On those mountain peaks of Kailâsh sits my Master.
He is Bholânâth–having naive demeanor–and is pleased with little efforts of his children.
Being Natrâj–the king of dancers–He knows how a baby fumbles as it starts walking on its spiritual journey before it grows apt in those rhythmic movements.
He’s patient and calm and awaits the return of the natives to their residence of ageless boundaries.
My tent is at the foot of the mountain.
Burdened with my worldly belongings and overawed by the terrain of my upward journey, I struggle to proceed.
I draw a deep breath and blow my bamboo flute.
The air carries the praying notes of my instrument.
I imagine my master throwing a subdued smile while my flute silently weeps.
My mind tries to picture the presence of my master; in vain. It needs to realize its limitations.
My soul pines for the flood of that joyous rendezvous where the consciousness leaves the clutches open to allow a tiny stream merge in the ocean, for, an entity is pleasure but entirety is bliss.