City Life

The plane cruised effortlessly through the endless sky. It was that magical time after sunset, where the concepts of day and night held little meaning and creation was at the cusp of expression. A dense, brilliant orange glow just above the ocean rapidly transformed through shades of yellow and green, into the limitless blue that enveloped all of existence. Meanwhile nameless cities tucked away in the folds of mountains and clouds drifted by, vanishing in the blink of the eye. Soon, we touch down and the madness of city life is upon us, once again. City life hides away from us much that is subtle. The profound sunset that had demanded our attention but a few minutes ago, fades into a distant memory (It will revisit in a moment of unexpected reverie). In the meanwhile, we live in a light bulb. A light bulb whose bright, burning filament veils all that is mysterious and romantic.

Monsoon, come she will.

Her journey has been long, yet she isn't tired. The old and the young await her arrival with bated breath. The young ones look upon her coming as the jail break they needed from the shackles of the dreary summer, already a distant memory; the old feel a return to innocence and reminisce the days of their youth. In the hustling-bustling city where life never seems to stops there is one moment which holds everybody grounded and breathless. The air, heavy and still, is ripe with the scent of her arrival, now imminent. The usually noisy avian residents of the telephone wires are quiet, the way school children become when faced with the towering persona of their principal. As though sullied by the rush of her chariot, the clouds are dark, rendering Apollo into a mortal, helpless spectator. She sheds her first tear drop, the first of countless. And all of creation rejoices.

Ustad

From a news report:
Varanasi: Thousands bid an emotional farewell to shehnai maestro Ustad Bismillah Khan whose mortal remains were laid to rest at the Karbala-Fatamaan burial ground in Varanasi.
Men of the 1/11 Gorkha battalion lowered their muffled weapons as a mark of respect to the departed soul. The troops saluted the Bharat Ratna awardee by firing 36 blank rounds in the air even as buglers paid the Last Post. Before the burial, a majlis was held at the grounds in which prayers were offered for the peace of the departed soul. The burial, incidentally, took place under a neem tree just by the side of the place where Khan Saheb used to sit and play the shehnai during the 5th and 8th day of Moharram. Earlier, in the evening, people had queued up all along the two-kilometre road through which he had gone to express his 'Aasu Ka Nazrana' by playing shehnai during the 5th and 8th day of Moharra

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Oh life, who are you? You blow through the passages of the shehnai in glorious rhythm. Your tune ushers in the nation's independence, your melody brings men and women together in wedlock. A neem tree was your companion for many years, and while the world was still waking up to your genius, the leaves of the neem were dancing in an unchained melody. Now that you are in some other world, the tree grieves, much as the parents who left you long ago would have. With every riffle shot, the neem tree cries tears of leaves, for its loyal son is no more. As is said; "अपने ही पानी मे घुल जाना बर्फ का मुकद्दर होता है।"

"Not in this incarnation"

Ras leela comes to an end. Presently, hot samosas are being sold outside. The westerners form a single line and patiently wait their turn. Little groups of people are scattered across the courtyard, each discussing some aspect of the dance and their interpretation. Soon, the line is no more and an old man with shaking hands comes over to the table and says, "So, which part of India are you from?"

"Serampore, Calcutta."

"Wonderful! Have you heard of Swami Sri Yukteswar Giri? I've been an indirect disciple of his for many years. Both me and my wife. It has been an absolute blessing to have known about him and to have read his teachings."

"Indeed. You surely would have heard of his disciple, Swami Paramhansa Yogananda. Especially in this part of the world."

"But of course!"

"So, what all parts of India have you traveled to?"

There followed an odd silence.With a far off look in his old eyes, he said "I've not been to India. Atleast not in this incarnation." The far off look transformed into a warm smile. One that demanded understanding. "During one of my meditation sessions I realized that I was once a temple dancer in North India, not too far from Benaras. And this was a long long time ago, around 300 years in the past.

The irony, beauty and subtlety of fate, my child. In this life I've been designing spacecraft for NASA.

Someday, maybe, I will go back to where I belong."