The song of the hidden brook.

dsc_0012_7To take the pen in this life filled with routine is quite difficult. Or to specify, my lazy nature steers me away from taking the pen. This Sunday, I just decided to walk. For once, walking without a destination felt right. It felt pleasant, serene and calm. Maybe we don’t need a destination, maybe the path holds the joy and magic than the destination in itself. It was not technically great weather. It was raining quite heavily. In the beginning, my feet was pacing hard to find a way to get back to the comfort of home. But the path was long, suddenly it dawned on me, “why was I running away from this rain to the comfort of some mundane banality. Maybe it is time to give rain a chance. To feel those rain droplets falling on me, its cold calming my heart. I stood there listening to the hidden brook, which was singing its own tune, which no one had time to listen except for the abandoned mansion. As I stood there, in this foreign land listening to the tune of a brook, drenching in the rain. My weary thoughts got washed away, while I was feeling one with the stream and the abandoned mansion and the wet rocks under my feet. It cleansed me and I recalled the tune of this hidden tiny brook to be the same as the one that soothed my ears when I took a holy dip in the Ganges. For it doesn’t really matter if you are the well known Ganges or a hidden brook, all that matters is your voice which keeps on singing its tune and a heart that keeps on telling its tale.

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