The Little Girl and the Wildflower - Part 2

[see also << Part - 1]

The snow came. And, with it, the blizzards. One by one, the leaves dropped off the wildflower’s stem.

The wildflower was no stranger to bitter winters. But, he had been careless, and time had been lost. Comfort was out of the question. He resigned himself to hunkering down through the cold as best as he could.

One day, soon after the ground and branches were shrouded in a blanket of white and there was frost in the high mountains, the wildflower was surprised to hear the small voice from the little cottage down the hill again: “Wildflower,” it said, “I miss you a little. It would be nice if we could be friends.”

The wildflower knew not what to answer. So many emotions welled up inside him. “Little girl! Oh, little girl!” he thought to himself, “Do you know what you have done? You have gone and taken the one thing that you want from me, and put it completely outside my power to give you!”

“Look inside yourself, little girl”, said the wildflower to himself, “I have not stopped being your friend! Yet, why do you feel that I am not? I have not changed at all. I continue to remain who I always was: that little something so different from what you imagined me to be. It is you who have changed, little girl. And I have not the power to change you back.”

And, as he thought that thought, a little sigh escaped the wildflower and fell onto the snow as one tiny white petal.

The small voice from down the hill went unanswered.

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Image ©opyright Niladri Roy.

Counting My Blessings

1. It’s night, and I am looking out of the window at the stars as a write this. [1979]


2. What is the guarantee I will find someone like you again? [1990]


3. Will you come visit before you have to go away? [1992]


4. I wish I could go back and fix the mistake I made then! [1992]


5. Why is it that you never asked me? [1994]


6. You are going to send me away just like that? [1996]


7. You are going to send me away just like that? [2002]


8. What if I say I want? [2003]


9. I love my ex, I love my son. I find I love you a little too. I’m confused [2004]


10. “I just called to say I love you…” – Stevie Wonder; left in voicemail. [2004]


11. Maybe someday we could travel to India together? [2006]


12. What if I were available? [2006]


13. Tell you what, I want things to go right. [2006]
    

Darn! It had to be the thirteenth blessing! ;)

Lies, damn lies and statistics.

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Image ©opyright Niladri Roy

The Little Girl and the Wildflower - Part 1

Once upon a time there lived in the foothills a little girl. She loved nature so - the trees, the leaves, the flowers. Every morning she would wake to the wonderful scent of a wildflower that grew somewhere up in the mountains. Every evening she would drift off to sleep in its fragrance.

During the day, the little girl gathered firewood and fetched water from the stream. It was autumn, and every now and then she would pause to admire the fall colors. As she did, she would catch herself thinking about her wildflower: how vibrant his colors must be, how brilliant and shiny his petals, wet with the morning dew. And then she would be suddenly lonely, wishing she could have her wildflower with her.

When the sun thinned the air, she would miss his fragrance. She would call out to him: “Wildflower, wildflower, I miss you! I wish you were here!” And the wildflower would answer, “I wish I were there with you too, little girl!”

As time went by, the little girl talked to the wildflower everyday. She sang to him. She couldn’t wait to tell him every minute what she was doing. And the wildflower felt that he was part of her day, and, as time went by, that he was simply part of her.

Then, one day, the little girl decided to journey into the mountain to find her wildflower. She told him: “Wildflower, I will go into the mountain. I want to bring you back with me to my little cottage.”

And the wildflower, long used to the bitter cold of the mountain, felt just a little surprised at himself. For he had not known till then how much he looked forward to the warmth of the little girl’s hearth. How much he wanted to be held between her palms.

The little girl journeyed into the mountain. Up the winding trails she went. And when the trails gave out, she made her own way through the stones and brambles, guided by his scent.

She called out to him: "I’m coming, wildflower!”
And the wildflower replied, “I can’t wait, little girl!”

Finally, the little girl heaved herself over the last cluster of stones, and there he was! Her wildflower! But, where were the colors? The brilliance? The shiny petals, wet still from the morning dew? Instead, there he was: a lone clump of white, perched bleakly on a single stem.

The wildflower did not notice her disappointment. “How glad I am to see you, at last, little girl!”, he cried, ecstatically. And the little girl looked at him with infinite sadness and sat down beside him and wept silently inside.

As the sky reddened and the sun prepared to tuck in for the night, the little girl gathered herself up and trudged downhill. The wildflower did not understand what had happened as he watched her go. However, there was the setting sun to think of, and that it would soon be dark and cold again. So he kept his own counsel and did not call her back.

Late in the evening, long after it was dark, he heard a small voice from the cottage down the hill: "Wildflower, I am home. I hope you are well.”

And the wildflower cried, “Little girl, little girl, why do you forsake me so?”

And the small voice answered: “I am sorry, wildflower. I imagined you were something different. If life were fragrance alone, I’d bring you back with me in a heartbeat. My need for color is much, much greater than my need for you. I wish that, someday, you may find what you need.”

And the wildflower prepared for another winter.

[see also Part - 2 >>]

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Photo by Louis Agassiz Fuertes
Cornell University
Rare and Manuscript Collections
Medium: Black-and-white photograph
Size: 3.75" x 4.75"
Support: Paper
Type: Black-and-white photographs;Photographs
Title: Hut in the hills

Scent of a Woman

You know what's kept me goin' all these years?
The thought that one day -- Never mind. Silly.

Just the thought that maybe one day, I'd --
I could have a woman's arms wrapped around me... and her legs wrapped around me. That I could wake up in the morning and she'd still be there. Smell of her. All funky and warm.

I finally gave up on it.

- Al Pacino in Scent of a Woman.
Academy Awards Best Motion Picture 1992.

* * * * * *

Heck, if we are not being original anymore and quoting other people anyway, I thought I'd come back and post one more quotable. This time by the great Pablo Neruda himself.

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.

Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.

Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day

I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,

your hands the color of a savage harvest,

hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,

I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,

the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,

I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,

hunting for you, for your hot heart,

like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

-- Love Sonnet XI, by Pablo Neruda
(added to this post November 3 at 11:47 AM)

My Own Private Mandalay

Last night I dreamt I went to Mandalay again…











My dreams
-the thin straws
at which I was clutching
They couldn't bear my weight
and broke inevitably,
putting my feet
on terra firma,
which is the harsh reality.

-the mirror.
I saw my reflection
and decorated it with
my imagination.
Now I face a mirror cracked
pick up the pieces
The reflection gone -
I remain, as I always was.

-a crystal vase in my hand
catching the light
of the sun
Sending myriad colored rays
dazzled my eye.
It too is broken
and the light is grim again.

- by Vandana Kumar



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[Image ©opyright Niladri Roy.]

The Waiting

Excerpt from the diary of a very dear friend. Reproduced with permission:

Have I thought enough over the events of the recent past? Things have been a bit of a whirlwind. For each, from total ignorance of the other’s existence, to coast-to-coast travel for no purpose other than meeting, would tend to indicate very rapid progress indeed.

Progress actually is not the word. Progression works much better. Progress implies a continuous, or, at the very least, a tiered, desirable elevation in the levels of intensity, maturity, closeness, or whatever else defines a relationship. Progression indicates that certain necessary events in a known chain have occurred. Whether to progress or retrogress the relationship, it remains to be seen.

Ironically enough, real progress had been made earlier. One went from total strangers to people who “very much want[ed] this to happen”. I am not sure one has made that kind of progress after one has met. One may not have retrogressed (although one can sit and dread what the other is going to say when he gets on the phone next), but, at the very least, one, or the other, or both (hmm, confusing, isn’t it?) has put some kind of brakes on. I don’t necessarily mean that in a negative sense. I think that rather than rushing headlong over terrain that one does not fully understand, a more sobering speed introduces an element of control. It is my opinion that this relationship has a much better probability of success at a slower pace, than risking the “burnout” that he has been already wary about.

Of course, all of this analysis is of any use only in the event that he has not changed his mind about how he feels about the relationship. If he has, then all analysis is moot. I have asked him, quite categorically I have to admit, if this were a No. He has denied that it is. Is that truly his answer? Or, was he inhibited into politeness? I don’t know. From what I do know of him, I think, and hope, and pray that he spoke his mind.

He spoke his mind about other things. He spoke his mind about being claustrophobic being in close proximity with one person for hours and hours. I’m supposed to not take that personally (his words). I try not to. I think I have the emotional intelligence to know what he means. I just find it hard, physically already being there, to find an elegant way to leave him alone; get out of his way and give him his space. No, I didn’t get him wrong: he did not want to get rid of me. He just needed to be rid of me for a while. There is a difference.

Does he still feel that he very much wants this to happen? I don’t know. That want itself was supposed to have been predicated on things having gone “right”. Did they? I’m sure not all did. Doubtless, there have been disappointments. Both he and I would be less than human if there weren’t. I am sure, for I have asked him and he has offered to share them by phone as he is uncomfortable analyzing them face to face. The question is, is analysis the word? Or, has the analysis already occurred and one is only waiting with bated breath for the result? What will that verdict be?

I know what my own disappointments have been. I cannot count anything as major. Certainly nothing that is bigger than what the two of us have together. Will he see his disappointments in the same light and in the same relative terms as I do? Or, will he let the disappointments cloud his vision and ignore all the rest? All the reasons that made him “want this to happen”? I asked him not too long ago: How long has it been since you felt like this? He answered: A long, long time ago. Will he remember that?

Will he remember that he used to wish I was there and then realize he hadn't yet met me? That he missed me a little even though he never lets himself miss people? Will he remember the Van Gogh print of white roses that must hang on the wall? The area rugs, accent lights and candles? Will he remember that he would get very spoilt if I let him?

Will he remember that he told me, in Maya Angelou’s words, that when I, unbidden, take him back to long-ago rooms, he cries? Will he remember that I too, had replied in Maya Angelou’s words, asking him to give me his hand?

Will he remember that he said he knows inside himself that I would always find him?

Does he know that he has been found?

End of excerpt.

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Image ©opyright Niladri Roy.

Journey

कर्मण्येवाधिकारस्ते मा फलेषु कदाचन।
मा कर्मफलहेतुर्भूर्मा ते सङ्गोस्त्वकर्मणि॥

-श्रीमद्भगवद्गीता (२:४७)

Is an investment in time and effort always worth its name?

That is an interesting question, for when one gauges return on an investment one tends to use currency that equates in some measure the investment and its return. In other words, we are adept at valuing and comparing things that have the same unit basis. I wonder how often we have stopped to consider how we might value returns which have unit bases entirely different from their investments.

That, by no means, is the end of all problems of ROI. How, for instance, does one even recognize value that is delivered but won't be appreciated till many months down the road?

What if the value returned were perforce in a domain different from the one in which the investment was made in the first place?

In my mind, one major cause of all this confusion is this tendency we have of evaluating the usefulness of everything that we do in terms of ROI. Life is not a business. There is no obligation towards a bottom line being in the black instead of red; no fiduciary duty to shareholders. Instead, there is only a quest to live life. To experience its joys and its tribulations alike. To welcome one and avoid the other, perhaps. Not, certainly, to bemoan our ‘misfortune’ at “less than average return".

Achieving some of the desired results in life would be good. That need not become an obsession that determines the course of all our actions.

Life is a journey, not a destination. I cannot rest from travel.


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Image ©opyright Niladri Roy.

Wishing for Sunlight: Through a Lens Clearly

The sky is a quilt of grey. Not a flat grey, devoid of interest. It is a pensive mixture of dark and light grey and white. Streaks of black too: it rained last night. Is that ominous? The trees are about to lose their leaves in readiness of winter. Already the sidewalks are covered with a blanket of color. Fall still lingers on the branches in reluctatnt departure. From where I sit, inside my rented Chevy Cobalt, I can see yellow, green, orange and red. The leaden light of this cloudy morning doesn’t do justice to the view.

I wish there was sunlight.

I wish I had a camera now. Capture some of the still beautiful vista. Make memories. Instead, I try and do the next best thing. Train a metaphysical lens inwards. Into my mind. Try and capture the vista within. The trepidation, the uncertainty, the clouds. I wish I could see joy. Rapture. I don’t. Not yet. Yet, how I long to see it! I will, perhaps, someday.

Will you let me?

Meanwhile, I sit here in my rented Cobalt, in a little side street on the grounds of Penn State, with a swirling wind raining the clinging remnants of fall from the branches onto my windshield. And I make memories.

I wish there was sunlight.

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Dedicated to Angelou

This issue is dedicated to Maya Angelou.

I dare not write anything about the work of this amazing woman. I wish only to document what recesses of the mind Yarrow Revisited hearkened back to. And I am glad it manifested itself via Maya Angelou's poetry. For Maya, thoughtfully, had provided the refrain as well.

Act I. Response:

When you come to me, unbidden,
Beckoning me
To long-ago rooms,
Where memories lie.
Offering me, as to a child, an attic,
Gatherings of days too few.
Baubles of stolen kisses.
Trinkets of borrowed loves.
Trunks of secret words,
I CRY.


Act II. Refrain:

Give me your hand
Make room for me to lead and follow you beyond this rage of poetry.
Let others have the privacy of touching words and love of loss of love.
For me
Give me your hand.

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Italicized text: Maya Angelou.

Yarrow Revisited

A dear friend once wrote an observation in her blog, the gist of which can be summed up as follows: the loss of innocence is defined as our inability to do one or more of the following any longer: 'Sing like no one is listening, dance like no one is watching, love like [one has] never been hurt before.'

Pretty simple, if you think about it. I had retired hurt from a sequence of events that had apparently permanently robbed me of my abilty to execute the third commandment, if you will. I agreed wholeheartedly that, yes, that is indeed the definition of loss of innocence.

I have come to realize, however, of late, that there is a possibility, just a possibility, that innocence, like Milton's Paradise, might be lost and regained.

My Yarrow Unvisited might, perhaps, always trump my Yarrow Visited. I shall, neverthelesss, not shrink from the prospect of Yarrow Revisited. For, isn't "AND is this Yarrow?—this the stream?" waiting only for that wee little shuffle, to read "This IS the Yarrow - THIS the stream!"?

May I hold steadfast to the courage of my convictions. May it not just rain, but pour :)

"Ah, no! the visions of the past
Sustain the heart in feeling
Life as she is—our changeful Life,
With friends and kindred dealing."

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Italicized text: William Wordsworth.

Never Rest from Travel

She tells me we could potentially have the most awful chemistry together. Secretly, I hope she means awesome. She tells me she is a tough cookie. I say, what the heck... more fun in the chewing out! I can "by the way" call her "if (I) want". I want.

I'm glad she wants to show me the fall colors. It's been a while since I've seen any color at all. She has confidence in confidence alone, and I, confidently, know that's her favorite song. My favorite, of course, is hard to pick out: have heard only her on MP3 for almost all the 11 hours from Munich. Love them all. Robibabu, I hereby forgive you for Aud Lang Syne.

Love the photographs: subjects, composition, colors and the stories they tell. Love my wallpaper too. Different reason.

Could Shakespeare, Tennyson, Wordsworth, Crabbe, Arnold, DeRozio... have known they would so unwittingly conspire together? The Rays, Shukumar and Satyajit, I am grateful to you both. Shorodindu, bless thy heart - even if some of thy blessed 'creations' are but twice blest! You are a league of extraordinary gentlemen! I salute you all.

Chocolate is soul food. What am I doing... aiming for an amphetamine overdose? This is scary. In a delicious sort of way.

I wonder what the SWOT analysis of the entire situation is? What would Porter have thought of the competitive landscape? One will just have to wait and see, won't one? Meanwhile, may I too, never rest from travel and drink Life to the lees.

Raingirl, I hope it continues to pour! Yet, can't wait till when it will finally be a starry, starry night in California.

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