Words are Weariness

ஓம் நமசிவாய சிவாயநம ஓம் Om Nama Shivaya, Shivaya Nama Om Have you ever stood barefoot in a mountain stream experienced the   sight and feel of clear water flowing off the pebbles and its feel under your feet ?   Have you stood on a cliff and see down into a valley and experienced the fleeting moment when you slip outside yourself and become part of the scenery ? Have you suddenly slipped into an awareness while in the midst of a poetry triggered by the silence of gaps between the words? If so, you have had a revelation of “Self”, the conscious behind our I-consciousness which is our normal state, the real charioteer of the chariot. In Maitre Upanishad, when Valakhilayas asked thus: “Master, how does this pure Being ( the Brahman) give consciousness to the unconscious body ? How is he the driver of the Chariot ?” The Master Kratu Prajapati answered: “Even as a man who is asleep awakes, but when he is asleep does not know that he is going to wake up, so a ...

He had not known any enemies, that was what he thought of himself. It had taken him so long to acquire one, a formidable one at that. However, that this enemy would be a snake was , in a way, some kind of a let down. It had taken 6 months for Mwangi to understand the deviousness of his foe. One evening as he was herding his flock of hens into their pen, he saw two eggs lying afield uncollected. He went about closing the pen nevertheless and retired for the night, thinking that he would make amends first thing the next morning. Mwangi could not find the eggs the next day. When he asked Emily, she said she was nowhere near the hens. His inquiries in the nearby huts likewise drew a blank. After four market-days had elapsed, the same thing happened again. It had drizzled that day. The movement of the snake had left a clear imprint on the soil. He knew at once that it was the work of a snake. He immediately decided to kill it to avenge his loss. It did not behove hi...

Green, Yellow and White,-the girl wearing the waitress's uniform was a refugee, could be an Indian or a Lankan refugee; could be even Guyanese. Black skin, black eyes, black hair, black eyes..even her lipstick and nail polish were black. Her name should have been long with many vowels, she had shrunk it into 'Rathna' in her badge that she had pinned to her dress. She stood at the right distance from the table, not too far removed to see, but not too close to hear the conversation around the table, just as the rule book of waiting at tables says. She knew many other rules of the book. When you serve at the table, you must serve from the left side of the seated guest - Rule No 12. When left overs are removed from the table, you must remove them from the right side of the seated guest - Rule No 11. While adjusting the chair before the guest eases in, you should approach from the left - Rule No 26. If the napkin is folded and kept to the right of the plate it means...

It all happened like this. A Jewish woman had called us for dinner. You may ask me, what was unusual about it. I had been to many gatherings and celebrations with dinner hosted by all kinds of people,- Hindus, Christians, Muslims, Buddhists, but never a Jew. As a result, I and my wife were looking for the appointed day eagerly. Our host's husband was a writer. The novel he wrote was an interesting one , though the writing was not up to the mark. The whole story happens inside a moving train in Siberia. Though he had approached many a producer of films with his story, nobody was courageous enough to make a movie out of it. When we went to Ora's ( that is her name) home that night, her husband was away. She was alone with her mother. It was also for the good, after all, writers need their escape once in a while. She showed us our seats and said that her mother was in the kitchen and would soon join us in our conversations. The dinner table was nearby. We ...