He had 10 heads and was a great devotee of Lord Shiva. He was considered to be supremely knowledgeable and was well-versed in the Vedas and Shastras – in fact his 10 heads indicate the six shastras and the four vedas that he mastered. Even his arch enemy, and eventual destroyer, spent several days in penance after killing him. Obviously, there is more about him, than what meets the eye when you see his burnt effigies as marking the triumph of good over evil.
At one point, your own conciousness begins to wonder if the death of Raavan deserves celebration at all.
Neither is one entirely good or bad nor can there be an end to all good or bad. We all have strains of good and bad. Light and shadow will always co-exist. Then why make Raavan the demon god, representative of all things bad? Why give him a lease of life every year and then burn him? Why keep the Raavan alive inside us every year and then “pretend” to kill it?
We burn him every year, because he never dies. He is alive within each of us. We are his immortality.
According to old folklore, if one cups one’s hand over one’s ears the sound one hears is that of Raavan’s funeral pyre still burning.
It sees everything. It hears everything. It feels everything. In fact, it is everything that can be encompassed in that moment in space and time.
The jungle is always watching!
For everything went around him in circles and elliptic; and yet he stayed motionless, quite beguile to the chaos.
He was the god of small world.
In heart of the deeper woods, there is a place where the sun doesn’t light up the floor and the stench of the rotting leaves is the only breath.
In there, you will find a goddess residing.
Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That’s the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.
And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You’ll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.
And once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.
~ Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore
When was the last time you saw two eyes looking into your soul?
One day you will wake up and there won’t be any more time to do the things you’ve always wanted.
Do it now.
~ Paulo Coelho
For the winter was cold, and brought along the mist which engulfed everything possible. Only the ones with eyes which radiated light, could see through.
The essence of existence lies with the ability of two souls being able to communicate in silence.
Two young elephants greet each other in a playful manner on the huge grasslands.