Gusts of wind

I have always been fascinated with wind and what it can do with light things like a feather, or a leaf, or an empty plastic bag. I like the way it will make these things swirl and float, make them rise or dive, twist and turn, literally make them dance to some ethereal tune I cannot hear. I don’t know why this should fascinate me or why I should see beauty in it but I do and that is how it is. Sometimes when I write I get the same feeling, as if my hand is the wind and as it writes it takes those words and swirls them, turns them, makes them float about. As the work progresses I see all those words I wrote dancing, rising and falling, happy and free.

There was once a friend who did the same with the spoken word and as he told stories he would hold us all in a spell. His eyes, his hands, his face, in fact his whole body would weave those words into complicated ‘maya-jaals’ that would capture us, binding us into tight little bundles totally at his disposal.
He loved to tell stories but he loved more the way he could cast a spell on us. Unfortunately he took things a bit too far when, a few years ago, he was in a village in Rajasthan and was as usual telling stories. Caught up in is own omnipotence he dared to make eyes with the nubile daughter of the local thakur. The thakur didn’t like that and had his tongue nipped off…. Yicks!! Now my friend is trying his hand at writing but the magic is just not there.

One of his favorite stories was about a Buddhist monk who was on his way somewhere along with his young disciple. The path was through a forest and since it had been raining for a while, the path was quite slushy. At a particularly muddy intersection the two monks came across a very attractive young woman in a beautiful kimono. Obviously the woman was pondering whether to cross the intersection and risk dirtying her kimono. The older monk sensed her dilemma so he promptly hoisted her in his arms and crossed the intersection. Then he dropped her on the other side, accepted her thanks and carried on. That evening when the two monks had reached a monastery the young monk opened his mouth to speak.
He said “My reverend master, we are monks and it is forbidden for us to touch women, let alone carry one in our arms”
The older monk gently replied, “My dear fellow, I left that woman at the other side of the intersection but it looks like you are still carrying her.”

One of the best storytellers I have ever known was my great grand mother who, even at the age of 86 years, loved to spook us with her ghost stories. Every summer all us cousins would get together at our ancestral village and come evening she would light a lamp on the terrace and we little kids would, like helpless moths, gravitate towards her. She would then commence on some spook story, her voice clacking like a witch, her misshapen teeth and her several facial warts and wattles would add to the effect and in no time we would be jumping with sheer fright at every shadow, at every squeak, at every rustle of the leaves. Come bedtime and several beddings would be rolled out for us all on the very same terrace. None of us were brave enough to shut our eyes and how we swore we would never again listen to her stories but come next evening she would light her lamp and call us in. Such helpless moths we were.