Reflections of a flying gandharva

REFLECTIONS OF A FLYING GANDHARVA

Even amidst the nothingness of 33,000 feet above the ground, there are rough patches. No road is bump free. No river is smooth as silk. No relationship will flow like butter all the time. There are patches of turbulence. The great ship sails ahead, precariously balancing for some moments but not stopping…..
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When I have entrusted my wares to the ship captain, there is faith that it will reach the destination with me. What avail is doubt anyways? Ship is programmed and the captain is duty bound. There is redemption from worries if I believe enough.
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All those who care for me, came till the entrance gate. They can not see me off inside the aeroplane. Protocols of the world make you travel all by yourself. I have to find my seat and fend for the luggage space. Bigger the journey, lonelier would it be.
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At the alien land, I see the familiar voices…these are some fellow countrymen trying to figure out signage as I am trying. Lure of exotic lands, pulls many minds; I came to know only when I reach there.
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Once I am on plane, I am secured. I am assured of my journey and mind becomes calm. Body is rested and I fall asleep; As carefree as if being in mother’s lap. All the industry to catch a flight, gets you a mother’s lap to travel. O great mother…
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Clouds have a different world. They hang in nothingness and they are nothing as an individual. Still the life on earth depends on them. Life giving nothingness, the shining effervescence of the almighty’s power, I bow to your sheer magical existence.
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People sit next to each other, but do not converse. The clothes on the body bind there souls. There are knots to be opened and glass panes to be broken. When will the next plane to Bodhgaya arrive?
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With trembling hands I touch the alcohol on board. It is intoxicating and it is numbing my senses. It appears to be a luxurious trap. I am on board the fast flight and there are ‘luxury codes’ to be followed. I saw white swan flying below….free and swift…like the wish of the almighty.
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In the long course-way to departing hall, there are shops of either side. Enticing all to fill up the bags before they leave. Memories of the close ones, fill the travelers bags in no time. This is the time to weigh the options; who really needs your gifts.

Captain says the outside air is at -40 degrees. Machine is keeping the comfort of 25 degrees inside. When I move in these high planes, there are systems to take care of my mundane minimals.
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Once you rise above the clouds, one can see that all that dark clouds are but a layer, behind which there is a shining sun.
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Even if Sun is not currently visible fully, I continue traveling to east, Sun would be with me all the while.

Pondy Muses

On the banks of Pondicherry beach, bard watches the waves hitting the rocky bank. Not every waves has energy; not every rise is powerful; not every hit is thundering; There are quiet patches in between the two thuds. There is a build up, that is interspersed with some light and some bold strikes of energy. Far beyond, the look is still serene, while the edge is turbulent.

My last birth was as a Tamil; singing the grand legacy of Dravidian songs, with might red soil and blue waters of the sea as a company. The reflective glances of the youth; method and simplicity of the experienced, grace and perseverance of the feminine power all are embedded in me. I nurtured the Aryan culture and saved it from extinction from the up north.

At Aurobindo Ashram, there is an aura of nothing ness. There is more serenity in the flowers on the Samadhi then the person begone. At least that is what the picture presented to me. No messages for commoners, only the learned, rather highly learned can dare to launch on to Aurobindo. For others, that is only an image of a seer and not the seer himself.

What can divide humanity more then having a ‘black town’ and ‘white town’ in India (erstwhile Pondicherry). Red caps of the police men are an oddity. Red is a scarlet red almost; does not come from the Indian palette. White man divides, brown man unites, and the black remain enslaved in the warps of time. ‘There should be no religion’, shouts the board in Aurovile; in the land of great Shankara who saw the unity in diverse existence (Advait). Such contrasts are possible in the land of the sublime; the land of essential; the land of eternal and the land of possible. Salutes to the spirit of India!

When the peace dawns, let me be meditating in the open sea stretches of southern tip. South is the east of India.