There remains a continuing struggle between the joy of action and the comfort of inaction. Some say in every inaction there is an action, the other talk about the movement in the moments of leisure. For me it is like the waving flag, which in its leisurely motions acts incessantly and I can now hazard a guess that the action of the rooftop pennant is often inadvertent.
I see that saffron flag on the top of shrine in an incredible continuity of motion, as the buses and the cabs race pass the busy road I am impressed by the movement of the standing flag, somebody tells me it has been there for the last few years now, as agile as spirited as ever.
Flummoxed I was and I stepped closer, I had to cross the road and so did I, I could sense some wisdom shall come my way, I could smell the redolence of an experience to come. The flag fluttered gracefully like the butterfly's wings would when it wakes up from a sweet reverie.
The motion was not the only sign of life, as I reached closer I could hear the sound of the voice of flag, the steady leitmotif not musical in true senses but reassuring it was and just than I saw an arm pointing at me beckoning me towards itself. It was an orange decorated figure with the palm merging with the fingers. It was through the ever appearing, ever disappearing folds of textile that the hand flickered before me for a moment of unreserved faith.
As I reach closer the sound of voice grows. By now the distinction of understanding life and static was quickly blurring into the fine cool morning wind, and I decided its a soliloquy of a flag that I hear. The syllables grew louder, the sounds grew distinct and I could hear a clear synchrony. The language? In the lightness of being I could not make out the language or I never tried to recognize the restrictions of scripts.
A newspaper vendor runs past me,a football style shoulder push. I do not want to get distracted and the voice continue to be heard, after crossing the road reaching the shadow of shrine I could distinguish two voices. Now I need the answer, where is the second source? Who speaks in the sound of ether? I think loud, louder than ever before. The buses continue to run, engines must be snoring early morning, but for now I can not hear them, I hear the pennant answering, its the wind that sings the songs of eternal unification and the textile is joyously attuned with it.
And a new conversation begins, my with the saffron triangle that very short while back was a lifeless textile. The flag tells me of the gentle cuddles with the wind, of the inseparability with the music of nature, of listening to the birds and crows, it tells me of the heat and rain of the summer days, of the ever increasing warmth in the caresses of wind as the day goes by, the flag is already personalized, much more than the nearby tobacco shopkeeper. Finally he tells me of the joy of being still, steady and watching the sun rise every morning and seeing it hide behind the mountain side as the day progresses. What attracted me was the intense action,and as I talked what bound me was the contemplative silence. The unflinching composure, the motivating indifference towards the surrounding chaotic hurry teaches me the action in inaction.
The ever moving, the ever transitory flag on the top of the roadside shrine brings stillness into a new domain, in its leisure how often does it magnify and stretch seconds, to place more movement in the moments that drift for it when they race all around it.
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