Will you go home now, uncle?
Yes, just within minutes. Is there anything?
No, uncle, I just need a few flowers.
You pluck some, if is it for Puja?
Yes, it is. It is for my mom.
Since then, every morning carried jolly wishes of that ever-smiling boy and his presence for a few minutes was a sweet pill of memories of our loving son. Our garden was favoured with another Morning Glory.
Lovely sunny mornings of summer had, in the meanwhile, turned grey with the arrival of monsoon. The veiled sky was cuddling warm sunshine within billowing apparel of clouds as if she loved to enjoy moments of happiness with her sole possession alike a mother with her little angel. Occasional showers of affection drenched arid soul of the Mother Nature. The gentle music of falling raindrops had infused the world with amazement of its simplest tune and rhythm. And, with all these changes around, the morning still did not cease to bless me with the bliss of welcoming wishes of an adorable soul.
The autumn arrived with its bagful of colours. It was now the time to shed leaves, to show off colours before a final parting. Green, yellow, and red intermingled into silhouetted portrait of wide web of branches and foliages. The first rays of the morning sun pierced through that great artistic image to shine those fallen ones; it was last kisses for them before bidding adieu. But, the boy did not come. One, two, three—days passed by—and so the weeks. But, he did not come.
The sun had traversed southward and chilly breezes had started blowing in from the northern corner of the heaven. Butterflies had collected all colours to spread its wings for a few more days. In one enjoyable early winter noon, I met the boy again; now, somewhere on roads. His vacant eyes did not shine brightly when he wished me for the first time, “Good afternoon, uncle”. I wished him back too, but I could hear my own words resonating within in utter helplessness to perceive the pensive portrait upon his eyes. I could only say, “Why don’t you come?”
I don’t need flowers now, uncle. There is just none for me to offer those. I am alone. I miss her too much.
My flowers miss you too much, my dear boy.
We did not meet again. Losing only consoling space of creation is nothing comparable to the greatest losses of life. I walked back home. Fond memories of my mother suddenly started rising up, encircling my body, my soul, from those fallen dried leaves of autumn. I stumbled upon another revelation of my ordinary life; another Morning Glory had left my garden.
The world we see is the most fascinating art of impressionism portrayed upon a vast texture of endless time. It remains frozen in each such tales of life.