The Saga of Sulakhni

A chapter from the life of Guru Nanak, The Light :

Part - 1

Reveling in conjugal bliss with the Light,
she walks on the path, wise and right.
Her life perfect, euphoric and joyous.
Meaningful too, not shallow nor pompous.
Oft she dwells on the Supreme absolute,
sits with laity and sings hymns to the lute.
Questions the blinding ritualistic grasps,
raises the parish beyond worldly clasps.
Serves the congregation with utmost love,
follows His Word from the heavens above.

 

Part - 2

And thus she lives as days pass by,
saintly, exalted figure, people doth deify.
Sulakhni, they call her, the virtuous one.
In the Light, she finds, her midnight sun.
Sincere and earnest, her faith is rewarded.
She says, it happens – this boon is awarded.


Part - 3
 
There are zealots there and scoffers too,
plenty of them, jeering at all that you do.
And so a bunch of cynics is waiting today,
to test her faith, to mock and downplay.
Skilled ascetics, with powers immense,
elements they control with practice intense.
Adept they are, they have mastered God,
they walk on waters as common men laud.
Flawed in their thinking, their vision is gone.
Long past the divinity, only body and brawn.


Part - 4
 
So they wait in hiding, as patrons sing
songs of glory, attuned to harp with string.
Mellow and tuned, their litanies enthrall.
In the kitchens, she cooks meals for all,
with dullops of faith and tempered with prayers.
In the hands of Light, they rest their affairs.


Part - 5

She does not count nor measures cups or scoops.
Every bite a delight, the food prompts some whoops.
With faith she fills the buckets and breadbaskets,
serving everyone fervently, without looking at caskets.
The parishioners are leaving, happy and content.
Relishing the time they have beautifully spent.
Some stay back to help her clean the place,
some help with utensils, some mop the space.
Soaked in the color of True Name, they all work hard,
selflessly they serve, with devotion and regard.


Part - 6
 
Unfriendly ones, lurking in shadows dense,
Mala fide their drift, they begin the pretence.
Forth to the shrine, to smear and malign,
Psalm songs echo, the beginning of design.
Chanting and praying, they reach the hermitage,
Servitors announce a total hundred and fifty sage.


Part - 7

Fickle these saints, and unfaithful their curtsy.
Yet the Light smiles, a brimming fountain of mercy.
All knowing, all pervading, the Light calls for supper.
Sardonic smiles of sages, while servants shudder.
They bow before the Light, with flustered minds,
And they reach Sulakhni to succour left behinds.
They sink into sadness, there's no way they can feed,
For the sages are ravenous, athirst with greed.
But Sulakhni smiles, these are orders of the Light,
And His shall ever prevail, boundless is His Might!


Part - 8

She prays and she chants, while she hands out plates,
no one has ever returned hungry from His gates.
Then she hands out the breadbasket to the steward chief.
Covers it with 'kerchief, and recites psalms with belief.
The steward looks askance at the meagre divide.
Just five flatbreads, for the savage lions and their pride.


Part - 9

Unwavered in resolve, Sulakhni tells him to begin,
not to remove the 'kerchief, but to pray deep within.
To add dullops of clarified butter to their meals,
to top it with sugar, to mark servings with faithful seals.
And the believers bow humbly and serve this faction,
Glory be to Thee, the hermits are dazed at this action.
There's bread on every plate and sugar in every scoop,
a rich meal on every platter, no one left in the troop.
And the men eat a hearty supper with relish and delight,
Defeated, yet sated, it is such a wonderful sight.


Part - 10

Finished with the meals, they thank and they rise,
accept their pettiness, do away with disguise.
But one of their men plays on, he asks for more,
portion after portion, he asks with a roar,
his powers help him to increase his hunger,
stupifies everyone, and makes them wonder.


Part - 11

Baffled and confounded they seek Her help.
How do we satiate him, they ask with a yelp.
She smiles and she thinks of Lord Almighty,
and she prepares the plate for the highty-tighty.
Glory be to Thee, one bread of Thy Name.
And the sage loses his powers, fails in his game.
The Light smiles and showers grace on His men,
The sages learn from Him and return to their den.
Thus ends the story, the saga of Sulakhni, the blessed.
Faith, belief and devotion, all glitches redressed. 

Welfare unto all

Rab Rakha

Good old 500s and 1000s

By habit, I was looking for familiar 500s and 1000s in my wallet. And then realized their awkward adieu.
Hasty, sudden, explosive and emergent.
A novel currency has taken their place. Pinkish-purplish notes.
2000! Seriously?
Someday, this novelty will fade off, leaving behind familiar addictions.
It will take time, though. For the idea to make its own space in our hearts.
Till then this new crisp currency feels alien in my hand. Rather makes me feel powerless. As if I have no real purchasing power with me. Like this is a piece of paper siphoned off from my nephew's game.

Linking with Thin Spiral Notebook: 100 words: Novel

Monsoon mayhem

"It will keep drizzling as long as you keep snuggling".
"Let's wreck havoc then!", she said as she cozied against him.
Outside, the drizzle turned to torrents.

Memoir

Smitten by her loquacious eyes, I committed my life to her, and for a good 30 years she helped me traverse this circuitous journey showering unfathomable joys but how swiftly joy and sorrow alternate and before the blinking of eyes, she receded to a painting hung on wall but sinking into oblivion would have been denigrating to our "we" time so I chose not to wallow in her sorrows and took to exploring the Himalayas and while the demons of her memory stalk me continually, I am glad she still joins me in circuitous travels, she with those loquacious eyes.

Linking with Thin Spiral Notebook: 100 words challenge : Demon

Linking with Thin Spiral Notebook: 100 words challenge : loquacious 

The rickshaw-wallah

The scorching sun was bidding goodbye. Laden with files, a handbag and a lunch bag, and swallowing the pain of shoebite, I made it through the subway. And then I lavishly boarded a rickshaw. The rickshaw-puller, a summer-tanned boy of 18-20 years, eagerly accepted the tour for a measely 20 bucks. His dirty sweat sodden vest and sinewy arms talked of day well-labored. He often wiped the burden of responsibilities with his red cotton stole. When I reached, I thanked him but he pretended not to hear. Silently, he turned his cab towards main road in anticipation of new customers.

Linking with Thin Spiral Notebook: 100 words: Pretend

The ringing phone

It is one of those few times
when I get to listen to my ringtone.
I tend to forget the tone,
so, the incoming ring resounds
for some time, quite some time.
Lengthily, I recognize the tune,
then rush to respond,
before the phoner disconnects,
only to receive shrill sound
of someone trying to sell property
to unknown somebody.
Politely, I inform
of not being the person
they were trying to connect to,
like countless previous times
in thirty-eight months.
Discussion ends.
Screen unlits, stripped of light,
but my eyes rest there, fixed.
Couldn't you phone me erroneously?
Even once?

Linking with Thin Spiral Notebook: 100 words: A minus

A bouquet of roses

The spring comes calling
Each day, with clustered roses
Wreaths adorn my roof.

Transience

Kaleidoscopic
From gathering memories
To perfect strangers

Such pretty dolls

I and Yashika enthusiastically embarked on doll pilgrimage. What better way to spend International Doll's Day.

Two initiates in doll-cult enjoying an amazing collection from around the world. Dolls dating back to 1700s. Dolls gifted by royalty. Dolls depicting traditions and trends. Dolls intricate and dolls, crude and rudimentary. Dolls with broken parts and dolls finished to perfection. Antiques to modern. Collector's dream. Nation's treasure. Awe inspiring.

One section hosted life-size dolls from across Eurasian regions. Almost every doll there seemed alive. Even the three seated at centre stage. Though with their disheveled looks, blackened eye sockets, grim looks and soiled rags, they looked horrifying. Like they had been taken out of some horror movie. Looking at them made us uncomfortable so we hurriedly moved to next display.

For a fleeting instance, I felt the focus of those ghostlike dolls shift. Following my movement. I disregarded the feeling.

There were prettier dolls to look at and I started concentrating on the collection again. But those black eyes never left me. I felt they were watching my steps and marking my moves.

By the time I was ready to move on to next display, the other visitors had left. The hall was soundless. No rushing feet, no clamor of kids, no excited shrieks.

Where was Yashika? Where was everybody?

I rushed through the aisles, searching for both Yashika and exit door. The mobile network ditched me. A frightened mind commits many mistakes. Instead of moving towards exit, I had somehow traced my steps back to that miscellaneous section with those scary dolls.

No!

I moved away from them.

But ghostly scary dolls stared from every aisle, every section.

I was alone in a large lonely hall with scary dolls all around me.

Then a doll from some aisle laughed. Loud. Raucous.

More laughter followed. All dolls joined in.

Then the one seemingly from The Child's Play started moving towards me.

The others followed.

In a practiced beat.

I backed.

They marched.

I backed further.

Further and further until I stumbled.

Then I was dead and dolls were gone.

Wait.

I was not dead but the dolls were gone.

Or

Maybe I was dead but dolls were still there.

Muddled. Messed up.

Then I heard my mobile ringing.

Dead people don't have mobiles. So I was not dead. I had not fallen.

Happy Doll's Day, doll. Wanna visit the doll museum? Yashika raved.

Some nightmare!

I was totally distracted. Yet Yashika rambled on. Until she convinced me to meet her. To celebrate international doll's day. At doll museum.

Despite my misgivings, we embarked on our tour enjoying an amazing collection from around the world. Collector's dream. Nation's treasure. Awe inspiring.

One section hosted life-size dolls from across Eurasian regions. Almost every doll there seemed alive. Even the three seated at centre stage.

Such pretty dolls, I vouched before Yashika could comment anything and dragged her on to next section.

But in that fleeting instant, I swear those dolls winked.

TRUST ME !

Linking with Friday Fiction with Ronovan Writes Prompt Challenge #12

An idea

One day you loitered through my mind,

an unhurried thought, distinct and clear,

unlike the hazy and fogged rushes,

and the train of my thoughts slowed.

I dwelled on us for some time

and then I laughed off the idea, brushed it aside,

vigorously erasing the traces

etched by it on the slate of my mind

but some markers are permanent

and try as hard as you might

you cannot rub out their writings from the board.

You now linger in my thoughts,

like an indelible ink stain on paper.

And I translate you into

syllables, words, proses and poems.

Linking with Thin Spiral Notebook: 100 words: Idea

Stars in his eyes

Beyond the rainbows,
Lie fluffy castles of clouds,
Where stars dwell, my child.

The child reverent,
Of this infinite stardom
And magic it weaves.

Stars in his small eyes,
Cosmos conspires in favor
Of the faithful child.

Linking with RonovanWrites #Weekly #Haiku #Poetry Prompt #Challenge #82 Star & Child

Mesmerizing, the ways of Lord.

Tiny hands foraged the canisters, scrounging home churned butter, the pitcher hung out of their reach.
Balancing intricately, the cowherds raised Kanha who doled out the delicacy for his kinfolk.
His shenanigans, simultaneously amusing and annoying Gokul.
Mesmerizing, the ways of Lord.

When the thorn bush turns white

When the thorn bush turns white, he thinks.
His hands worked in the farm with all sincerity, aware of the field supervisor's eyes that missed nothing. Tired, spiritless souls picking and stacking their hard labour for selling in bigger markets, waiting earnestly for 10th of each month when their effort would be rewarded with crisp currency.
It was for survival that he had first moved out of his hilly hamlet. Back in his home town, the winters were long and harsh. A burning hearth needed earning hands. So he came here and labored his days in the orchards of this valley which bustled all time with clamor of touring feet.
Out here, life itself seemed long and harsh; a frenzied subsistence.
He yearned for dreary winters and cozy quilts; ached for mother's lap; yenned for father's embrace and longed to hear tinkling laughter of his folks. He even pined for insular niches ringing with folktales. Every single mention of his village sent goosebumps through his skin. Every picture of his hometown coming to life before his eyes.
But he knows that survival of his ménage depends on his daily struggles. So, he burns in this leave. Endures the pain. Earns the money and sends a decent share back to his people. Hoping the monied message will translate into his love and affection.
Perhaps someday, he thinks, when the thorn bush turns white, he might be able to go home.

Linking with Friday Fiction with Ronovan Writes Prompt Challenge #11

Ramblings over cuppa

Milk blend occasionally. Black tea on Shatabdi rides. Green tea and iced tea almost regularly.
Remember how I used to be anti-tea. That changed when I moved to this new office.
An occasional cuppa now and then.
Distasteful. This hot beverage.
Quite unlike coffee.
Nothing beats a hot vanilla cappuccino.
Peculiar that I should be rambling about this, estranged as we are now.
And not that it really matters.
But I had to share my heart with you.
Over a cup of coffee.
Just like old times.
Peculiar too, that times never return.
And flow of life is almost ceaseless.

Linking with: Thin Spiral Notebook : 100 word challenge: Peculiar

Spending eternity

It matters little,
Where we spend eternity,
As long as we are.

Linking with Haiku Horizons: Spend

A stranger on road

It was good to meet her. 22 days ago, we were all huddled up together under one roof. Amidst the chaos of renovation ( read cement dust and wood splinters scattered around us), we celebrated her bday. And soon thereafter we said our goodbyes. This is how our associations with each other had come to an abrupt end. When the paying guest arrangement had been suddenly made dysfunctional, we all had to look for new accommodations. And so we moved out. In groups of two. And today was our get-together. Over fried and tandoori momos, we spilled our experiences and shared our hearts. Until the glowering scowls of waiting crowd and descending night forced us on different routes once again. We ran a couple of errands and finally walked back to our new niche,  planning our dinners. (Yeah, when it comes to eating, we do have more than healthy appetites. And then we wonder about all those weight loss plans). Hurried steps soon brought us to the busiest road crossing. We cautiously crossed one lane and were waiting for the traffic on the other lane to become manageable before weaving our way across. The stream of cars seemed endless. Loaded with shopping bags, the two of us were getting a little impatient.  The market was no longer buzzing. The early evenings of winters had cast a shadow of hush and quiet and we wanted to get back to the room at the earliest.We were getting late with each passing minute. And then all of a sudden he stopped his car. Right in the middle. Oblivious to the honking horns behind him, he smiled and waved us through. Clear path. Before I could comprehend anything, my friend had already dragged me half way across. Only when we had safely crossed the lane, he resumed his drive, immense gratitude following him to wherever he was headed.

Linking with Warm Heart Wednesday # 1

Antiques from her wall

Rusting sentiments from the wall,

Souvenirs from their many escapades,

Vintage car in which he brought her home,

Even her potted glories,

All dusted and buffed for garage sale,

Possessions of their love claimed by some strangers,

But pieces of her heart would go nowhere else.

This week's photo prompt is provided by pixabay.com (free to use photos).

Linking with Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

Far, yet so near

500 kms separate us.
An overnight journey by bus.
Tiring, exhausting, yet refreshing to the core.
The warm embrace of my folks.
The pristine greens. Lush and verdant hills.
Icy cold mineral water of rivulets.
The songs and rhythms of Beas flowing in my veins.
I grew up with the beat of mountainous life.
And I am grateful that it has stayed with me.
We may be miles apart today.
Yet every single breath, every single heart beat, dwells in the footfalls of hills.
With my people, at my place.
Not here. Not in this temporary make shift arrangement in chaotic capital city.
I belong to rugged terrains and winding circuitous routes.
And I am on my way to my sanctuary.

The secret atop the hill

The eerie halo, blanketing the sacred ruins atop the hill, is torn apart by fluorescent flickers on moonless nights. Faint, almost like an illusion. Imaginations conjure bygone romances to life; reality, wizened manuses of a priest. Temple-tales weave themselves into our eventides.

Hungry Moths

Their fluttering wings
rest
and
flickering imaginations
repose
against the
window.
A flight accomplished.
Exhausted and spent,
now,
supperless stomachs
of winged guests growl.
Double quarter pounder
with cheese,
and brisk iced blend
of
orange pekoe,
sweetened to perfection,
tempts them.
Inside the plush
AC powered restaurant,
incisors gnaw
at the meal,
oblivious
to the fixated eyes
marvelling from
across the window panes
before
the empty pockets,
blur the vision.
The moths must return,
with an unsated hunger,
and try their luck
on garbage cans
which will yield, regardless.
Another flight begins,
with hopes in heart
and dreams in head.



Linking with Friday Fictioneers