Beggar Girl Playing The Flute

By Ramnath Subramanian

Ramnath Subramanian covers a wide range of topics in this collection—from a beggar girl playing the flute to the eccentric painter Niko Pirosmani; from a grackle in the backyard to his very “green” great-grandmother, Patitha—and in each instance, his insightful and incisive narrative marches with delight, and at other times moves like a minuet. With a keen instinct for storytelling and a keen eye for details, the author describes the world and his encounters therein with panache and verve. These short essays were culled from his weekly newspaper columns published in the El Paso Times between 1998 and 2019.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jun 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9781312442351

Book preview

For my wife, Maria Subramanian,

editor par excellence,

who is the love of my life,

and the source of my daily inspiration

Copyright © Ramnath Subramanian, 2023

ISBN: 9781312442351

BEGGAR GIRL PLAYING THE FLUTE

The details of the encounter are so clearly etched in my mind that it is difficult to dismiss them as part of some dream, and yet there are many aspects of it that are so otherworldly and fantastic that, standing on terra firma, I am inclined to question their tether to reality.

I was taking a casual walk on a Sunday morning, keeping solitude for my companion, when a bird's coquettish flight and come-hither song led me to a place behind a large rock on the bank of the Ektara River.

On that spot, I met a man whose attitude seemed to suggest that he had been waiting for me. His eyes were deep-set and friendly, and his long, white beard carried the curls and curves of life's journeys and experiences.

See this mirror, he said, as I stepped up to him, it has turned on this string 58 times, and is set to make a new turn. What thoughts, actions, and resolutions will you carry forward with you?

The old man picked up some sand and allowed it run through his fingers.

Think but of yourself and the sand makes no impression on the ground. Think of others and the sand can build a city. Watch!

The old man stretched out his arm and pointed to two men who were walking in opposite directions along the water's edge.

They both will reach the same ultimate destination, but one will get there without the burden of disappointments that the self imposes on itself. He will find the strength and wings to build cities.

How does one avoid disappointments? I asked.

Going forward, take rancor out of your heart, for, no matter how justified, it eats away at the soul. Begin all your thoughts and actions with love—it is the only force that has the power to transform failure into success and defeat into victory, and to make of that success and victory a celebration for humanity. Thusly is the sting taken out of disappointments.

What else? I asked.

"You must lighten the load you are carrying with you—they are distractions. Begin with the premise that you have too much, and then you can start thinking about what to give away.

Of the two men, watch how the one who is carrying an overload of possessions is struggling to pull them behind him. By and by, he will be forced to jettison them, and to come to a conclusion that he has wasted precious time in their acquisition. Simplify your life.

The sand runs constantly, and the mirror turns, I mused.

Watch! the old man commanded, and I saw the image of a young, bedraggled girl appear on the face of the rock. She was lying on the floor of a railway platform, with one arm outstretched, holding a begging bowl in her hand.

What if I was to tell you that the song of the bird that brought you here is in her hands. Picture her now with a flute in her hand. What will you do about it?

The old man picked up some sand and allowed it run through his fingers. Little by little, I saw a city come into view, and there in the midst of that resplendence was a young girl playing on a flute.

A TREE, A SPARROW, AND THE CIRCLE OF LIFE

In the front yard of my home sits a Mexican elderberry tree that, for the past few years, has been trying assiduously to put forth leaves and blossoms.

For all its efforts, though, the verdure seems to belong to an earlier time, and the gnarled trunk and branches have a grim and austere countenance that spells age in unequivocal terms.

Looking at the tree in late spring, I allowed my mind to become colored by a melancholy that is the natural destination of contemplation when it is focused on the passage of time, and it seemed to me that Old Man Tree was looking at the world wisely, and somewhat defiantly—an image that brought to mind Santiago putting out to sea and going after the big fish for one last time.

Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light, poet Dylan Thomas wrote to his father, there on the sad height, and the elderberry seemed to be doing just that.

Two weeks ago, my wife Maria noticed that a hole that opened from the underside of one of the branches, was, in fact, a nest. She came to this conclusion after she espied a small, yellow beak at the mouth of the hole.

The yellow rhombus on a gray canvas of space could have been an element in a Miró painting or a Calder construction. The art appeared in response to a sparrow that had alighted on a limb that grew from the base of the hole.

A great cacophony ensued, and it was quieted only after the sparrow deposited some food into the gaping mouths.

The Old Man, I thought to