I quote Robert Frost "In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on.”
There are many different versions of "life" painted by life's very own essence since the concept of Universe dawned. Centuries have gone by, philosophical ethics unfolded, political theories garnered and science made remarkable progress spanning aeons, crossing boundaries and yet this whole Universe, its patterns and the big blue bubble where "life" germinated is still a wonder - the veil of its infancy is yet to be laid bare.I love to bask in nature but do not recollect the genesis of my connecting to the life's handiwork. I have been very fortunate enough to echo Tagore since my budding years humming his icon"Listen, my heart, to the whispers of the world with which it makes love to you".That which is emerald in colour, fresh and in abundance and sapid to my senses had always appealed to me.My childhood reared up in the nature's mystic fragrance and hues - thick coppice, lush paddy fields, the shaggy headed banyan tree standing tall and imposing at the mouth of the street which bended to an arterial road, the sunlight filtering through the dense śāl forests - the route we usually avoided taking after twilight hours but was whoopee to our tiny feet treading in the daytime kicking sand and mud along or stomping weeds or the dry fallen leaves and twigs, the tweedling colourful little birds mostly whose names I was unaware of nestling in the foliage near our home - stirred vibrations in my soul weaving a tapestry of radiance in the man-made epoxy world even after I husked out of my infantine years.We had a neat manicured flower and vegetable front garden precisely supervised by my mom and Madanda, our weekly gardener. Between the scorching summer sun and school vacations both of them used to spend gruesome and tiring hours over gravel mulch for a trimmed landscape. Hibiscus was her all time favourite but she planted dear to her heart roses, gerberas, dahlias and marigolds in the winters so we all could enjoy the blooms up close on the patio.
There was a chhatim flower tree by my bedside window of the house where I grew up, whose enlivening whiff in the arid summer nights captured me alone and speechless - silence abounding. My old habit of reading books at bedtime with the windows wide and open during the summers often took my mind off to "all is quite in the garden now" - fireflies flashing its light, the warm breeze blowing, leaves rustling on the trees and the choruses of cicadas and tree frogs abuzz with silence gradually seeping in through the dark fabric of the starlit sky.As children during school vacations we were paraded to the nearby woody and swampy riverbed with our picnic hampers. I was inept playing outdoors with other neighbourhood children. My favourite pastime then would be listening to the soft ripples of the river water gazing at its turquoise fathomless shape. Sitting on the grass underneath a tree my eyes would often wander at the blazing sky of the summer looking out for a hint of the overcast shadows and a splendour pour. Nay it never allayed my fancies.But I enjoyed the traditional fishing boat rides with the others - the fishermen used to ferry us out towards the horizon with clumsy looking large wooden oars hacked from a single piece of wood. The hone of silence surrounded us sans our innocent peals of laughter amidst the water flowing in its fullness gladening my heart beyond measure.My heart brews for silence and my eyes longs for ethereal portraits of nature at all times and in all places I visit even today. Growing up in a real world has been painful but years later hopping to different cities and countries, Tagore reminds me of the innate "Stream of Life" -The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day
runs through the world and dances in rhythmic measures.
It is the same life that shoots in joy through the dust of the earth
in numberless blades of grass and breaks into tumultuous waves of leaves and flowers.
It is the same life that is rocked in the ocean-cradle of birth and of death, in ebb and in flow.
I feel my limbs are made glorious by the touch of this world of life.
And my pride is from the life-throb of ages dancing in my blood this moment.
For me, nature's been an inspiration to stay afloat, to see beyond the malevolent and bilk human mind, to dye my spirit with its colours, and that it is quintessentially the name of the game called "life".
