This is merely the prologue of some bigger. I hope that I shall keep working on this one.
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The night stood still as though the silver envelope of the full moon had trapped everything in its loving embrace. Even my mind seemed frozen and still in the intoxicating silver moonlight. The papers in front of me were intimidating me with their blank faces. I had been sitting at my desk for what seemed like an eternity. The tip of my fountain pen was parched, so I dipped it in the open ink bottle. That too was in vain, the ink just dripped on to the blotting paper that lined my writing desk. The ink saturated the blotting paper as if in mockery of my current incapacity to stain the papers in front of me. It was an unusually mesmerizing night; this is the kind of night that usually fuels the writing machine. Yet, I sat there helpless, and dumbfounded like in the poem by Rumi that I had been reading. I was lying in the Zero circle, completely mute waiting for grace and tremendous eloquence. And nothing happened.
I got up from the desk and walked on to the balcony. A light breeze came by in an effort I am sure, to console me. Even the crickets were chirping on words of encouragement. I looked down to the front yard stretched out on the usually vibrant hill, that my house was perched on top of. The hill seemed to bow down in mourning for my current impotence. The air turned sweet in an instance and I spotted the jasmines blooming right under the balcony. They looked like a little stars blooming under my feet. Soon the whole yard was filled with this celestial benevolence. Even fireflies stopped by. The universe was stretching its merciful wings to tuck me into a generous place. It was just as Rumi said it would be, miraculous beings were coming to help and I was surrounded by a mighty kindness. The breeze that consoled me soon gave way to some wind. I stood there for a moment beguiled by the grace that had as Rumi would say, gathered me up.
I turned to my desk which to my surprise was in a state of chaos. The papers were flying all around. I am not sure if it was their impatience that had given way to this restlessness or if it the winds that were getting stronger. I tried to collect them and bring them back under my pen. But they would not yield and the winds had now taken their side. The winds were almost violent in their aid to the papers who were firm in their ways. The huge thick curtains that lined the lofty windows bellowed in support of the papers. The helplessness I felt earlier was increasing tenfold; perhaps the grace I felt earlier had left my side and taken the side of the stubborn papers. A strange sense of fear started to crawl through my mind. I was overwhelmed; I had no choice but to surrender. The winds roared in ridicule. The curtains were positively inflated with derision.
The winds took over the entire room, even the moon hid behind the darkest clouds it could find. Even lighting put its feet down. I was out of my element here. Now I was truly crazed, helpless, dumbfounded and mute. The winds gathered me up in its magnificent wings and carried me out of the room above the roof of my house, above the dark clouds that the moon was hiding behind. I looked ahead to see the fireflies still dancing around as though they were guiding the winds on this treacherous journey. I glanced behind to see the papers behind me flying with all their might. My desk had also joined this faction. I felt like a prisoner being transported under heavy guards to some unknown undisclosed location, where I could be kept under close watch. Below me the gentle hills had given way to the shimmering beaches. They were taking me over the playful Arabian Sea who seemed unaware of my kidnapping. My room now seemed like a distant memory. My fear had been replaced by a perilous sense of curiosity.
The fireflies began to dive down and the turbulent winds followed suit. The drop was steep and swift. I landed in the middle of a desert somewhere. The winds had plopped me back on my chair. The desk landed in front of me. The fireflies disappeared without a trace. The papers were still wrecking havoc above me. The sandy bosoms of the desert seemed still except for my captors who seemed to be discussing how best to dispose of me. They were flighty and rash creatures my captors. They deliberated hastily. Soon I was being pulled as though on a light speed conveyor belt, which came to a sudden halt in the middle of a large stone courtyard. I was thrown off my chair and on to the ground, pen still in hand. My captors seemed pleased; they were now merrily dancing above me. I could see something else; I could see people. They were flying with papers in hand. They were trying to trap some sort of insects with obliging papers. I soon understood the gravity of the situation; those were not insects but words. I could see the words flying reckless from…I could not believe my eyes! The words were flying out of the mouth of a whirling dervish, whirling away in the middle of this courtyard. The people were flying above me were scribes desperately trying to collect the precious words being spilled out of the dervish.
This is where grace had brought me. I felt a sudden sense of serenity taking over by being. I was not afraid anymore. I was soon filled with an abundance of joy and ecstasy. Even the papers, who were once cross with me were now in a forgiving mood. The papers began to surrender to my pen, who kept staining the papers incessantly as though it had just been given new life. I do not recall how long I wrote for. I do not remember how long the dervish kept pouring words; or how long the scribes kept trapping the words. I awoke the next morning, strangely enough back in my room, at my desk. I was back at my home on the jasmine covered hilltop. I can not to this day explain this extremely enthralling and puzzling adventure. Was it all some strange dream I had? Why did I feel so sore and exhausted? Then I saw it, there lay on my desk a stack of papers stained with countless words. My ink bottle was empty. I had written something down. Perhaps it was not a dream after all. I picked up the papers to read the following story. When I first read the story I felt as though a familiar voice was whispering the story to me. I tried to figure out whose voice it was. It was so familiar yet I had a hard time identifying the voice. Then it dawned on me that I was in fact listening to my own voice. It seems strange some part of my being could remember giving birth to story. I cannot and should not hold you back; this is what I found on those pages.
