When we were children, we would sleep in one large bed, I, my Sis, and my cousins. The house in the village was ancient. When it rained, the tiled roof would start a slow Tibetan throat song and lull us to sleep. But what stands out is not the rains on tiled roofs. Etched in our little minds was a night when we heard a Cat Mother mourning her dead kitten. In the dark of the night, she created stories in her mind of her lost child and cried. She would sulk and wail and talk and curse and cry. I could hear her over the noise of the falling rains. I could feel her heart wrenching sadness falling like rain. Sadness is not a Human quality. To feel pain is universal. I think sadness is the soup upon which the reality of life floats. It is the salt in our otherwise unremarkable blip of an existence. An appalling apology of a story! The artwork is by Ankita Swaroopa (Mystique Sunshine) titled: Self Hug.
As long stretches of empty cranes stood waiting, for the last of the Ganesha's to bid adieu, I felt my eyes welling up from a sadness that was not mine. How the stories encoded in my genes have a life of their own will forever remain a mystery to me. I do not fight it, I do not disown it, and I am not enslaved by it. We will live in harmony, until Dussehera . Then again, the celestial tales from ancient myths will come thundering down upon this ancient land. As electrons entangled through endless time and space, we will spin with abandon, as our creators spin within us.