Shivarathri with Mauni Baba

Shivarathri on the ghats, sans phone, no connectivity with the exteriors. Seeing, living, breathing Benaras. Loading up my memory with blank blue spaces with orange highlights, that meeting with V. Prakash, the Tamil mainstream film industry's fairest son, he also spoke of rounding, likes alcohol, then those hours spent filming Mauni Baba, silent baba who hasn't spoken to anyone in fifteen years, watching him as he makes everyone bend and hit them on their back with love, that superior power of the Naga baba's, talking of which I finally witnessed one baba balancing on a stick that went through another baba's lingum, full power, 30-sec monumental act of super strength, Siddhi, of times spent with Bhootnath in Kshameshwar ghat talking about Siddhi and Yoga, of those moments in Balu's shop, cigarette in hand, looking at Telugu pilgrims fighting their way to Kedareshwar temple, then again at night visited Mauni baba, V. Prakash giving him a leg massage, lots of laughs, fascinating character, of mind and body, only in the now, lives in a cave, son of the Earth, one silver eye, this is the time of Benaras, when the passing world will see only the mirages and illusions, they will see the white light enter the soul and create a sunfull horizon, acting upon the current time, Benaras Standard Time. Hallelujah!

Alaga 3

Circulars sent out to aircrafts hovering over the Ganga, the space of time sandwiched in the crescent moons silver happy-lining, blasted out onto the sun's peripheral rays, effervescent in thought the thoughtless ones come out into the open, in tents, in orange, their rasta hearts singing untame tunes of the past and the future, the present only a carrier of time now. Time, being now, transported out of time, shuttling around the Earth like pyramids in sector Autumn 8, their relentlessness spearheading a whole new revolution of men wrapped in cotton, their mouths foaming silken threads and monumental earthquakes, hot springs gushing out of their sahasrara, their untamed hearts now waking in the bathroom light and staring into the reflection of Jesus Christ in the water, that piece of the river that flows north suddenly, that section of light passing through the trajectories of so many wanderers, their hearts seeing lies in the blood-red circus, this Maya, this illusion we call reality, this momentary lapse, this seasons best kept secrets residing in wooden boats all coloured blue to represent the omnipresent character of water, of it being there everywhere, looking, feeling, touching all life, making them present, here and now, how did we learn to float, yet we drown, it comes with such force, it asks not how to continue, it only thinks in circles, like those timeless circulars sent out to aircrafts hovering over the Ganga.