The dark thoughts of agony, Seer in the cauldron of hate, And the fuel of greed and pride, Keep its flames rising, Soaring to the upper skies, Crossing layers innumerable, Touching the unfathomable ether, To smudge the ashes of it’s burn, Obscuring the moon and stars, Creating a dark sooty sky, Like a moribund place, Filled with the same loathe, That this heart carried for ages.
काल के ना जाने कौन से क्षण में, ये प्रक्रिया आरम्भ हुई- चिदाकाश के दायरे ओझल होने लगे, रिक्त होने लगा स्मृतियों का पात्र, रिसने लगे उसमें से भावों के रंग, घुलने लगे वो यूँ हौले हौले, महाकाश की अपरिमितता में, किसी अज्ञात विशाल कुंड में | ये ही यात्रा है, आत्मान के ब्रह्मन् से युति की | ये ही यात्रा है, मोक्ष की |
तरु के देह पर, ये अनगिनत व्रण, और छोटी बड़ी गाँठेँ, उजागर करती हैं, एक लम्बी कहानी, अस्तित्व की | हर एक ग्रंथि, बयान करती हैं, इसके संघर्ष की दास्तान | ना जाने कितने मौसम देखे, ना जाने कितने पल जिए, अगर अवलोकन करें, धैर्य के साथ, इसके हर सूक्ष्म भाग का, तो नज़र आएगी स्पष्ट रूप में, हर एक अनुभूति, इसके जराजीर्ण वजूद की |
Remembering Saundarajan Aunty (In orange saree with spectacles). She reminds me of the beautiful Tamil culture. As a kid, I used to visit her home often (a government bungalow built during British times in British architectural style). What a lovely home it was. Though the outer façade looked British, tbe interiors evoked the purity of Tamilian traditional homes. She used to cook yummy idlis, fresh ans fluffy, served with coconut chutney made from the coconuts of her garden. She used to feed me with her hands and tell me stories of her village life and hum beautiful Tamil songs. I even learnt few songs from her (though now I don’t remember any, just a faded tune somewhere deep inside still rings). I could feel her longing to relive her childhood, as her eyes used to get wet telling her village stories.
Her kitchen was the traditional kind, and watching her cook and hearing her stories and songs used to make me feel connected to her village too. The invigorating fragrance of mogras in her gajra, the softness of her cotton saree, the way she put a bindi and chandan on her forehead, the music of her heavy silver anklets, and her gold and glass bangles, all were such a delight to watch. Such simplicity, such tenderness, rare to find these days.
On Puthandu (Tamil New Year), she stitched a beautiful pavadai chattai (traditional silk blouse and skirt) for me, in orange and green. She dressed me for the festivities, and together we decorated the house with kolam, deepam, and flowers. Though I did nothing except roaming and dancing everywhere she went. 😂 That day used to be a grand affair, and she was the perfect host. All fruits in the thali -mango, jackfruit, banana were from her garden. She used to make small coin purses(batuas) ans potlis and gift them (with some goodies inside) in Puthandu.
She taught me gardening too. Right from cutting and grafting roses, to making bonsais of neem and gulmohar. Loved spending time in her huge garden. She event taught me how to make garlands, and gajras -which flower and bud to choose, and which to leave. Again, this learning was filled with stories of the past, her village and childhood. I have seen her doing every household work with such love and joy. She taught me how to feed animals, and bow to mother nature. Under the mango tree in her backyard, she used to cut veggies for pickles, and do her stitching work. She loved sitting under the shade of the mango tree, and I loved swinging on it. 😂 She installed a swing on it, just for me. It was my tamil language learning class too, and everytime I used to visit her, she used to keep a slate (with a new tamil word written on it along with an example). Then she used to recite a poem or an adage and tell me in depth meaning of tje same. She loved reading too. She had a beautiful shelf with books and a munshi desk to write her thoughts. One thing she was fond of – sarees. She had a huge collection in silk, cotton, and blended ones. Everytime she wore a new saree, she used to tell, this wae my Anna’s favorite color, that was my Akka’s favorite design. How in every little thing she missed her family. Though she was a grandmother herself (must be around 57 around that time), she remembered her elder sister and mother, like a little form of five.
I spent around 4-5years (every weekend) and most days of the summer holidays with her. Wish I could spend more.🙁
Uncle retired after few years, and they went back to their ancestral home in Tamil Nadu. Miss her a lot. Seeing this photograph reminds me of all the tenderness she had for me. It makes me happy and sad at the time. 😊❤🌸🙏
एक सुर्ख सिंदूरी एहसास लिए है ये रैना, जैसे अतीत की स्थिर स्मृतियाँ, अस्थायी सा जंग लिए हो कोई, और वर्तमान के ये गतिशील जज़्बात, पुलकित भाव उजागर कर रहें हो भीतर |
जैसे जैसे मेरी सतह निस्तेज होती गई, आतंरिक चुभती विषकत्ता को हटाती हुई, वैसे वैसे वो प्रकट करती गई, एक परत कोमल निश्चयात्मकता की | ये भंजन ही वास्तविक उन्मुक्ति है, ‘अहम्’ की, इस प्रतिबंधित जीवन की बेड़ियों से |
ये अवखंडन अब एक आनंदमयी अनुभव होने लगता है, और पुर्ज़ा पुर्ज़ा यूँ बिखरना, स्वीकृति भाव को उत्पन्न करता है, जो ‘अहम्’ को सूत्र के उद्गम में, विलीन होने के लिए, प्रोत्साहित करता रहता है |
मगर कालचक्र का ये प्रभाव, ‘अहम्’ को दोबारा समावेश में लेता है, भौतिकता को अनुभव करने के लिए, पुनः किसी काल में जन्म लेने के लिए, किसी और रूप और नाम के साथ, एक नूतन अस्तित्व में, जो फिर से बाँध देगा, इस जीवन को, एक सीमित अवधि के लिए, भौतिकता के जटिल पंक में |
मगर हर बार ‘अहम्’ पहुँचेगा इस दायरे के सिरे पर, अभिज्ञता के आयाम से दूर होकर, एक अज्ञात मक़ाम में प्रवेश करके, जो इस भौतिक अवधारणा के परे होगा, पुनः वही सुर्ख सिंदूरी एहसास दिलाता हुआ, जैसे इस रात्रि में हुआ है |
When life keeps pricking you deep, Like the desert wind kissed thorns, Each one stinging your conscience, Leaving you scarred and painful, Yet you decide to bloom, Yet you decide to stay fragrant, Yet you decide to showcase your true beauty, That’s Eunoia.