Tempests in Lotus Ponds

Dear Reader,

On this brisk November morning, I have gleefully succumbed to the urge of getting lost in my thoughts which were resonating, echoing and growing too big for the abode that they were birthed in.

Ticking clocks, screaming voices ,bustling streets, pounding hearts and sleepless nights have conquered my cocoon and become a constant presence in my existence. Sometimes, I think of it as addictive madness , because I cannot live without it. So when these grotesque spirits of the modern world start toying with my mind and drowning out the voice of my own consciousness, I seek solitude , silence and the sounds of nature.

As I sit on the verandah ,with the cold marble and the crisp breeze sending occasional chills down my spine, I stare out into the magnificent expanse of dark olive and green leaves of the wise old tree ,rooted strongly and proudly on the other side of the humble, dusty road which is quite under qualified to carry out it's role as a State Highway. In this remote town, situated somewhere in the countless nooks and crannies of God's own Country, the grass is still green, the birds still sing and humans are still maddening mortals.

The sky is a meek shade of grey now. Timid drops of rain start descending from somewhat bland and monotonous clouds. What better time to pen down my thoughts than when surrounded by the mystical haze of winter rains? 

The year is drawing to a close. In a few days, this moment right now, will be another memory to reminisce on. Another sepia photograph to add in the attic of nostalgia. The past three hundred and eighteen days have been quite tumultuous to be frank. The path of life have taken sharp turns and sometimes the ground caved in beneath me. 

When does the path we walk on lock around our feet? When does the road become a river with only one destination?

Mark Gattis cleverly addresses one's most deepest fears with these two questions. At times like these, we tend to revert to the nihilistic thought that life is nothing but a river with one inevitably grim destination. But after the storm wore out, golden rays slowly pierced through the steadily fading clouds. The past few months have been quite pleasant. The road was finally taking me through meadows, fields and quaint villages. 

I have always thought that time is the enemy of creativity. It is to some extent as artistic value cannot be imbibed in a rushed manner. But I have befriended limitation. Limitation breeds creativity and in turn leads to great things. Our time on earth is the only thing that we truly own, apart from our mind and body. As of late, the luxury of painting and drawing for days on end has been rendered impossible by something that occurred earlier this year on the twenty fifth of April. The day I turned eighteen and prepared for the inevitable leap into the real world where one has to struggle against the urge to be sucked, skewed and moulded into the viscous masquerade of meticulously curated superiority.

The breeze is gaining gusto. The butterflies still seem unphased. The gloom seems to have pleased the cuckoos.They belt out songs which waft along with the confused wind. Storks and ducks were prancing about in distant paddy fields.

I must mention my fascination for small towns and villages. They are pristine subjects for artistic endeavours. Although I usually depict quite urban scenes in my paintings, capturing the mesmerisingly nonchalant way of life in certain rural settings has always been something that has interested me.

Please do not misinterpret my adoration for livid yet languid landscapes as despise for bustling streets and cities.Prolonged stillness drives me insane. Productivity is the only way of making ripples in that one directional river that we sometimes perceive life as. Therefore I love living in energetic spaces as much as I loathe being around people who live with curated personalities.

That allows me to transition into something about cities that warrants a line or two in this insignificant documentation of rumination. Abashed narcissism. This discourse is not meant for unconstructive negativity, therefore I shall limit this lamentation. We have imparted our narcissism and ego centric behaviour to the cities themselves. We shine our lights so bright and blindingly that we render the millions of scintillating stars above , invisible.

As the velvet blanket of night ripples in the sky above in this modest little town, the stars shine brightly. The Orion and Taurus pose mightily on their heavenly pedestals as the halogen bulbs in tea stalls, huts and houses form constellations of their own. I switched of the light in my room and let the dreamy blue of dusk gush in....