The path I walk 

Some of my favourite things
It  was in a dense, dense forest …small amber light told about the dawn of a new day the hamlet near the river was awakened to the chirping of birds and the trees nodding in the gentle wind. 

Silver bells was outside her small hut her eyelids blinking hastily as she drank the new day’s nectar looking at the sky.

 She ran through the open meadow down the stream. As she reached the stream she saw the small birds – sparrows and magpie and some white doves playing and flying.

 The stream of water was singing a delicate melody, which was captivating. She sat on the bank and cupped her hands in the flowing cool waters. 

As she looked in the clear aqua she saw her shimmering reflection changing ever moment.

She accepted change and expected and lived with it. 

Silver bells had to run home leaving the birds and the stream where it belonged. As she went along the day she performed her meditative and reflections grew inside her changing her outside. 

The great winds receded and calm came from the heavens above. 

The songs of rivers and the seas were on her lips as she chanted and charted her course of her day. The deep resonating sounds of temple bells filled her mind giving her a meditative calm. 

The color blue of the sky and purple dance on her skirts and she turns to go to the masters abode for her daily lessons in pottery. 

As she reaches the place she finds some flowers growing in the wild she gathers a bunch to take back home. 

There are red Champa, some jasmines …fragrant. She longs for the blue lotus which reminds her of the Lord Nilotpala(Lord Krishna)…..and the flute… 

She feels she is like a flute where the life breathes music inside her soul. 

The sacredness of being a flute is what she searches. 

She is at the master’s place and the lessons begin as she concentrates on the clay she becomes the clay and the pot takes shape ….she discovers that the emptiness holds whatever she wants….and not the pot itself…she knows she understands, she accepts that we are just a tool…. 

The afternoon she walks back towards home where mother is waiting for her with a smile. Both of connect like two musical notes in a symphony. They define each other.

The hot food is almost ready. She makes her mother comfortable as she serves her with Bajra roti (Millet grain bread)and Methi sabzi (Cooked fenugreek) and some chanch (butter milk) and green chutney. 

In the evening the lights come on the sky as stars shine and twinkle. The small radio plays some old songs … 

Sham Hui Chad Aayi Rey Badariya …

The evening whispers something to the night as it comes with black veil.

She curls with a book on her warm bed and reads poems by Emily Dickinson 

MY cocoon tightens, colors tease,

I ‘m feeling for the air;

A dim capacity for wings

Degrades the dress I wear.

A power of butterfly must be 

The aptitude to fly,

Meadows of majesty concedes

And easy sweeps of sky.

So I must baffle at the hint

And cipher at the sign,

And make much blunder,

if at last I take the clew divine. 

She feels her other book on ‘Karna’ the first Pandav 

She will go back to her daughter the next morning. Those tiny eyes and hands hold her eyes as she grasps the moment and lives a lifetime in each. 

She takes her diary and writes 

Live one day at a time…. 

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