Having offered yet another post on our blog, this afternoon, I fell into deep melancholy. I pondered, why does one write page upon page in beautifully crafted journals, until one’s ink runs dry? Who will read these writings ? Is there anyone eagerly waiting to read this next leaf of penned observations? How does one look at indifference with soft, loving eyes? Why does one share one’s artistic work, into this infinite, dark, gaping, hungry, hollow void of silent, cyber space? Then again, who is really hungry, gaping or hollow?

At that very moment, the image of my friend, the She-spider, residing upon the bark of the Gulmohar tree flashed before my eyes. I found myself recapitulating her lifestyle, over the past two months. I had met her quite accidentally. I perceived her to be a mystic, seated in impeccable stillness upon the bark of the huge Gulmohar tree in our garden. Her stance, her features, reminded me of an ancient yogi. Ash-laden, and frail, she appeared to be penancing through eternity. Until one morning, I was shocked to see her web abandoned. Cleverly camouflaged upon the bark, she seemed to be sunbathing. A few days later, I was repulsed to witness her carnivorous nature, as she sucked the juice out of a passing worm. Having returned to the pink of health, she returned to her silvery nest of eggs. Two weeks later, when I returned home from out of town, I found her nest torn and dangling. Cloaked in tranquility, she had returned to her usual sunbathing spot. I heaved a sigh of disappointment for having missed the hatching of her army of Spiderlings. However, today, when I walked towards her, I was amazed to see her seated in stillness, for a second cycle, upon a freshly spun silvery web! With her eight delicate limbs, spread out in elegance, she is silence and wisdom, personified.

It dawned upon me, that as writers and artists, we, too, are like this She-Spider. One fine day, we most unexpectedly weave our silvery web; cocoon our ideas in it’s shimmering warmth; we spin page upon page, with fine silvery thread; and then one day, our nest miraculously births an army of Spiderlings into this universe. These tiny offsprings, may go seen, or unseen. But, in completing the cycle of birth, we fulfil our calling, as writers and artists. In time, we grow to become indifferent to passing admirers, critics, and indifference. We awaken to the insight that our writing is a calling, prompted by a higher voice, which is in alignment with a divine mystical source.

I offer you now a poem, in the words of the great mystic poet of all times, Jallaludin Rumi ~

‘My love, you are closer to me than myself,

You shine through my eyes,

Your light is brighter than the moon,

Step into the garden,

So all the flowers, even the tall poplar,

Can kneel before your beauty,

Let your voice silence the lily,

Famous for its hundred tongues.’