Fade in, Rumi took up his paintbrush, colour palette, long stretched white canvas, and, of course, his long blue kurta, which he wore with his unwavering attitude. Those fearless eyes, long hair, outstretched arms, and deep black beard all collectively pointed to one thing that “He is a mad artist.”
He has traveled to almost every country in the world, visited nearly every popular destination, and presented his paintings at almost every well-known and reputable exhibition and art festival. Yet, he only finds peace when painting as an unknown artist. He enjoys painting among the poor children of Gaza, the sex workers of Andheri (Mumbai), and the tribal people of Africa. Despite achieving the status of a god in the modern art world, he still finds joy in painting among people who do not know him. He is a people's painter, capturing what life mimics before his eyes, poverty, the struggle for freedom, human rights violations, religious dogmatism, and almost all forms of human suffering and struggles.
He is an empty vessel, into which life fills colours of different shades, his emptiness is a mirror to society. He is almost an unstoppable force.
Wearing his attire, Rumi steps outside his home to reach on time to present his collection ‘Blue Horizon’ at the prestigious Scope Basel, the international exhibition where he is welcomed every year. Rumi is a common name among the greatest artists of all time who come there annually. It was such a big day for him, but it seemed he was not interested in going to Scope. His eyes were lost somewhere, in search of something that did not exist in Switzerland. His heart was deserted by someone's mysterious absence. All the emotions moving within him projected only one thing: ‘pensive sadness.’ An air of melancholy surrounded him.
He went outside not to reach Scope but to find a meadow about which he had heard from the locals. Everyone spoke of one thing: “There exists a meadow beyond these straight, long-standing mountains, which holds the beauty of these mountains. The meadow is nothing but just the heart of these beautiful mountains.”
Walking alone on the street, he saw a boy holding a flower painted deep blue by nature. He went to the boy at the side of the street and asked, “Where did you get this flower? It doesn't seem to be from any of the flower shops present in this city. These flower shops are selling us not flowers but only fake feelings packed in a bunch of flowers.”
In reply, the boy said, “Yes, I didn’t buy it from anywhere. I discovered it in a meadow for which your eyes are searching for, the meadow that exists beyond these long-standing mountains next to you.”
Rumi was stunned by this; the boy already knew his destination and desires. It felt like they were not strangers, but a relation of some kind had always been present between them. He felt a strange tingling upon his skin, which broke him into pieces. He felt like he had confronted the truth in front of his eyes.
Rumi asked, “How far do I have to go?”
The boy replied, “You see, this river flowing through the woods meets another river, together they collapse into a beautiful flume. Below that flume, a small lane travels through the woods to a church. You will find that meadow in the backyard of that church.”
As he was leaving, Rumi asked, “What is your name?”
The boy replied, “They call me Mohammad. I am an aspiring poet.”
Mohammad didn’t turn back and kept walking on the same footpath until he soon vanished at the turn into the woods.
Rumi decided to follow Mohammad’s path. Walking selflessly in search of the meadow, he soon reached the flume described by Mohammad. He jumped into the river and let his body flow freely, just like how THEE left us as a drop from his ocean. The river took him down the lane, and as the flume emerged from the confluence of both rivers, he slipped down into the depths of the water. In the moment when he was drowning in the blue, he felt a rebirth of his soul within his body, falling from the sky and drowning in its reflection again.
He went back to the surface to breathe. The mountains stood behind him, and the confluence flowed beside him as the cold breeze dried his skin, beard, and hair. These mountains spoke to him about the history of time, flowing endlessly, each moment. The sound of waves touching the ground told him only one thing: “Life is not life; it’s all time which exists between life and death. It flows through our memories and keeps writing about us, in its reflection. It is everything, but above all, it’s love. They come in every century, wander from one place to another, reciting unspoken lines melted in poems, paintings, and other art forms. They speak to us not what we want to hear but what we should hear.”
It was the very first time in 20 years of his life that he had experienced something like this, in the reaping month of October, when even the rest in the noon meditated him to ecstasy.
Walking towards the church, holding the fragments of his spirit, some questions began to move in his head, the most recurring one being: “Who am I?”
These long-standing mountains covered in snow had awakened him in a split second, and the voices floating in his head said, “You are a boundless infinity of a boundless infinity. In the moments of joy and grief, you can experience it if you try to open the gates of your heart.”
He closed his eyes and tried to open the gates of his heart. It felt like a prophet was talking to him in the ringing bells of the church, which was slowly coming closer as he moved steadily towards its gate.
The prophet was not only talking from the sky but also through the souls of these mountains standing in the passage of time, where the beauty was freezing and crystallizing to become ice. The snowflakes falling from the sky touched his skin, and he opened his eyes again. He could not explain this experience even to himself; his voice did not have enough words to carry them to his tongue so his lips could unfold this experience.
He reached the gate of the church. At the gate, something was engraved on its wall with white marble: “Thee, you are everywhere; we can feel you. You are smiling from behind our eyes; you are walking with us as a spirit. O! The father of all life on the earth, keeps talking to us, in these ringing bells, burning candles, and long-standing cross. Let not this infinite sky separate us. Do not make anyone a desert in your love, which keeps burning endlessly in your waiting. Return to us again.”
He was moved by this. Mohammad from the woods had transported him to the edge of something he did not believe in: ‘God.’ He didn’t believe in God; he couldn’t believe in something he hadn't discovered yet. As he believed, “You cannot direct your course toward something. If something wants you and wants you to return to it, it will direct your course toward itself, and then you can’t do anything but walk on the path of love made by it.”
He went inside the church to discover a huge meadow in its background. He had finally reached the meadow, which exists beyond all the good and evil.
