Home Alone

Nov 30th, 2005- This morning, the skies were clear. No rain. No wind. The temperature had dipped the previous night. The morning dew was still there on the turf when the sun rose over the eastern sky- first orange, then turning a bright yellow, before exploding into a blinding white ball of light. It was exactly half past seven. There was not a sound from the nearby village, not even the sound of a barking dog. Looking out of the window on the west side of the house, one could see the rocky hillock bathed in sunlight. Couple of months of heavy rain had brought life to it in the form of wild grass, wild blossoms, weeds & other kinds of vegetation. There are one or two big rocks on that hillock. One of them has a hollow at its base where a family of mongoose have made their home. It is not easy to see them because of the dense undergrowth. A branch of an old dead tree next to the rock offers the perfect perch for a couple of big kites that often visit the area. They make a strange sound that only they can understand. Is this what Cacofonix sounded like before he was bound up & gagged before the many banquets that Gauls held in celebration of their victories over the barbaric Romans? I dont know. If Asterix were alive today, I would ask him. At thirty-one minutes past seven, a stillness descends on the place that can only be termed as indescribable. Not a leaf moved, not a sound was heard. The body was very still except for a discernible movement of the breathing aparatus. Not a single worry crossed the mind. There was only light of various shades & colour and wide open eyes. The tree at the top of the hillock was bathed in a golden yellow. Through its branches & leaves, the blue of the sky was clearly visible. Even the solitary bird on the fence refused to move. It was as if the whole universe had come to a stop. Then came the big bang - the familiar sound of cloth hitting rock. The pond on the east side of the house is full to the brim. The village women begin their day's laundry work in this old fashioned way, with nothing else but their bare hands and a flat rock to beat the cotton on. Man has never been still for as long he has lived on this earth. He has moved from one place to another in search of food, in search of shelter, in search of God. In the process he has plundered and murdered himself over and over again. The very nature of man's thought breeds fear, anger, desire and sorrow. In that moment of morning stillness, there was not a shadow of any of those ugly feelings and emotions. This is perhaps why man in this modern age needs quietitude. Not an enforced quietness that some mistakenly take to be meditation. If in the very seeking of peace and quiet there is subjugation of the mind, then that is not stillness. That is not silence. There can be stillness and silence only when one learns the art of seeing, listening and moving (yes), without translating or filtering what one sees or hears and without having those deep-rooted fixations or attachments in life. Then, having learnt that subtlest of arts, one can begin to be still, not only in the body but also in the mind. Such a mind is like a still pond that reflects everything clearly without distortion. The waves of thought orginate from the many pebbles of stored experiences in our memory. To live with memories, however pleasant or painful, is like trying to sail through life on a rocking boat firmly anchored to the dark muddy basin of time. It is late in the morning.The typing on the lettered keys have become slow and laborious. The CPU needs desperately to be shut down. The mechanical brain will go on however. It derives meaning from its endless activities. The meaningless demands of society give it no rest. But who has created society? It is you and me. Together we are sustaining something that we ourselves have created. See how pointless existence is if all there is to life is an endless transition from pain to pleasure and then back to pain. This is the life that we are conscious of. Most of us dont know of any other way of living. There is so much anger, frsutration and resentment all around. We read about it in the newspapers and see it on TV everyday. Very little is known of life beyond the scribblings of a few 'mad' scientists. Even they get tired after a while, allowing the dull priest to throw his pebble into the pool of consciousness every now and then. The computer must now shut down for the day and await another moment of revival. Till then it shall rest in the currentless moment, a mute witness to the drama of life and death on this marvellous earth......