नज़र आता नहीं
पथरीली दीवारों से घिरा
बगीचा नज़र आता नहीं
इस पागल शोर के बीच
संगीत सुनाई देता नहीं
पेड
आम
कोयल
कूक
केवल शब्द
इनका अनुभव
संभव होता
नज़र आता नहीं
असीम आकाश
घने बादल
बरसात
पहली फुहार
मट्टी
महक
भीनी भीनी
राग मेघ
इनका अनुभव
सामने होते हुए भी
दिल को बहलाता
नज़र आता नहीं
Sunday, June 14, 2009
'Retrieved Images'
‘Retrieved Images’
A narrow winding staircase
going down to a circular room -
domed ceiling,
so many doors
glass, opaque black.
What lies beyond them?
Doors open magically,
one by one.
Each offers a different view:
sandy desert – endless expanse
stony desert – pebble-studded,
others speckled grey
with hurtful edges,
rolling plains – a delightful green,
blue mountain ranges –
rugged and aloof,
and then the sea –
a dark brooding grey.
In the distance
an island of sharp jagged rocks
with perilous faces.
Wakeful spear-like hurts,
these rocks.
This island surmounted
by an abbey –
a forbidding cluster
of Gothic towers,
each vying with the other
to rend the sky.
Inside the abbey there is a figure – a nun – me. She is wearing a grey habit, a black veil and black shoes with straps and a small buckle. She is young. Her name flashes before me – Therese. With a candle in her hand she is walking in the very deep heart, the most reclusive centre of the abbey. Time and again she pauses. Stands still, very still. Her eyes seem to penetrate the stone walls. She listens to the sound of the sea – taut and alert. She listens to the sea that tells a dramatic story of upheavals. The sea roars, bellows out its caged fury. The waves gather force, greater force. They hurl themselves against the rocks, crash, pound the abbey walls, aspire to reach the towers in frenetic foaming urges. Beleaguered by the demonic waves, the monastery frowns darkly, looking more starkly grey and bleaker than ever before.
She listens and listens to the voice of the incensed waves, the voice of the troubled waters of a choppy sea. She reads their intent and remains calm – thoughtful. Shielding the timid flame of the candle with her hand, she moves through one vaulted corridor to the next. A solitary being, she glides past empty meditation cells, chapels, chambers, prayer rooms…. Not for a single moment does she wonder where the other nuns are. A fleeting memory of a Mother Superior, a wise benign woman flashes before her, and she smiles. A comforting hand on her head - hand that senses disquiet, rising doubts and guides with gentle nudges. This memory suffuses her with warmth. And she smiles. Then she turns her head to listen. The churning sea swells and swells. The mad waves bellow and dash against the rocks, against the high walls of the abbey. Waves rise and fall – an unleashed force that thrills in its own power. Magnificent and horrific.
Clenched forms, in dismal rumbling silence, the towers stand upright and solemnly defiant. And then – one by one they submit. The unrelenting waves lop off their proud heads. They fall like cardboard giants.
She hears the infernal crash. Crash after crash after crash. No fear. Just a held-in-breath wait. An intense listening for the inevitable moment. Her lips move in prayer. Her face lights up with awed wonder. The waters invade the abbey – the blinding charge of hundreds of wild horses. They engulf her – a serene praying nun. Now, just a doll, tossed about, swept away by the waters. Buffeted by them, sucked into them.
The storm’s fury spent, the sea is calm – saintly serene. It brings up the body of the nun, cradles it, and deposits it gently on the shore. Not bloated. Unscathed. A blanched dead form – more at peace than ever before.
A young man spots the body from a distance, rushes to the shore. Dark brown hair, dark intelligent eyes, the faint beginnings of a beard. He wears an ochre brown loose garment that reveals his sinewy legs. It has the look and feel of jute fabric and is held in place by a thick cord at the waist. He recognizes the dead nun as someone he used to know. Is stunned. He takes her in his arms, bends over her lifeless form and tears stream down his face. He weeps and weeps. Grieves and grieves over the untimely death of someone he used to know. How is he connected to her (to me), I cannot tell. The nun’s spirit speaks to his soul, “Do not grieve for me. The death of this body is not the real truth, the ultimate reality…. Hence, do not grieve. I am at peace.”
In a flash the young man’s face is replaced by my son’s face. I am startled. Then smile gratefully for this precious connection. For this gift of a renewed knowing.
A narrow winding staircase
going down to a circular room -
domed ceiling,
so many doors
glass, opaque black.
What lies beyond them?
Doors open magically,
one by one.
Each offers a different view:
sandy desert – endless expanse
stony desert – pebble-studded,
others speckled grey
with hurtful edges,
rolling plains – a delightful green,
blue mountain ranges –
rugged and aloof,
and then the sea –
a dark brooding grey.
In the distance
an island of sharp jagged rocks
with perilous faces.
Wakeful spear-like hurts,
these rocks.
This island surmounted
by an abbey –
a forbidding cluster
of Gothic towers,
each vying with the other
to rend the sky.
Inside the abbey there is a figure – a nun – me. She is wearing a grey habit, a black veil and black shoes with straps and a small buckle. She is young. Her name flashes before me – Therese. With a candle in her hand she is walking in the very deep heart, the most reclusive centre of the abbey. Time and again she pauses. Stands still, very still. Her eyes seem to penetrate the stone walls. She listens to the sound of the sea – taut and alert. She listens to the sea that tells a dramatic story of upheavals. The sea roars, bellows out its caged fury. The waves gather force, greater force. They hurl themselves against the rocks, crash, pound the abbey walls, aspire to reach the towers in frenetic foaming urges. Beleaguered by the demonic waves, the monastery frowns darkly, looking more starkly grey and bleaker than ever before.
She listens and listens to the voice of the incensed waves, the voice of the troubled waters of a choppy sea. She reads their intent and remains calm – thoughtful. Shielding the timid flame of the candle with her hand, she moves through one vaulted corridor to the next. A solitary being, she glides past empty meditation cells, chapels, chambers, prayer rooms…. Not for a single moment does she wonder where the other nuns are. A fleeting memory of a Mother Superior, a wise benign woman flashes before her, and she smiles. A comforting hand on her head - hand that senses disquiet, rising doubts and guides with gentle nudges. This memory suffuses her with warmth. And she smiles. Then she turns her head to listen. The churning sea swells and swells. The mad waves bellow and dash against the rocks, against the high walls of the abbey. Waves rise and fall – an unleashed force that thrills in its own power. Magnificent and horrific.
Clenched forms, in dismal rumbling silence, the towers stand upright and solemnly defiant. And then – one by one they submit. The unrelenting waves lop off their proud heads. They fall like cardboard giants.
She hears the infernal crash. Crash after crash after crash. No fear. Just a held-in-breath wait. An intense listening for the inevitable moment. Her lips move in prayer. Her face lights up with awed wonder. The waters invade the abbey – the blinding charge of hundreds of wild horses. They engulf her – a serene praying nun. Now, just a doll, tossed about, swept away by the waters. Buffeted by them, sucked into them.
The storm’s fury spent, the sea is calm – saintly serene. It brings up the body of the nun, cradles it, and deposits it gently on the shore. Not bloated. Unscathed. A blanched dead form – more at peace than ever before.
A young man spots the body from a distance, rushes to the shore. Dark brown hair, dark intelligent eyes, the faint beginnings of a beard. He wears an ochre brown loose garment that reveals his sinewy legs. It has the look and feel of jute fabric and is held in place by a thick cord at the waist. He recognizes the dead nun as someone he used to know. Is stunned. He takes her in his arms, bends over her lifeless form and tears stream down his face. He weeps and weeps. Grieves and grieves over the untimely death of someone he used to know. How is he connected to her (to me), I cannot tell. The nun’s spirit speaks to his soul, “Do not grieve for me. The death of this body is not the real truth, the ultimate reality…. Hence, do not grieve. I am at peace.”
In a flash the young man’s face is replaced by my son’s face. I am startled. Then smile gratefully for this precious connection. For this gift of a renewed knowing.
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