Remembrances....

Silently they sat in the rooftop terrace. Slender leaves of tall coconut trees were sweeping the silicon sky in gentle southern breeze while bathing naked in silvery moonshine. Their sunk faces were half-lit in faint glow of nearly-burnt candles—broken souls of twenty five soldiers arrayed in stupefying defeat of their fallen martyr—and half-silken in gleaming touches of the pretty princess of the Night . Upon a tiny stool stood an image of their little angel—their Angelica, their Anjali—lovingly puffing nine colourful candles elegantly placed upon a boat-shaped cake in dazzling splendour in blushes on her angelic face. It was another Full Moon evening....of the last ride together. Drawing sweet tales from hidden chest of remembrances tears went on whispering into Deepsikha’s ears—creeping into cells of her soul.

“Papa, don’t worry—I’ll sail it—we will cross all seven seas and reach the Dreamland. Mom, don’t be afraid of those monsters. See, I’m with you.”

An innocent child could not even know why was she kidnapped...and sold...or perhaps, killed. The seed that was just turning to bloom upon a solitary plant at the confluence of two streams of spiritual consciousness was nipped before one could even define it as a bud. All around remained dispassionate...proud society remained satiated in its progressive deeds while semblance of religiosity faded into faces of curses eroding essence of itself.  

Inertly sat Robert and Deepsikha—alike figurines exposed to hidden giggles of destiny—counting days and nights and months and years—long twenty five years of holding the seed closeted only to wailing souls. Remembrances hum on dirge....

 Along wafts of intoxicated breeze of the spring

All have gone to the woods in this moonlit night;

Nay, I won’t go out but confine myself to

Own silent corner of my room;

Oh No ! I shan’t go out tonight

Amidst revelling breezes of the spring.

I am to cleanse my home, wipe it with all care;

I will need to stay awake for I know not

When would she recall me and arrive

Amidst waft of intoxicated breeze of the spring.

(Poetic part is transliteration of Tagore’s “Aaj Yotsna Rate Sabai Gechhe Bone”)

Bless me with that silence, mother!

Those droplets of tears, I still remember. I still remember those few words and a long silence following. Still I remember the last cast of that angelic smile. I only remember not how hours turned into days, then nights, and months and years while flowing stream of life went on aspiring for the unattainable; and, within dark irises of those unnerving eddies of gone-by moments, all treasures of memories are sunk deeper and hidden. Memories slid into sheathing of omnipotent time. The ring remained sucked inside that unknown fish. Yet, once it is held upon the palm, it resurrects; one after another, the gems of life’s only possession dazzle in shining beams of remembrance. Forgetting is an art till it bears the passion for remembering; till it has innocence of truth and love at its core. Memories have no divinity if it resurface as matters of fact—like just some routine errands. I enjoy this gentle summer dawn with one such ring held upon my stretched palm, my dear Mom!

I sit alone, face to face, with them—those last few moments of ours. I hear sweet tunes of its supple stream. I enjoy holding them long, smell fragrance of its guiltless presence, and get drenched in sprinkles of its innocence. This fascinating rendezvous let my dreams run wantonly seeking pleasure of juvenility. I fear not to lose it forever; yet, I fear that my sins are enough to smudge the painted past of virtues.

Still I journey through it—through them—through those moments immortalised by presence of only you and me. Yes, mom! I hear you! I feel you by my side, holding me. The worms of cancer crawl in, silently invade every castles in your lungs, liver and body. The marching army plunders every cell and burns each pages of life. Nero plays the tune. Tiny rivulets of endurance end up in few droplets of tears leisurely disappearing in glistened eyes. Yet, I see a gentle smile, overcoming of all unendurable agonies, is slowly spreading its wings over those feebly thin lips. It hangs unknowingly there till I hear you saying something. Yes, I hear it—“It is time now...., my son!” A long silence follows stretching itself to eternity. The sky looks on, so the trees and I. The life hides itself in life and its pains and pleasures. Words ever fail in paying tribute to a soul that only loved and loved and loved. Love, perhaps, only blooms in silence. Bless me with that silence, mother!