DAWN. The traffic-addled brain, the pressured mind. Now picture a place, not a river, or a seaside. Not some mountaintop or woods. Neither is it a park nor a hotel. In this idyll you could stay there for a weekend. A place you’ve longed to retreat to, far from the buzz of commerce. A place to fuel and re-fuel imagination. A place of inspiration – tranquil, a haven in which no writer suffers a ‘block’.
NOON. Picture yourself on a balcony, a novel in your lap, or just sitting idly while breezes trail frangipani fragrances across your nose. Like a lover’s caress. Picture yourself in the garden where melodies, well orchestrated, compete for your audience: the trills of warblers, gurgles of doves, caws of crows, squawks of parakeets, squeaks of swifts, and screeches of peacocks. Butterflies, dragonflies, fireflies, ladybugs; a thousand denizens in thickets and trees. Picture yourself lift a foot. Hold it, just briefly, in mid-air, because you are too kind to startle the squirrels in their little playground, snapping up or cracking nuts, darting up trees or flying across footpaths.
DUSK. Think of your face being warmed by your heart’s smile as you slide under the duvet. Think of yourself being empowered to connect, like William Wordsworth in Ode to Tintern Abbey, ‘The landscape with the quiet of the sky,’ – if only for once in a lifetime. Indeed, think. Of this place of nature and nurture; of beauty and of bliss. That’s more than a writer’s sanctuary, a place where the soul is nourished by languid music of silences. Think of Sanskriti Kendra.
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