose them to cats, crows, gravity, et cetera. Thankfully, the tragedy is postponed for some time. The locality seems busier than their liking. In the stingy hubbub, a few bees bump into them and they flutter away, noisily clapping their wings, the take off somewhat loud for their peaceful nature. The butterflies and the bees also bump into each other. Well, everyone is entitled to participate in the feast on my birthday.

A tailless cat is eating the top ends of some still green blades of grass in a corner in the garden. The old women, they are all gone now, used to say that the cats and dogs eat grass as a medicine when they have stomach issues. He makes plenty of weird faces while taking his medicines, like children make while taking bitter pills. This particular cat is thoroughly wicked. Thinking that his poop will be mistaken as the deeds of my favorite cats, getting me angry enough to give them a hiding, the pettifogger relives himself on the terrace. But I know his tricks. Despite his vices and faults I allow him to take the grass medicine because depriving an indigestion patient of medicines would be a sin.  

Undaunted by the fiery summers, like rose-hearted guys still surviving in a stone-hearted, artless, brawny world, the petunias in five pots, making full use of their favorable circumstances—they have to face direct sun only till eleven in the morning—have enough blossoms to beat the sultry shades of sadness born of a yard littered with dry, pale leaves and a lonely birthday boy among them. Their infallibly pure, sprightly, indomitable, bright smiles wish a very happy birthday, gently offering lolling sympathies; a soothing balm over the burns, cuts and wounds, the result of strange antipathies presented by fate.

It’s a little flowery shrine with a potted tulsi in between: a live shrine with a living goddess with her living bouquet of flowers. They have to do a little less than half-day’s wage to survive. The sun can try to wither the blooms till only a bit past eleven in the morning. Till then they obey the law and bow their heads in reverence to the God of light, waiting for the wall shadow to creep over the edge. The rest of the day is manageable once they are out of the direct onslaught of the fiery streams. The tulsi reinforces her holy status each day as a sesame oil lamp is lit under it at the evening twilight. The holy incense smoke adds beautiful smell to the smile of the flowers around the venerable plant. So as good neighbors they share their part of offerings. That makes it a very happy neighborhood. Dozens of petunias of varied colors flash their smiles, beating the hot winds with their colorful spirit.

A lizard stays among these pots and the portion of the wall nearby hidden by the flowers and the pots. It’s her happy world carrying a unanimous and cordial air. Safe also. The fleas and mosquitoes who fall for the flowers end up finishing their journey here. She rarely misses her dinner. The bright oil lamp always has some moth or two, drawn by their passion for the flame, and then it’s the turn of the gecko’s tongue which is equally passionate about jumping at crazy, infatuated moths.

During the day, the life-giving sun tries to soak away all the life donated by it. It’s only the jollity, verve and optimism of the children that brings us back from the lolling lackadaisicalness onto the stage of life in the evenings. Rooftops and terraces are overtaken by the kite-fliers. And irremediably sullen monkeys, in heroic abdication of their foppery, peep over the parapets of the roofs, lost in deep deliberation to find places where there are no kite-fliers. They bear a sullen look, considering it as an infringement on their rights to rascality on the roof-tops.

There are two boys representing two types of kite-fliers in the locality. The one is the kind, his childhood in full bloom, who suddenly picks up a stone and throws it. In the same groove, he loves kite-flying without tail. The dives, ups and downs of a tailless kite present a real chance for fun and frolics. It’s challenging and adventurous. There are flurried notes with forceful, quick pulls and prongs of the cord. The other boy is a well-behaved one. He would just look over a stone on the way and thus maintain the level of happiness as before. He uses a tail for his kite, proportional in length to the speed of the wind. He wants a steady flight. The kite is safe against the playful windy shoves. The holder’s hands are relaxed because not much action is required. The adventurous one then decided to fly his kite in a windstorm. And taking inspiration from the kite-tails of the other guy, he used a forty feet long tail to give his kite a chance at survival in the storm. The windstorm ensures that there is even more excitement and fun with a tail this time. All this seems to be done in celebration of my special day.

Suddenly realizing that I may become a shuddering bystander in the game of life, struggling against the grip of self-denial, chastity and privations, I receive a special treat in the evening. A most welcome one: a few drops of rain in the season of dust-storms and hot loo. The drops feel icy cold and hit the sand to create one of the best smells, the smell of mother earth. The dusty leaves get a bath. It makes everyone very happy. A 100-year-old gypsy woman missed the moment though. She was dusted like the trees around; soiled with a century of age in addition. So her daughter-in-law, once the sudden downpour passes off, puts her on a charpoy by the side of the busy road passing the village, takes off her clothes and gives her an unhurried washing. Nothing special about it, it’s almost as normal as a little boy or girl getting a bath at a public place. A 100-year-old woman is shrunk to the cuteness of a baby. So a baby bath it is, at the most.