Meeting the Ocean

I walked aimlessly without an umbrella as it drizzled quietly. It was dark, though the street lights were awake and saw themselves shivering in puddles. There was no sign of life on the street. A tune (in Sindhu Bhairavi) kept following me.
It was as though I was flowing on the road. The beauty of the scent of wet earth seemed indistinguishable from that of the notes. Before I knew, I was humming. It seemed as though all the roads lead to a single road and all the little channels of water flowed into one.
Then there was an intense interlude on Saxophone …I was humming it too, of course. Time seemed to flow slower than usual. I seemed to grow and expand into the surroundings. It was as though all the longing was all set to meet the ocean, as though all was going to be unified into something singular, as if supreme order was taking over chaos.

NOTE: These weak words don’t (and can’t) mean the experience, words don’t even come close. They remain a cheap imitation of the experience and a product of my silly inclination to translate notes and experiences into them.

Radio

I sat at the bus stop waiting for the bus. I wasn't expecting it very soon, though. I made myself comfortable on the bench, just as a familiar dog did under it.
The shopkeeper of the grocery store turned on the radio. What flowed out was a beautiful rendition in BehAg. Almost instantly, the singer's face flashed before me - not extraordinarily beautiful, but radiant as that of a saint. The large kumkum and long nose stood out. Her mellifluous voice resonated. It was strong, yet mellow. It could drown you in sober reflection with its melancholy or elevate you with its ecstatic ascent. The notes leapt and fell effortlessly and with the same ease, lingered on or floated at other times.
Were these also the same compressions and rarefactions that my teacher just spoke of...I wondered. These notes are so unearthly, so out-of-this-universe, that they hardly seem like sounds anymore!
I could picture the singer close her eyes as the notes ascended, descended and in their capriciousness, crafted intricacies.She would occasionally open them as though waking from a pleasant dream and emphasise the same intricacies with variations.
The rAga encompassed motherly affection, the fondness of a lover, pure love and pure beauty. It overwhelmed me with its versatility. It had layers of bitter-sweet longing and the joy of watching a naughty child.
The notes danced blissfully and filled the air, spread their wings and touched the skies.They were hushed, momentarily by the jangle of the rickety bus. But, I wasn't the one board it- not even if I had to walk home.The notes steered through the dust and smoke and once again leapt, fell, lingered, hovered and floated.
The shopkeeper and the dog, both looked at me-surprised! I smiled to myself not bothering to give them an explanation.There I was again - possessed by the music.

Good Bye

Her searching eyes looked all around. It was the last time she was gazing out that balcony. She loved this place. It was far from the bustling city, yet as close as an hour’s drive. There was close to no traffic. It was neither village nor city, neither forest nor resort. It had a lazy tranquility about it. It fuelled her imagination and at times made her dipping spirits soar. In that view, was a ubiquitous abundance of space. The green that spread at a distance filled her with optimism. In the nights, the city glimmered, but at a distance.
In the foreground was a lone tree. A symbol of solitude, she thought. It stood elegantly with its many arms outstretched towards the sky, while some of them looked down at its own roots, as though in contemplation. So many new little branches every year, and so many more leaves, so many buds and so many seeds. Its growth never ceased. But what impressed her much was that its growth had a certain composure to it. It was not about racing past someone in ruthless competition, but critically watching every step and growing with much care and thought. Its branches maintained their elegance even in their rapid growth, never getting themselves into a tangle, never hurting the squirrels or cuckoos or sparrows or crows, or even little workaholic ants. The arresting beauty of its branches outdid their obvious asymmetry. It redefined aesthetics. It stood as a paradigm of beauty.
It would shed its leaves and flowers every single year-eternally rejuvenating itself. The flowers filled the air with their scent, and when they fell, they’d turn the grassy floor into a yellow carpet. The drying brown layers were promptly painted bright yellow everyday-never letting the grief show.
When it rained, the eager branches reached out to the drops and the young leaves were overjoyed to let them drip down for the first time. Their existence was transient but rain made their short life joyous.
In the evenings, the sky was much like her canvasses- a mad riot of colours but one never had to search for beauty in that apparent chaos. She clicked as many pictures as she could. She wanted to keep the memories of this house.
She was to move to her old home-the home which had more memories associated with it than this one did. But both were dear to her. One for its dream-like remoteness and the other for all the memories it brimmed with.
She would miss the meditative solitude of this place. She had spent countless hours there and time always seemed to stop. The tree and the view from the balcony had become an extension of her own mind’s canvass. From a distance, she felt like waving back as though at a good friend, but she realized these were inanimate.
She was moving from the company of inanimate objects into a company of memories.
The breeze blew gently and the trees gently swayed. “Good Bye”, they all seemed to say. Did they seem a little low? She couldn’t say. Perhaps she wasn’t as important to them as they were to her!
“Good Bye” she said too.