Monsoon, rains and longing....

Welcome to the 6th edition of “Shadow Dancing with Mind”
The Mumbai Monsoon is here and the sky has opened itself to pour its sorrows of summer in the deluge of rains and the sea surges to meet the sky with her high tides and high waves… The days are slightly chilly and the sun takes it own time to come up or set down in the evening. Some times just takes a break and let the clouds play around … It’s the most romantic season of the city Mumbai. And I feel it too, miss her and want to just fly away to her…

So in the "Whispers" you hear poetry of love, longing and loneliness... and one from a Russian Poetess, Marina Tsvetaeva, whose life story matches the poignant stories she pours in her verses.

The untold story “Yogi Baba” goes into a flash back and the 6th Chapter starts on the one night in my village, when Yogi Baba was just a child, carefree, fun loving and horsing around the country side with his mates…

"Still life" follows the Monsoon through out the coastal town.

The Reader: I would love to introduce Rahul Sankirtayan, who despite not attending any college, was asked by A Russian University to be a professor. He was the most travelled writer who gave a lot to Indian Literature.

Hope you like this edition of Shadow Dancing with Mind; look forward to seeing your comment this week too. I really appreciate when you write to me or leave me comments here. It gets me going, week by week. Please feel free to join in and suggest if something that you don’t like.

Om Namah Shivaya

Yogi Baba - A story untold; Begining of the 6th Chapter

Chapter 6

She was wearing a cream white sari which reflected the moonlight so well that her walk was like a shimmer of moonlight playing on quiet lake. A sensation of flowing accompanied her movements as she held her slender waist with one hand and other was swaying gently as she walked out of the small Durga temple in front of our house. I was sleeping out side our large country house in the hot summer night along with one of my brother, few cousins and the caretaker of our farm, Prasad Chacha (Uncle). I had to always fight with my mother to get the privilege of sleeping outside under the neem tree as she always considered me too young to sleep outside, even after my constant reminder that I have just celebrated my 10th Birthday. For me, after a exhausting day of horsing around the village, it was the best place to rest; among the stars, in the comforting arms of the neem tree. It was very soothing to scour the night sky for any moving stars and many times I have followed some star moving across the night sky, from one end to another. The two months of vacations were the most precious times of my year as we all move down to our village, thousands of Kilometers away from Delhi on the foot hills of Himalayas, to spend all our waking hours in the lap of nature. Playing in the fields, running around with the other boys from the village, riding the buffalo in the small lake just out side our village or taking a small walk over to a tributary river to Holy Ganges for a refreshing swim. Almost all my nights were spent out side of the house besides the neem tree that I have seen growing along with our temple, me and my brothers. I had always considered the tree as an elder, talked to him quite a few times after coming out of the temple or in the evenings when ma refused to give in to some demand. Our temple of Goddess Durga Ji, for ages, was just a small mound of earth, near the young neem tree, with the vermillion smeared on the top of the some small stones, placed on top, which was assumed to be the forehead of Goddess and slowly it has acquired walls around and then finally a roof top when one of my brothers got his first salary abroad.

Tonight, just before this woman from the village came out of the temple after, what I believed at that time, her prayers, I woke up with a start. I could still feel the echoes of the bell hung in the temple, within me. As she passed by me, she paused for a second as if she sensed me awake. I could feel her thinking, but then she moved on. The tiny bells on her anklet sounded softly like music riding the small breeze that was flowing in from the jasmine tree, near our well, to my house, caressing me under a beautifully moonlit sky. The woman kept on moving within the sound of nights deep sighs. Mixed with the sweet smell of Jasmine, her body odor of sandal wood played on my senses and I was floating slowly in and out of a beautiful dream like state. The firefly’s followed in her wake as if in trance, the clouds moved swiftly so they can shade her delicate body from the fierce moon light that now highlighted her profile more brightly. As she crossed the Hibiscus flower plant, that used to provide all the flower requirements of the temple since my childhood, she stopped and slowly looked back to see if I am still pretending to sleep. As she looked over my face, I could feel the very gentle touch of her eyes but I still kept my eyes shut. Her long dark hairs were gently floating with the wind and her sari fluttered softly as she turned once again to go. Slowly I gathered some courage and got up to follow as silently as I could. She moved on to the narrow path, between the two small fields that served as our kitchen garden, leading to our ancient well. The well has had served us for generations and slowly it has become our most favored spot as it served as our local gossip center, bathing Ghat, catching up with other village boys and planning visits to raid the local Mango Groves and much more. Prasad Chacha used to draw out water in buckets and bath us under, what seemed like a continuous running stream of the nearby mountain. Few feets away, there was a mango and Jack fruit tree around providing shades in the day and in the evenings, the flower bush, Raat ki Rani (Hasnuhana also known as Night Jasmine) provided the most interesting and sweetly scented back drop for our night time ghost stories among the us and kids from village houses just beyond the well.

As I followed her, I realized that she knows that I am behind, by her conscious slowing down, but continued walking. As she reached the well, she took the rope and the small pot, which is usually kept there for drawing water and handed over to me, without any note of question or even looking at me, asking in soothing soft whisper, which competed with the soft music of the breeze that was blowing, to draw out some water for her to drink. I had actually never done that before as ma was scared of us going around the well for she feared that one of us, brothers, will some how fall in. Although her presence near me was making me more nervous, but the childlike desire to impress her kept me rooted to the spot and finally I threw the pot in the well after tying it with the rope as I had seen Prasad chacha do many numbers of time. After a customary wait of water to fill in the vessel, I drew it out slowly. Never once looking at her but knowing fully well that her eyes are on me. Slowly I untied the pot and turned around to give her water as she position herself slightly bent on her knees, her face down with her cupped hands to her lips. I could see her dark hair, flowing gently all over her and the white sari and the cupped palm waiting for the water to be poured in. Slowly in small gulps she drank the water and as she raised her face to thank me, I saw her face for the first time and I just dropped dead on the ground. Her eyes were red, her tongue was long and almost fully out of her mouth and blood red, which looked dark black in the night moonlight. Her face was dark black and lips smeared in blood, and a thick line of  fresh blood, slowly trickling down from one side of her mouth.

Next day, when I woke, I had high fever, shivering and nervous but strangely did not feel any fear. That was the beginning of my meeting her, our temple Goddess Durga Ji in the form of Kali, and the first step towards my destiny. Now after many decades, I realize that how beautiful it all was, my first meeting with her - love at first sight, an affair which has continued through out my life. But for the village, it was one of those happenings that keeps villagers around the night fires going on with stories, till morning. Even today, when the elders of the village meet me, they never fail to remind me of the morning when I was found near the well, sleeping in mud and water, oblivious of anything around me. Many of them still remember my ma praying to Goddess Durga in our temple the whole day and my grandfather's big feast organized with a long prayer ritual, to ward off the evil, that took me to the well that night. Now after decades, village folks have made bigger stories around that morning and how I was saved that day by our temple Goddess by fighting the big witch who was carrying me away. Many even swear to have heard the clash of swords and lightening strike, and swear that by the time they could come out of their mud houses, they saw the witch that was running away after throwing me near the well.

Some times, Yogini Vashudha, your questions also become an experience of long time back, in my memory. And I, just like those simple villagers, make bigger stories around that small seeds. Some times, Vashudha, I also think of the seed, implanted in my clam like memory and unconsciously put layers upon layer of my yearning, passion and longing before bringing it out in the open to my own solitary self – the loneliness along with the beauty of the pearl.

… To be continued

WHISPERS: Love, longing and loneliness...

Rain, rain Come again
Love, Longing and Loneliness...
Submitted for Thursday Poets Rally WK 30

My window

In the rains

Forgoes its work

Leaves the wall, blank

Jumps in the puddle

Below

_________

Even before the eyes

Could release

First torrent of pain

Even before thoughts

Sink

And nudge us

Over the edge

Spread me in your

Desert places, Star

And

Drum up a passionate dream

______________

Shashi 1989

The sea

Needs all of the sky

For herself

Pregnant with rain

And I needed all of you

As complete

As my pain

____________

I recently stumbled upon Russian Poetess and loved here poetry very much. Her poetry has a sense of loss and even her life's story is sad and felt very emotional after reading her biography. Some times, life's twist and turns take you to places where you can not just do any thing but surrender to it. Click here if you would like to read about her in the Wikipedia

Here is one of her verses
________________________

My Poems...

My poems, written early, when I doubted

That I could ever play the poet’s part,

Erupting, as though water from a fountain

Or sparks from a petard,

And rushing as though little demons, senseless,

Into a sanctuary, where incense spreads,

My poems about death and adolescence,

--that still remain unread! --

Collecting dust in bookstores all this time,

Where no one comes to carry them away,

My poems, like exquisite, precious wines,

Will have their day!
______________________

Marina Tsvetaeva, 1913

Translated by Andrey Kneller

This post is Submitted to Thursday Poets Rally Week 30 
Click to submit your own here and read some interesting writers

Got the perfect poet award from the Thursday Poets Rally WK 29 and here is my Acceptance Haiku
_________
Rain dance in lust
Breeze caresses in mist
And she hides behind my memories
______________________________________
Thanks for the award.
Click here to go back the starting page to read more from my blog

THE READER : Rahul Sānkrityāyana

Rahul Sānkrityāyana (1893-1963) was one of the most widely traveled scholars of India, who spent forty-five years of his life on travel and away from home. He became a buddhist monk(Bauddh Bhikkhu) and eventually drew towards Marxist Socialism. He was also an Indian nationalist, having been arrested and jailed for three years for creating anti-British writings and speeches. Sankrityayan was given the title of Mahapandit, meaning great scholar.

Childhood

He was born Kedarnath Pande on 9 April 1893 to an Orthodox Hindu Bhumihar family in Azamgarh district[citation needed], in Eastern Uttar Pradesh. As his mother died at the age of twenty-eight and his father at the age of forty-five, he was brought up by his grandmother. His earliest memories as recorded by him were of the terrible famine in 1897. At age 9, he ran away from home in order to see the world, but later returned.

Sankrityayan only ever received formal schooling at a local primary school, though he later studied and mastered numerous languages independently, as well as learned photography.

Travels

His travels took him to different parts of India, including Ladakh, Kinnaur, and Kashmir. He also covered several other countries including Nepal, Tibet, Sri Lanka, Iran, China, and the former Soviet Union. While traveling, he mostly used surface transport, and he went to certain countries clandestinely, like Tibet where he went disguised as a Buddhist monk. He made several trips to Tibet and brought from there valuable manuscripts of Pali and Sanskrit, several books and paintings. Most of these formed a part of the libraries of Vikramshila and Nalanda Universities and were taken to Tibet by fleeing Buddhist monks during 12th century and onwards when the invading armies had destroyed these universities. Some accounts state that Rahul Sankrityayan employed twenty-two mules to bring back the loads of part of these materials, from Tibet to India.

In honour of him, Patna Museum, Patna, has a special section, where a number of these and other items have been displayed.

Personal life

Sankrityayan was married when very young and never came to know anything of his child-wife. Accepting an invitation for teaching Buddhism at Leningrad University during his stay in Soviet Russia a second time, he came in contact with a Mongolian scholar Lola (Ellena Narvertovna Kozerovskaya). She could speak French, English, and Russian and write Sanskrit. She helped him in working on Tibetan- Sanskrit dictionary. Their attachment ended in marriage and birth of son Igor. Mother and son were not allowed to accompany Rahul to India after completion of his assignment.

Late in life, he married Dr. Kamala, an Indian Nepali lady and had a daughter (Jaya) and a son (Jeta). He accepted a teaching job at a Sri Lankan University, where he fell seriously ill. Memory loss, diabetes, high blood pressure and a mild stroke struck him. He died in Darjeeling in 1963.

Books

Sankrityayan was a multilingual linguist, well versed in several languages and dialects, including Hindi, Sanskrit, Pali, Bhojpuri, Urdu, Persian, Arabic, Tamil, Kannada, Tibetan, Sinhalese, French and Russian. He was also an Indologist, a Marxist theoretician, and a creative writer. He started writing during his twenties and had written around 150 books and dissertations.

One of his most famous books in Hindi is named Volga se Ganga, meaning “(A journey) from Volga to Ganga” and is an attempt to present a fictional account of migration of Aryans from the steppes of the Eurasia to regions around the Volga river; then their movements across the Hindukush and the Himalayas and the sub-Himalayan regions; and their spread to the Indo-Gangetic plains of the subcontinent of India. The book begins from 6000 BC and ends in 1942, the year when Mahatma Gandhi, the Indian nationalist leader has given a call for quit India movement. The book is remarkable for its historical elements interwoven with fiction.

Stay in Soviet Union

Although he did not have any formal education, in view of his knowledge and command over the subject, University of Leningrad appointed him Professor of Indology in 1937-38 and again in 1947-48. His book also published in bengali language. more than ten books have been published in bengali.

Rahul Ji's Tomb Stone in Darjeeling