It’s six in the morning and outside my window the sun's somewhere behind the haze that hangs over the Mula-Mutha river. Three hours I slept last night, yielding dream to mosquitoes and memories, and I've been awake since two and the river's in my head now, flowing chrome in a mist of braindust.
They tell me I live in a Buddha Field since my apartment shares this neighborhood with Osho's Ashram. In a Buddha Field, they say, you can see forever. I know, in this moment, I can feel Forever.
I'm going to build a future from this moment's past, but where am I now? I think I'm lost. Not lost to myself, for I am always where I am. I think I'm lost to my yesterdays and lost to my tomorrows. In Pune, in this Buddha Field, tomorrow and yesterday are stories I must tell myself. How should I tell them and when should I begin?
This is what India does to me. I come here, each time, to lay a concrete road of actions. I chart my mindscape, I timeline my intent, I raise my pickax and I strike. No impact. My axe pulls me through the soil of my beliefs, out the bottom and off the edge. And I cannot remember why I began.
But I can hear the koyel bird in the banyan tree, and a raven at the river’s edge, and a thousand sparrows, and human voices. Voices in language that molds the medium; that holds fast the reins, slowing time to a wistful walk.
A Parsi lady asks the chowkidar (night watchman) something she needn't ask, and the chowkidar tells her something he needn't tell. But I know it's not in the asking nor in the telling. For this is their ritual at dawn as the raven takes flight, and an autorickshaw whines in the distance, and last night a mosquito buzzes my dream.
I'm awake inside myself, but I'm asleep in India 's vision. And I cannot scream.
Submitted by: Roy P, Pune
Image by: Vibhanshu A, Bangalore
And loads of thanks to Divya for all the help and encouragement *hugs*
(who will henceforth be called Diya ;) )
They tell me I live in a Buddha Field since my apartment shares this neighborhood with Osho's Ashram. In a Buddha Field, they say, you can see forever. I know, in this moment, I can feel Forever.
I'm going to build a future from this moment's past, but where am I now? I think I'm lost. Not lost to myself, for I am always where I am. I think I'm lost to my yesterdays and lost to my tomorrows. In Pune, in this Buddha Field, tomorrow and yesterday are stories I must tell myself. How should I tell them and when should I begin?
This is what India does to me. I come here, each time, to lay a concrete road of actions. I chart my mindscape, I timeline my intent, I raise my pickax and I strike. No impact. My axe pulls me through the soil of my beliefs, out the bottom and off the edge. And I cannot remember why I began.
But I can hear the koyel bird in the banyan tree, and a raven at the river’s edge, and a thousand sparrows, and human voices. Voices in language that molds the medium; that holds fast the reins, slowing time to a wistful walk.
A Parsi lady asks the chowkidar (night watchman) something she needn't ask, and the chowkidar tells her something he needn't tell. But I know it's not in the asking nor in the telling. For this is their ritual at dawn as the raven takes flight, and an autorickshaw whines in the distance, and last night a mosquito buzzes my dream.
I'm awake inside myself, but I'm asleep in India 's vision. And I cannot scream.
Submitted by: Roy P, Pune
Image by: Vibhanshu A, Bangalore
And loads of thanks to Divya for all the help and encouragement *hugs*
(who will henceforth be called Diya ;) )
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