Idyllic Thoughts

Which great writer lived in the cities to write? Kuvempu lived in Mysore, which was and is quite unlike Bangalore; Poornachandra Tejaswi stayed in the middle of nowhere; D.R. Bendre was in Dharwad; Shivaram Karanth in Kota; Vaidehi in Kundapur and Manipal... After all, how can the concrete jungle seen from one's window inspire us or take us to our own dream land? How can honking replace the twitter of birds? How can smog represent the cool breeze that slips stealthily between trees carrying the scent of the woods? It is amidst nature that our fantasy takes flight.

The world looks so beautiful and crystal clear in this rain. Not even the angry roar of a thunder can disturb its beauty and I have, as usual, fallen in love with nature again. Then, how can I write? After all, sorrow is the inspiration for great writing. Isn't it? As Shelley said (or wrote), "Our sweetest songs are those that tell of our saddest thought." No.I'm not asking for sorrow and I don't hanker to write great literature. I just want to write what I feel, and connect with emotionally. May be that's why I'm unable to spin out reams of articles.I don't know.

There is something cozy and crazy about rain, thunder, lightning raging outside while we sit in the relative comfort of our homes watching the sky open up. On Monday, it was pouring cats & dogs and I went to an old stone temple (unlike the modern ones designed in tiles giving them a bathroom-like feel) where rain water was gushing in. Yet it felt good to circumambulate the sanctum in the rain, matching our tread to the beats of thunder, listening to the pitter-patter of rain drops on the roof and later, sitting there silently wondering about the ultimate question that every human being asks within oneself -- is there god? And finally, giving up and walking home, satisfied with the answer I see reflected in the faces of the believers present at the temple.