“Do others look at me the way I want them to?  Do they see me as I am?”  Some questions in life can never be answered; but they cross our minds, often. We settle down with the fact that it is better left unanswered Universe has a way of throwing the answer at you.  Caught unaware; we would not know it then but reflections, sometimes silent contemplation takes us back to the journey or the point of time where we fit the answer with the question.

       Strange are the ways of the universe!  It was one hectic weekday at dusk the answer emerged. It emerged at a gathering – gathering of story tellers and story lovers at Vasanth Vihar.  With the rush hour traffic behind me and buzzing of the airplane about me; I heard a wonderful story of a flute player who transforms into a strong, dark knight thinking the Princess would love the knight better than the flute player.  The journey of the flute player transforming into a strong knight is fraught with problems, witches, cauldrons the crow, the King, the war…. The poignant part of the story where the Princess pines for the flute player leaving the knight aghast still rings in my ears.  The mesmerizing voice of the story teller, the gentle tinkering of music, the imposing but quaint white building in front of me (untouched by time; I should definitely admit) the old trees fading with the sunset all lead the answer to me, not that I knew it then.  It remained with me till I could go back in time and place it – as we place a flicker of light on a candle.  The multitude of peace – the layers and layers of peace that we experience at that moment is indescribable.

       Life’s Musings are strange – it always takes us back in time – back in time to stories of our own childhood, our moments of outburst, memories of conversations, dreams in sleeps, to our cries and wails, to our joys and laughter.  Every time we merge with our story, we see the truth.  Truth, which is probably; bare, naked, ugly, beautiful, heart-warming and repetitive – repetitive innumerable times that we still need stories to remind ourselves of the truth.

       In a way, are we the black hooded figure in one of the stories – who is not welcomed in any household in a village unlike the gay story teller?  So one fine night, they decide to work together.  Why did I remember this story? Let me see – Did I connect with happy story teller or with the clear insight of the black hooded figure called Truth or the people who slammed the door on the face of truth but welcomed the story teller? Musings again…

G. Meena, Teacher