[IC: Peaceful mind peaceful life]
Cast a cold eye on things, horseman,
move on. Worry not about the shoulder blades that writhe like smitten moths (no
long hours poring over a moth that looks like a flying elephant); consign to
memory the feelings that well up from the guts and wring out painful tears, or
the anger that lands with a punch on the wall, behind which a family of gnomes
screams and lays a trap – all for not being studied (their distant relative has
been declared ‘almost extinct’).
A dithering flame. The howling wind
outside pokes and prods and then bursts in. A shelf shelters the slovenly
flame. It neither burns nor dies down. The wind drops and there is a draught in
the room. It is still cold and I move toward the flame which continues to burn
in a warm halo.
There is an old man weeping
out there. Fate has taken away his only son. Brimstone! Putrescent life! How do
I live? The old man tears his hair and returns home. He grows fruits in his
orchard and gives it to the poor. And the sorrow returns to him in the night
but he wards it off, and sleeps, and then the morning comes and his fruits and
the beggars and again the darkness of grief clouds his door which he slams
shut. I am unhappy. Grief is not eating me from the inside.
A rustling in the leaves. The thick canopy
hides the sky and the next moment, I walk into the sun. A beleaguered disc. Squirrels
climb down a tree and stare. Nonchalantly. The wind suddenly rises and breaks
into a pleasant breeze that curls around the marigolds, bends them and wafts
away towards the water-body. On the other side, I pick my way through thorns. An
obnoxious odor assails me. The way is lost in a maze of epiphytes. Nothing around
could entice me to stand and stare. Upon the thick grass, periwinkles glow in
modest hues and beckon. The warbler’s song is now metronomic.
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