To face a blank page early in the
morning and to think express is glory to the pen and an act of taking early
refuge in words for a man of limited expressions. For this man; exploring the
possibilities of the mind and the limitations in words are the two extremes of
the scale, he measures himself on. Traveling across the world, trying to
discover a long lost astral relationship, this man, has done unto himself
everything that is humanly possible to mankind and poetically justifiable in
words.
On this journey so far every act of
self-denial, of refuse to the mortal essence and every step walked in
exploration of the unknown alleys; together as a life half lived and individually
as years of independent statements to life, are stories from a book that is
never to be finished. It was all loomed in the deserted alleys of the mind,
where thought would seldom ponder. Until that early morning in the willows when
to his surprise, he discovered the two things that would change both the
meaning and the movement of his life: the joy in expression and a fountain pen.
Since then, he has been living in ideally scribbled words and phrases, mapping
the plot. Gradually deciphering the cosmology of alphabetical relationships.
From exploring the beauty of its delicate interconnections, to enjoying the
integrity of its expansion from a single core.
Words and phrases, with respective smells and textures bringing alive
the characters in relation to the identities they are born in. A constant space for an Evolutionary
imagination where words are developing phrases, phrases discovering characters
and characters defining relationships with their everyday situations of life.
An assortment of evolutionary characters living the human tone.
May be such is the destiny of a story as
its still on its way, with characters and frames forming as these words are
floating through my pen. Such stories are not to be foretold, they are journeys
to be lived and evolves with a destined narrative it is born to. Such stories
are absorbed in the being of the writer and gives color to the ink, testifying
the timeline of these unforeseen narrated events. These events or fragments of
momentary imagination, neither attempt to track or trace a phase or an era in
history, nor it is ambitious enough to disclose the mysteries of eternal
creation to the reader. It’s just a humble expression of a 29 years long
exploration of life’s fascinating journey with a pen.
It’s a tribute to the times and people in my life that brought me closer
to the integrity and the impossibility of love. For what life would have meant
in those early childhood days, if it was not for Aunty Jcup’s Idlis with love
and Kreemy’s milk bar, two sticks a rupee; the long ideal sessions of making
sense out of life at the chai wala, outside the school campus, when higher
minds of the class were being introduced to structures of Organic Chemistry and
to the lives and works of the great Persian poets; the big fisher women, with
the knife between her toes; gossiping at length with other fisher women doing
the same with a rhythm of attempting a
collective masterpiece; the silence in the sleeping child’s face; the smell of
rain. Like my grand mama’s stories, they have left an eternal mark on my
person. They are the inspiring heroes of my everyday life and this is their
story.
Wondering about the rhythm of its basic,
everyday impossibilities as against the phenomenon of choice; that having been
let to our disposition; changes everything. The disposition of choice has a
timeless history of alluring humanity, at times with a blessing to create and
comprehend the minute mysteries of Mother Nature and at times with the disgrace
and destructibility of ignorance. Bringing us to the center of the narrative it
makes us believe and become. It makes us seek and surrender and punctuating the
events of our lives it tells us that the story still needs to be told.
Captured as I may think I am by
the transections of life and observant as I may believe myself to be, on lonely
cold mornings in bed, I find myself distracted from the path; lost in the
delusion of becoming and trying to believe in myself. I mean it is one thing to take creation for
granted and to take thanking before and after our meals as our lifelong
relation of gratefulness to life and it is another thing to look at life
closely and to discover oneself in its every moment, as a reflection in
totality of creation itself. For aren’t
we all miniature systems of the larger enigma of the celestial life and isn’t
there a beat that runs our life and that of the creation alike.
At times when we sit back and reflect in
retrospect of the impossibility in the detailed interconnections of life, that
though look so impossible to conceive to the human mind, is but a fine balance
that Nature restores in defining; hope against despair, love against
indifference and a graceful journey against a feeling of senseless,
self-imposed, eternal stagnancy. Such are the times when we see, to an extent
possible to our perspective the bigger picture of creation and the divine drama
of the life we tend to be enacting. Such are also the times when through these
interconnections in everything around us we get a glimpse (a fine one) of what
the beginning would have been like.
Stanzin Namgyal
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