Western Ghats

Driving down the mountains of western India to sea level during the monsoons is possibly what Dorothy must have encountered when she entered the Emerald city in search of the Wizard of Oz. Verdant green and picturesque. As you drive down the hairpin bends you pass clusters of teak trees and huge bamboo plants all part of the copious green emerald forests. The Wizard of OZ was a mystery to Dorothy, an unknown. Dorothy had been told that the Wizard had the power to transport her home ! I pass through the lush green forest and feel transposed to a higher level .The level that resides in my soul, within me but yet constantly alludes me, the level that my soul identifies as ‘Home’ .

Rain hits the windscreen and the motion of the wiper-blades lull me into a somnambulistic state. The windows are rolled down and I feel the spray of rain on my face, the breeze blowing my hair . The chirping of birds, an occasional cry of a peacock, and the sound of beetles are the only sounds I register. Driving down the mountains I look far into the distance, water falls, clumps of trees, green fields, undulating hills . The sun peeps through the clouds that open now and then to reveal the far away horizon. Is the feeling of completion that I suddenly witness similar to the feeling of finding Home within me? I remember a Sufi poet who said “ Am I in the world ? or is the world there because I am there to perceive it ? “

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