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We have to be careful, really watchful about the kind of fire we build in our mind.
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It’s so true because from acceptance we can build a wonderful life full of understanding, harmony, empathy and peace.
My sister Pushpa sent me a beautiful message: “Time does not heal everything but acceptance does.” As I read it, I felt something like a prayer rise in me. Let’s not be ready to find fault, to complain, rather, let’s be ready to be pleasantly surprised, sporting and grin widely. Ripples of mirth win over raised eyebrows every time.Įssentially, we have to watch our attitude that begets thoughts. There’s nothing like a rumble of good-humoured laughter arising from a belly to lift our spirits as we tumble over life’s rumble strips. Even a simple “How lovely!” a heartfelt “Thank you” or a sweet gust of laughter soothes the mind and body. Haven’t we heard how a small spark in a cable burnt down an entire building? For the same reason, we don’t need to entertain even a wee spark of anger in our mind lest it burns us up. The Wise say: even a drop of poison can draw you nearer to death and even the tiniest seed in you can grow into a giant tree.
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Keep the mind free - our mental and physical health remains robust in freedom. Every time we sighted one more rumble strip in the distance, we’d laugh and hail it and go bumpity-bump-bumpity-bump… Life does have quite a few rumble strips, doesn’t it? The trick is to keep those bumps where they belong - on the road - and not pick them up and place them in our mind.
We’d go bumpity-bump-bumpity bump… No one grumbled, no one even thought of grumbling. I remember losing my tail by the pond and now I find myself at the river again.Once, while driving from Mumbai to Mahabaleshwar, our car encountered several rumble strips. Now I am back where I was born and this should feel like home to me, but it doesn’t. I was left alone ages ago, in a strange new world where I grew up, which I grew accustomed to. This is where my life began, before I was whisked away in a small cardboard box, and then again inside an ashtray of a car. I am back where I started, in the same place, with the same sounds and the same caterpillars as before. Every whimpering stream, every bawling lake, and every tranquil pond sings its own song. Rivers may seem to all flow the same way, all brooks might appear to babble identical chants, but that is not true. I envision a world that is not as unfamiliar as the one I find myself in now. I wish that this time I’m able to tell if it is real or just another fanciful notion residing somewhere deep inside my imagination. Or perhaps it will be a place where I have always dreamt of being. I don’t know where they are taking me but I hope it is nice, though it is more likely that they are taking me someplace I probably don’t want to go.
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As long as I am not a caterpillar fantasizing about being a newt right now.Īs the ceiling lifts up again and I see concrete rise up from behind the windscreen, I realize, for the millionth time since my birth, that the way home is illuminating.Įverything keeps moving and I do not know how to make it stop. I don’t know if that was in his dream or mine. A long, very long, time ago, an old bearded man in a lotus pond told me something about dreams and butterflies. I have never been able to tell when I’m awake and when I’m in a reverie. Makes me think if newts have feelings you are probably wondering the same. I try to lap up the water, flick it with my tongue, but it does not taste of memories. When I stop, I see my reflection in a small puddle. Sometimes, I outrun them other times, they overtake me. I am a child again and I see myself moving quickly amongst other critters. Every time the ceiling opens, I try to crawl out but I only fall deeper inside my dream. The scenery hardly changes and it seems like we are quite far from the city. After every few miles, light pours down from the ceiling and I am able to see bushes, road signs, trees, and other cars whizz by. I don’t know where I am going but it feels very far away from home. How many such dreams must I have devoured? I have an acquired taste for those hard exterior shells with a soft filling.īumpity bump, my house still bumps. I imagine them, lying in a desperate lull, waiting to show their scintillating wings to a sundrenched world.
I think of caterpillars and how they must feel inside their cocoons, all wrapped up in an unlit void, trapped with a vulnerable hope that they’ll transform into something beautiful someday. Being inside, engulfed in darkness, my mind begins to recall the macabre. Unlike my previous nests, which were usually open and filled with the damp air of chilly green, this is more of a darkened, blackened shell.
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