there has been another birth of a dear Ef missed 😔. The heart sings, the mind alerted to its presence steps aside to give way, and it stands aloof at distance, a muted silent audience, only nodding in its appreciation, were it to come. There is no knowledge of the formal train, the classical of the seven that guide and construct all that sounded music requires, nothing, nothing ever.
The phonos on the ear drums silence out all the rest about and the strains strike each other in unison, in temptation, in the quiet, in the need that prevails in the turmoil that is contended with in the patience of the chord and read notes of a scale that has been left behind in bounded diary. Right now in the heart of my being, in the sound around, as this is drafted, word by word by word. All.Īnd in a moment of solitude, a sudden drift to the Genesis and the black and white of the mind, playing with the soul of the heart, wherever it travelled to in the silence of the self. One that he had confessed that would he have another life then it would be this and no other, with all its pain, happiness struggles and achievements. The house now houses his books that lived and stood mute reminders of his presence now in close proximity, to give credence to those days years and hours he spent, wheeled out from one to the other space, silently reading and rereading his ‘aatmakatha’ - as though he wished to relive his journey again and again. In the purple of life and in the remembrance of the birth of Babuji, a short prayer on his image at Prateeksha, his room where he worked where he breathed his last and which remains sacred.
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