Wildflowers by the roadside,
Along cycling paths,
Lining the winding roads of memory..
“Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.”
Have seen a bit of rainfall here, and the almost instant sprouting of fresh leaves, tiny shoots and fresh grass which followed is nothing short of magical. Am missing some of the trees of Bangalore, those faithful friends of mine who waved when I saw them, who guarded the roads on both sides, who celebrated each season differently, who towered mightily and yet humbly, and who literally breathed life into me..
Ever since we joined in our new roles as teachers last month, I’ve been getting a bit more time to read and ponder about the utterly magnificent dohas of Kabir. It helps to have a colleague who has been listening, reading and pondering on these beautiful and deep lines written hundreds of years ago, and recently I came across these two lines, which have made an imprint on my muddy mind’s surface.
What these lines say, translated as best as I can, is:
The clay tells the sculptor “what! You will beat and pat and trample me? There will be a time when I will do the same to you”.
Have been going to this place since a few years now, and this ‘piece’ of rock is something that I just love! The layers, the colours, the textures, the ride to this place (struggling in the uphill sections, against a stiff headwind, and then zipping downhill at what feels lightning fast speed), the whole experience is so peaceful and therapeutic. I wish we, as a species, leave some stones unturned.
As the morning sun struggled to rise up,
fighting to break free from the clouds,
to unwrap itself from the heavy blanket of cold wind,
struggling up from the valley floor,
the clouds pulled the wind up with them,
the wind pulled the clouds up with it,
ssshh. It hissed. And Roared. SSSHHHH