Sunday, September 23, 2001		Article

THE red-ball-circle-setting sun spread its tranquillity in an even cascade of a red-water-rectangle, as if God had allowed the full-of-red brush from his watercolour sun to flow into the water-canvas. The face of Buddha smiled at me.

Touch..touch..touch..touch..touch

The bird walked the water. An oar splashed the reflected setting-sun-rectangle in the water, scattering it as if food for the fish. A flying bird braked miraculously in mid-flight and stood incredibly frozen in mid-air ..a frenzied fluttering of the wings, a bubble of a thousand flashing colours, and then a fantastic swift straight-as-an arrow downward swoop into the centre of the pond..as in a controlled free-fall to come out with a fish in its beak..tracing the same straight vertical line to its launching pad to its homeward-bound flight — laden with food.

The face of Buddha smiled at me.

I walked back to the mud-huts, then changed my mind to experience again the swing behind the huts. It had been installed on a high hillock so that on one’s upward ascent, one could see the Aravalli ranges under one and feel much like the rosy-cheeked Swiss mountain child Heidi who swings into the clouds to the tune of yodelling clouds that rain rainbow-coloured flowers instead of raindrops.

Back on level ground, I looked to the left to espie Bhagatji fast asleep on one of the more tranquil bamboo swings .. looking so much a part of the nature he always wrote about, that he seemed one with it ..a still gnome sculpture on the bamboo swing that the fairies had created. No incongruities there. I watched the expression of the sleeping child on his face. The face of Buddha smiled at me.

I decided not to disturb him and walked back to the lake. I sat by the waterbanks, mesmerised by the sunset-visual now unfolding its conclusion to the tune of just a few remaining sunshadow-birds late for their homeward-journey.

Were the traffic-infested roads of Delhi only just a few kilometres away? Here I could hear no traffic, T.V. or construction mega-sounds. The notes of the birds’ rhapsody spelt an evening in a forest, very faraway from the congested heart of India. Very faraway from the world.

Very faraway from grim Buddhas, with blasted limbs and broken smiles. Once created lovingly by sculptors. Very faraway from the reality of weeping Gods.

The last crescent of the setting sun smiled at me. I looked into its being. And the face of Buddha smiled at me.