Being a Rose

Scent as soft as

feathers touching

the skin on the tip

of my nose.

Subtle. Almost invisible.

Gentle. Like a fine drizzle.

Smell? No.

Fragrance. The colour of orangey-peach petals.

A rose is nothing but non-rose.

It is the cloud that sent rain.

The sun. The soil. The seed.

The gardener’s sweat.

A conspiracy of the cosmos.

The rose

Cannot be herself alone.

It must inter-be.

With molecules of minerals and

Little particles of me.

All this, I touch

when my fingers hold

the tender stem.

I touch reality.

The non-self-ness of the rose.

Seeing real close-

A rose no longer rose.

A river no longer river.

A mountain no longer mountain.

Day 776


The best  part of getting a hair cut is the repeated minuscule warm contact between the finger tips and scalp. My hair-dresser is an old friend. She knows how much I value her loving head massages. Shortly following Saagar’s leaving, a few minutes of massage would bring forth floods of tears. Now, it is an immersive experience that makes everything else disappear, including me. What remain are the nerve endings gently firing away on both sides of the points of contact. It is a welcome interference in the body’s bio-magnetic energy field.

Sights, smells, tastes and sounds grab our attention easily. It’s impossible to ignore a loud conversation on a bus, a song I loved to dance to, the aroma of red onions and cumin seeds spluttering in butter and the accompanying nostalgia. Touch is like a shy cousin of the other senses. It requires nurturing and careful attention.

Brockwell park was graced by a hazy sun this afternoon. I walked past the logs of wood where Saagar and I used to sit when he was unwell. My mind started to somersault. I closed my eyes, leaned against a nearby tree and brushed my hand over the bark.It felt like emery paper magnified a hundred times. I stayed there for a while. In the herb-garden, the sage leaves felt soft and fuzzy. The silkiness of the purple and yellow petals of pansy on my face was like butterfly wings.

The wooden bench I sat on felt smooth as marble but warm and welcoming.The metal plaque on it said that it was there in memory of some one who died in 2013 at the age of 50. My age. I wondered what their story was. “Thank you. Sorry.” I said silently.

As I touched all these things, I allowed them to gently touch and settle my heart.