Maybe

Some faces never fade,
Some moments never die;
For a war-torn life,
Those remain a symbol of peace.

They sat—the man and the woman, side by side;
Silently glow twenty five candles
To burn a few pages of memories
Of a little girl whom the angels brought for them
On one such day to shine on their eyes.

She would lie on his lap
Gently holding her mom’s hand,
With eyes broadened would endlessly tell
What amazing things she had discovered.
Every day, he would dream of a new tale
To tell her, else how would she sleep?

The candles burn
The pages burn
Burns the last glimpse of those innocuous eyes
Burn colourful wings of the butterfly
Burns a new school tunic.

The man dreamt of a new tale,
But the evening dug the grave for it.
The tiny bird was snatched away
From a tiny nest that her parents built,
Not even knowing, why...why?

None could see her again;
Maybe, she was killed
Maybe, she was sold
Maybe, she was rescued
Maybe, she grew up
Somewhere, in another distant moon.

The father still dreams of her,
The mother still sobs alone,
Maybe, she still too weeps
If she is alive; maybe, she’s not!

Maybe, she needs to dance
Amidst smoke and stench
For to carry her father’s dream
Of feeling how precious is life;
Maybe, sleep evades her eyes
For a tale to be told by her papa,
Maybe, she is too tired of tales of life,
If she is alive; maybe, she’s not!

Her papa roams in and searches for
Within faces of every girl of her age,
Ceaselessly guessing, “Isn’t she my doll?”
Maybe, if she is alive; maybe, she’s not!

The dream story lies hidden
Within moaning soul of an old father,
Maybe, to remain forever untold;
Maybe, destiny does not permit
Some promises to be kept...maybe!

(A repost )

Untimely...

Racers see only the racers

Count who is ahead or at heels

Crowd cheers, money flies

Floats the craze, rises the rage

But, racers count only racers

Life and death race together

Collars and shoulders up

Who knows which is ahead of whom

Races go on racing

Dots....

Dots….dots…dots
Lying here and there
The space is benevolent
Giving home unwantedly
Playing with them
A child would be doing alike
Arrange, one following the other
In a line, or sometimes, scattered
But, as wishes flow, more orderly
Giving a shape, sketching a face
Upon the wide canvas of space
A few dots…dots that were words,
Spoken, yet never heard
A few more that had bubbled
Yet never burst
A few dots….dots that were thoughts
Conceived, yet never shared
A few more that had grown enough
Yet, never saw the life sheltering
Gathering once again; picking up
One by one, laying one after the other
In a last attempt to sketch a face
Longed for so long
But, never emerged out of a life
Full of dots…dots…and dots.

Naming life !!

Every life has a unique tale to tell. It scripts itself as life meanders on—staggering in aspirations and desperations, enamoured of passions and illusions, armed with name and fame, induced with dreams and deeds, and inspired with wills and nerve—in wealth of ripening. Numerous bends on its course—some meaningful, some memorable, some forgotten or some tragic—are testimony of its conciliation with the circumstances for sake of securing own existence. Yet, it presents a sheer bafflement in defining itself with an identity—an identity that establishes, who is who, which is which and what is what, in the mirror of the world around. It raises an awkward question, “Do I exist sans a name?”

What is in a name? Even an elementary scholar knows what Juliet expressed in her soliloquy. The name binds the bond, tears apart too. But, does it deny the existence too. It raises my perplexity and I carry it for so long.

Once I met a little girl and her brother (I wrote about them a decade back on my blog too) who did not have any name. Is life such meaningless that we presume that they don’t exist at all? Nameless is not faceless, yet the story of a life seems suffered when it is exposed to social scrutiny. But, is such an average assessment defines existence in life ?

In peaceful settings of Manderley, second Mrs Winter didn’t have any name. She narrated the tale of her life—her dreams, seclusion, haunting shadow of Rebecca, indifference of her husband—the killer of his first wife, and gradual accession to confidence. All without name in the entire novel.

Jane, an orphan raised at the home of her aunt, when was asked by Mr. Rochester, “Am I hideous?”, replied affirmative with certainty. She was the governess in his house, love him, he didn’t disclose about his earlier marriage and it all surface when she was about to get married with him. Rochester had a name and fame too. Yet, his real face is hidden. He was still bearing a faceless identity before Jane, and with certainty. They got married and the novel had a happy conclusion. Neither name nor fame nor its suppression was a matter of rejection in life.

Meursault was enraged and brutally killed the Arabian. The glimmers of the sun on the edges of his rapier generated so much irritation that he couldn’t resist himself from such crime, and without any future remorse. Was it the Sun, or the Arab man or the knife or the hatred or the intent of crime to be blamed; or the namelessness of the Arabian? The killer had a name and pride of race, but the Arabian didn’t. The novel of Camus evolved around the life who was nameless native and justice was faceless. The stranger remains a stranger so long life doesn’t attempt to know it. Knowledge is, perhaps, also something which exists when known. Does life have similar existence? I exist only when you know that I exist and get attributed by a name to be known? My confusions have grown up with me since childhood.

Jeanne’s life unfurled itself in exploration of delight in everything and died in disillusionment of its staleness. She tells her life through the events of her life. Nothing more than that. Yet, the existence retained itself without her professed identity in social mirror. She spent her end days forsaken—the dreams dried, emotions died and prospects baffled. In concluding sentence, she tells Rosalie, the maid and the mother of her husband’s son, “The life, you see, Rosalie, is not so good or so bad, what people think.’

Life, perhaps, is an impression. An impression has complexity of explaining the truth and value. We run after it without knowing, and leave it when experience. Our pride confines us only to its grave.

Sound of silence !!

It was a noiseless path….in a leisurely afternoon of early lockdown phase. The Red Road of Kolkata was utterly desolate….not a single car visible till the end….not a single human figure or shadow of life anywhere. I drove through the silence of the soul after the day’s work. The Club Houses, The Eden, Fort William were all so silently arrayed on the western sky while the Maidan was sleeping on the east….slipping under a green sheet of gentleness. The Nor’wester clouds had engulfed the wide sky from all over leaving only a tuft of blue over the crown of sacred while Victoria Memorial. Upon the verdant expanse of Maidan, I came across the first sign of life—painted like a surreal image—a little before the turn of the Queen’s Way….one black, some piebald, a few more brown and a lone dazzling white…the horses were unbridled, wantonly grazing upon… elegantly painted upon the dark canvas of sky, so softly spread over the lush green meadow.

I got off….…walked down a little farther to get out of the shades of those giant trees and sat on the floor of grass of the city after so many years. I kept on observing them endlessly while darkness got encouraged and strong wind started blowing. They had no obligation to pull the ornamental carts in dusk….good or bad luck…..to toil in carrying the sightseers around the Memorial and garden….they had freedom for the days frozen in the catastrophe….yet, they continued to confine themselves only to the patch of the field they had been used to…..perhaps, they knew nothing more.

The silence of freedom was evident. The shadows of reality…the existence…was revealing and fulfilling. I let my  dreams walking through the caves of Plato….the prisoners chained to the dark wall for life with the fire lighted behind and counting and naming the shadows—coming and going….the shadows were the reality….the perception of reality….the impression of liberty….in oblivion of anything better known to them than that. The drama of nature had lost all meaning to senses…..no bondage of souls….freezing eyes and ears to the impression were taught to keep the silence….it was all about counting the shadows and attaining the sense of liberty through the eventuality….not to disturb the sound of silence.

The soul seemed sunken to the happiness of surviving the dread of the death so long it was affecting the shadows…the other shadows……without knowing if it was mine or else….counting and naming them as it wished……a perfect tribute to life and the indifference to it….and whispering the sound of silence. The freedom was sleeping in the other world…..up above in the heaven or in the unfathomable depth of the hell….accessible, perhaps, only when the silence would be broken.

The horses were fortunate….they learned it quick….the cave would wait for the prisoners to see the Sun….maybe, at the end of the cosmos…till then it would be an enjoyable, delightful and satisfying soul drowned deeply in the sound of silence.

Last moments...

It stretches the day a little longer

Memories of the Heaven’s blue

Still not died, still not dried up;

The sky is dust of gold

Still alluring

Floating in those vacant eyes

For a few moments left;

The life is a gem,

Spoilt by a failed palmist,

The band of clouds

Over the wings of horizon

Crimson—a stream of blood—

Through the darkness of Hell

Whispering tale of death-eaters;

A dream yet survives

To be there, to be there,

Carrying wounds,

Scars on the path

On those weary feet;

Still a dream survives,

To be there, to be there,

Miles away the home is peace.

An obituary of a dreamer

Was it real? I questioned many times before reassuring myself of its true happening. It had been an ache persistently pestering since before the containment of choices imposed due to assault of the invisible invader onto the earth and it just aggravated as soon as the freedom got stifled by the wishes of men and women in securing an escape from the curse of death. The pain had a simple origin and a single mission. Just to flee. Cared not whether it would a run through the jungle or cycling down to the foothills or sailing the yacht to nowhere or just wandering through the shapeless alleyways of the memories. It was an intense feeling of just running away from a world that spoke a different language what I could understand; and I accepted that it was all my inability, my unsuitability to walk in the middle of the world peeling out the muggle sense and stature. Yet, the world has its own chain of freedoms and keys to allow or deny one or many in a single turn. It would define the liberty in its own wise way and it would certainly be all for my welfare and in course of such, my wishes were tamed to soberness.  

The privilege always dances in a peculiar rhythm. It came unexpectedly when the world got suddenly engaged in a fight for survival. They had no luxury time then to see who all had fled, why and to where. And I fled on a bright broad day. 

The jungle was thinner and, in the noontide, the radiant rays of the middle-aged sun were streaming through the hairs of those tall trees. It dancing footsteps were alike the transient images of the golden deer in the deep forest of Chitrakoot and chasing it had already left my memories turning into pebbles on the trail, shining here and there. I could see the track getting narrower as I began ascending through the clouds mystically veiling the shoulder of the mountain. The jungle was getting denser and dark too and gradually I lost the margin between the day and night. I kept the walk on the edge of the coin without annoying either face. In that day or night, I had my insomniac eyes glowing green to guide me through an invisible path and the thoughts driving me to preserve my existence in a contrasted sequence of experiences. The thoughts were dreams animated and dreams were thoughts frozen while they coexisted without much resentment or integration.  In a similar non-confronting mood, I saw the God, Satan and Lucifer sitting a little far upon a dead branch of an old oak tree. Together they asked, “What’s the purpose of a man here?” I said, “I’m not a man. I don’t have that enamelled soul, those suave lips and that holy wisdom. I am an outcast; an outsider to the world of the man. I am a fugitive who is a seed of a dream that couldn’t prosper into reality; but the dream has lost its prime in the pursuit. It is now like a white beard that shines and swings only.” Satan said, “Then you must be in my team. Hey, God, see! The time’s changing.” Before I could further explain, the God and Satan fell into a real squabble. Lucifer intervened rather timidly, “Come on, friends! Don’t fall into another trap of devious man. They have learnt all the spells to wreck our spines and split our spleens. I lost all credibility only in believing them, loving them. Satan was right to foretell that man was not at all an adorable creation.”

I decided to move on as I had neither any love nor hatred towards any of them, but did not enjoy their presence in my blissful journey. Yet, I couldn’t resist asking only a small question before leaving, “What makes all of you together in such an awkward place at such an awkward hour?” The God whispered diffidently, “We are in crisis now. As you are neither a god nor a demon nor an angel and, most importantly, nor a man too, we can unhesitatingly tell you that we are in a deep crisis to secure our realms from the shameless attempts of man. They are out to dislodge us. It was all my foolishness to bless them with freedom of choices alike I did to the angels. Now, I, rather we all, are victims of their cruel manoeuvrings. In their manipulative tricks those divine choices are now delivering disastrous outcomes. We need to defend the earth and will thrash them, punish them, curse them. We shall regain the world from pervasive ambitions of man.”

As I had no interest in who won and when, I took leave and slowly reached the summit of the mountain. It was dazzling bright with ice speaking to air and sunshine. I could see the small earth below under complete lockdown. People breaking the laws created by own and imposing it also by own might. I wondered if I had grown wings. I could feel my hands were not moving, but fluttering. I was delighted to have wings at last to fly; to fly around, over the mountains, over the dales and meadows, over the rivers and lakes, over the forests. I spread the wings and soared higher and higher in the sky. The earth began to wrap itself and turned into a blue ball floating in a sea of space. I relaxed in a free flight. But, for spreading it for a long time, my wings had melted in the warmth of the naked sun and it almost lost the air in its shrunken sleeves to hold me afloat. Gradually I started falling, floating and falling. The fall was inevitable that I could also sense. The blue earth was appearing closer and closer and I could see her face more keenly. It looked like an innocent face of a child. Did I break the innocence of its crescent face? Can one reclaim the innocence once broken? Wondering and falling, I found myself floating by her side in an eternal sea of thoughts. I drifted and floated and it floated along with me. When waves took us to the shore, I was out of breath. I had no strength left to rise. I could barely open my eyes. I was on the shore. I was on the shore of the mankind. I was lying upside down, my chest pressing the wet soul of the weeping beach. By my side I saw the earth lying; motionless, upside down. Her blue face still I could see. I struggled hard to open my eyes to see her for the last time. Her faced seemed to look like the gentle face of a Syrian kid. A little soul from the other side of the world—bruised and cursed—lying upon his tiny chest on lap of the angelic shore of Turkey. Bloated and floated in a failed pursuit of dream. A dream to see the world in peace; in loving care of little wants of living. I was journeying a new path. A path leading to nativity. To the innocent past of man; the child in him down through the ripples of the sand dunes, where bubbles of ocean were sacrificing the wishes of the expanse; to a world never known, in all darkness, through the solitude of Macondo; erasing the image of the chivalry on the back of the ancient coin. In deep silence, I sank; drowning through the bubbles of memories, rising above from all around, leaving me in an emptiness of mind, thoughts, dreams and desires. I could see the last dream, the last memory, the last desire leaving with those smiling sparkling bubbles; perhaps, they were to build a hope, a true hope to return to the freshness of the day; a forgotten childhood of man.

Illumine...

O cute little Blue bird!

Sing me life

Take me to the caves

To an untold era

Under a stormy night

I shall learn to light a fire

A lamp is awaiting me  

Destiny

Dreams breaking into memories

Passions destining …keeping some,

Some not….why?…perhaps,

Only seashells know

Walk on...

Walk on

Walk on the silver boy

Walk on thousand miles more

Walk on to the moon

Chase the bread in the sky

Who cares?…you live or die

Walk on through the sins

Walk on through the dreams

Walk on through the screams

Infect the world with life

Once more…tearing the deadened world,

In cities of cheering faceless ghosts

The epitaph !

Between leaves of time 

Sleeps the untold tale of life,

In dreams of love and love of dreams.

Smudging the margin in between

The trust and deceit, walk away,

Hand in hand, in silence

Without signifying who you are 

And who am I;

Only the kisses lie scattered--

Forlorn--in the corner of the room.

Being a stranger...

Am I just a name? Or just me what they see?

Or a stranger to the way they know?

Am I just what seemingly I am—in life and beyond?

Or just a few footprints on my walk

On a path lost forever in a meadow unknown?

Am I a soul, far away from life’s roll—

Stuck onto a changeless boll—

Like an unnamed flower in an unknown knoll?

Or a path never walked before, yet awaiting,

Or a dream forsaken in dreamer’s eyes, yet shining,

Or a trampled hope in a frozen cell, yet undying?

Maybe there is a beauty—a beauty forever—

In being a stranger to the way they know

Or to me or to what seemingly I am.

Am I just a few senses that paint me as I am,

Of unchained thoughts of defeats and scars,

Of motion stalled and stymied wars,

Of glorious triumphs and crowned stars?

Or are they just what I lose, one by one,

In becoming a stranger to what they see in me—

To me or what seemingly I am.

Perhaps, there is a beauty—a beauty forever—

Of knowing the way I become a stranger to me

Of becoming a stranger to the way I know myself

Of refining an image of being a stranger within—

To myself indeed—or the way they see,

Or what seemingly I am—in life and beyond.

Mirroring life !

There is always a bend on the path where one pauses to look back and feels that much of the life has been spent up in dreaming nonsense, doing nonsense and talking nonsense. It starts the day with a frustrating tone as dampened as a lonely umbrella left outside under a raining sky and fills the heart with a sense of utter dejection. Time is ruthless, so is life until we learn to obey its rule. One is extended with choices of either loving it living through or abhorring it dying through. But, one cannot deny of having opportunity of numerous turns and twists through the walking way. And, at certain point, maybe, at certain moment, one more turn reveals a different horizon and raises altogether a different feeling. It may not be a wise piece of thought, may not even be a sense of philosophic upliftment….and it may also be so; but irrespective of what it brings along it sets a different tune to the ears so accustomed to listen to a scheduled playlist….it may be worse or better, but something significantly unlike than the experiences of the past. It widens up the thoughts that it arouses as if evaporating somewhere never known, yet there is not much of passion left to hold them back or knit them in any defined texture. It may induce with a sense of losing identity or getting closure to it; it may be a song that sounds like a hymn or may also appear like a dirge; and, it may also infuse the core inside with an utter dilemma to discern about which is what. This turning point is just an inescapable certainty of life. The life flows like a river with vigour and vibrancy of youth through its initial exposure to the company of the time, with the rebellion  in defying the obstinacy of pebbles and stones and with the laughter in meandering through vales and hills; and farther it runs, it seeks to be kissed by gentle banks,  caressed by leisurely touches of fatigued oars and obsessed by the beauty of the setting sun upon its placid face. And, flowing on it once reaches somewhere, which it has never even dreamt of….the banks fading far into vacuity, islands surfacing like upturned boats, the horizon doesn’t anymore define the margin between possession and submission. It sea-saws between a complex state of attaining revelation and sacrificing wisdom, of having pleasure in losing identity and slipping into the agony of retaining it so long for not much of purpose. There is always such a phase in life when river sees its face upon its mirror and the life finds all peace to be blessed by the wishes of river finally.

Reality....

The pavement borrows romance
From dry smile of a dying moon;
The night bleeds in unprovoked assault of moments
Redefining the mirth and birth of hunger...
The dawn remains an elusive dream forever.

The paean and the pyre

He had never seen gentle smile on his mother. Never had he known his birthday. Since sensing the beauty of this world, his only own and known person was Father Brown.
Father Brown was a clergyman who had spent several years of missionary service in his native place. Devastated Europe after two great wars had a handful of people of ability and sincerity to work for the society and after his successful attainment of a degree in medicine, he wished to spend rest of his life in social service. When he opted for serving lepers in some remote Indian village, a great society of missionary colleagues had considered it a huge loss for Europe; but he travelled thousands of miles with a sacred smile spread over his face like wings of a springtime butterfly. He was soon seen cycling around a few small hamlets—bulged with numerous humans of diverse age attempting to sustain with primitive superstitions, poverty, and ignorance. The soil of civil society was yet to be irrigated with moral values, education, and basic living conditions. It was long past when the man of fifty-four years started residing in a small hut at one edge of those clustered darkness.The boy pressed his weak palms over bearded face of his old friend; a few drops of blood oozed out from those lips that smiled for its last time. The boy wept for the first time in his life. Through a hot smoky curtain, he could see Mother holding her son; burning and melting, still holding. Within his swollen eyes he held that image so long he could keep those open. He stared at. His body, soul, blood and existence—all were melting along with his dreams—his mother. She held her close to lap, comforting. He could see that divine smile on her face. The boy smiled for the last time in his life. His eyes were dreaming—closed with pain, sorrow, and joy for being through the life; it went on dreaming until darkness evaporated into the eternal slumber.
The next morning was bright. The peace was perfectly pervading all over while a burnt hut and a bundle of charred life inside reflected its muted existence in life, in its entirety.

Life

Buried in sunken eyes sleep the dreams—
Countless corpses of abundant wishes—
As silent as a songbird that has lost its voice.
There reign phantoms of deeds
Like a sadist, remorseless ruler.

The magic wand destroys slumber, and
The dreams fall in—as loyal as Arthur’s soldiers;
They revel and dance to a fresh tune of promises
Till arrows kiss them as chosen prey.
Mortified they sink in dreamless sleep.

Peace prevails as martyrs die,
Deeds are done as dreams untie;
Life lies as a nursery of deathless dead.

O Sleep ! The queen of Night !

I hear you, dear. I hear melancholic rings of your bangles. Through the open pane I gaze upon the lonely moon...she floats gently through a silvery ocean of dreams to seduce leisurely laid middle-aged night. My eyes savour in gentle smiles spread upon the sleeping beauty beside. And, I turn again to observe your stealthy intrusion. I await the tryst passionately. Every chords of my heart yearn to string notes of your melodious footsteps. Why do you stay afar so long? I atone for my frowning glances slapped upon your passionate craving, for all means of neglect that wished to abandon your presence so close to my eyes and for my shameless embrace to quench a thirty pride. I hadn’t left you either for I needed you so much to sustain, flourish and secure myself in life with dreams that you had so wantonly offered. My becoming into myself is only for you. Behind you fragrant dark hairs I have always searched for sparkles of the truth. So much I prodded your advances; you kept on captivating my sense, bits by bits. You remain honoured amidst all my losing entity. The life has eventually blessed me with a sacred longing for you, my dear. I can see a lustrous horizon behind your silhouetted profile. It is neither I nor you that our rendezvous lasts for. It remains only a ribbon that binds us together for the voyage that life has paid for. Time is not far enough; and we will soon set sail for an endless journey together—unhindered, unquestioned and unanswered pursuit of infinite completeness of a mission. Before curtains drop, hold me again, touch me now, and float me in that final dream for a while, my dear. O my sweet sleep ! The queen of my night !

A stoic evening

The evening stoically hung against the sky
With moments suspended in eternal time;
No wishes for the day to part,
Nor for the darkness to intrude into,
But the weeping flow of life continues.

Smoky air bears fragrance of lust,
Husky voices of unknown people convey
Mirth in losing love and morals;
Laughter bought, passions traded
And, fame shines upon blade of razor.

Some ugly roses, offered and forsaken,
Some ignored innocence, duped and dumb,
Some naked truth, hated and shunned,
Some tender palms, bruised and burnt.

A few wishes still float on with clouds,
A few colours still await some brushes,
A few dreams still dare to unravel itself,
And, the evening still pursues the nest.

Pages from a by-passer's diary--"I" in College Wallboard

If I were to die, I would wish not to die once;
Cowards die many times,
O Lord, I lay my valour at your feet!
I mind not, but I wish to be born and reborn
For to travel through those unknown worlds,
Somewhere remote from dins of known.

I would not crave for to be a bird
For to soar high and near to sun;
But a simple life of a butterfly
With a small world in some unnamed woods.
If I were to die, I would have closed my small wings,
And, dreamt through an endless slumber.

I would not crave for to be born again
As a beautiful tulip, praised and loved;
I would have just wished to be a tiny leaf,
Afar and away, for to embrace gentle morning rays,
And, to listen to last wishes of those raindrops.
If I were to die, I would have just fallen unnoticed.

I would not crave for to be another boy,
Respected and revered by many;
I would have just yearned to be again as I
With so much of pains and so much of joy.
If I were to die then, I would lay bare, up above,
Unclothed to my soul, satiated, so near to you.

Tales from a by-passer’s diary—The journey

I woke up before darkness could unveil its last faint cover. Silence of fading night soon swept away in fresh tunes that flowed from wings to wings, branches to branches, and trees to trees. It was another Sunday. An unusually longer summer day was tempted to proceed on.
I worked hard for half an hour on field. Rivers of sweat took curly paths down to the steps irrigating my entire stretch. I walked back to the garden. Horrid sunshine could not wipe out colours of those beautiful flowers—some were yet to bloom, some needed covers drawn. I caressed each of them and my wet palms could feel their innocent hopes. I spent a long time there—watering the soil, prune some unnecessary shoots and weeding out grassroots.
Upstairs I slowly lifted myself. Alone I walked through the long corridor. Six wide rooms were hung on its wall with all encompassing emptiness in existence. It was already nine when I stood before the Lord and mother Mary—prayers on lips, candle in my trembling hands.
It was just like another Sunday—an off day for the maids and cook. My son and wife must have reached the temple in remote high of Himalayas. They would not be reached over cell for a day more. I needed to take care of her Lord here. White marble sparkled in halo emanating from inside the temple. I placed the flower tray at the feet of Lord Shiva, hung the milk pot over the Lingam and prayed what a few sentences I learnt from her.
Time did not move as faster as I wished. I walked in the kitchen, washed overnight dishes and made a pot of coffee. Sipping over it, I glanced through the newspaper—uninterestingly bulged in useless items. The giant clock knocked eleven. I had always envied it and once considered it my choicest enemy for my father’s loving concern for it. He used to wind it every morning, wipe it with fresh white linen until it dazzled in its brown shining skin. It was probably gifted to him by my grandfather.
I came out of cold chamber. I lit another fag. Smoke swirled up, played with southern breeze for a while and vanished into whiteness of void. I finished my coffee. It was burning noon outside. Still, I was not enjoying comforting cool air in closed compartment with an enormous vacuity laughing at me.
I ran out with an empty sack on my back. I let it hang as leisurely as if to set for a trip—a journey to a never-fulfilling destination. Under the torrid sun, I treaded on gently through the county road, evenly stretched till it traversed below the railway bridge. Then it ran along the flight of a fly to end at desolate corner of not-so-long railway platform. The station did not have much to praise sans its glorious imprint in the history of Indian railways. It had existed for ages since railways had its first journey in the orient. It had been a silent audience to those proud hissings of the giant machine, painfully suppressing its burning soul. It stood as a mute spectator to witness panicky run of people when an iron-mammoth sped by trampling gentle soil of a tranquil county.
I could count more dogs than human figures over the platform. The sky was aflame with no clouds to console its parched skin. With a pallid face it stooped down to the horizon. Down train to the city was announced by some sleepy voice. Three sets of rails were still asleep. Soon one would wake up in sensing metallic reverberation through her body. It would have a momentary tryst with her chivalrous paramour for whom it had awaited so long. With sweet reminiscence of his virile presence in her eyes she would again fall asleep and dream on.
I boarded in one deserted EMU coach. One old couple was dozing on the backside. Ahead all thee rows were vacant. Two milkmen were discussing something at the end row. I could see none else. I moved on through the aisle to those seemingly vacant rows. I was about to take my seat by a window when I saw a little boy on the other side of the row. He was half-awake. Hot gushing air was fashioning newer and newer waves with curls of his abundant hairs. He was holding a wooden box—some shoe polishes, brushes and a few dirty cloths—by thinly palms while his half-closed eyes were set to longer than its foci. I gazed on his gentle face adorn with wide brows, a straight nose and perfectly pink lips holding an uncanny smile.
The train stopped at another station for a while but none boarded in. I was not feeling that alone. I peeped through the window. I looked at those huts, buildings, pools, paths, trees and accompanying tracks, all moving in a sequence—nearer they move faster. I was enjoying being alone when someone stayed nearby. It was a peaceful silence; a silent peace.
The boy straightened up. Stared straight at my eyes. Smiled. It was ingenuous yet melancholic. His eyes were as wide as my son’s. I smiled. Another station came. One peanut-vendor pushed in. His toiled face crafted with signs of futile struggles had numerous streams—streams of sweats, sorrows and life—flowing down to infinite hollowness of life itself. I bought two packs.
The vendor disappeared. I put one pack of peanuts between hardened palms of those soft little hands. Speechless we watched each other. I was frantically searching for some words; what to say? The agony of being is to experience whole of it. The life does not offer liberation from such excruciating pain. Finally, I spoke out.
Where will you get down?
Just one following the next.
The boy paused for a longer time, but spoke again.
Where will you get down?
Don’t know, maybe, to the city.
He smiled quite broadly. He looked like angel amused by my insecure destination. It prompted me to justify my words.
I mean, I don’t have a plan to go to any specific place. I have just been out to be out of inside. It is Sunday, an idly long holiday for me. When you have enough time to spend but nothing definite to do, it makes you feel caged in futility of life. One feels nice being in deeds.
I see. I enjoy doing work. I have no holidays. Since my mom got injured while working as a mason-maid, I have been out for work even when I had fever.
What does you father do?
He stays away. People call him a thief. But, he loves us too much. When he comes home after a month or two, he brings sweets for me and my two little sisters. He doesn’t drink or beat my mom like every family in our slum. He wanted to send me to school. But, I don’t like that work. I enjoy what I do. So he put my next sister to studies. Ha ha, the following one is sure to go too when she grows up.
You enjoy your work. If you study then you can learn more things, get a better job.
I don’t need a better job. We are all happy at home. I earn a lot. And, I really love the work. I can make an old shoe shine like a new one!
How much you earn a day?
Enough ! Even on dull days I can earn 20-25 rupees.
His eyes were innocuously sparkling with all pride of achieving and satisfaction. Yes, enough. My childhood crept slowly into my entire judgement. A one rupee coin was more than enough for me and my two cousin brothers. We did not have added flavour of own earning over it. Yet, we used to celebrate that day as a millionaire. We would wait anxiously for an old gentleman. The Cakewalla—a Bihari with a peculiar Bengali tone. He used to carry a large black trunk. We wished so long to see what treasures were there inside. We loved the most the first sweet smell from inside when he would open it; slowly lifting one tray after another. The prettiest ones would be surely in the last layer. On most occasions, he used to give us some attractive items as gratis. But, the sense of having enough evaporated through years of maturing. We silently walked into the world of dissatisfaction, unhappiness and wanting.
I have to get down now. I like you.
The boy smiled as widely as his little face could hold it. He got down waving his slender hands.
I smiled too. My thoughts stood defeated. I stood utterly defeated amidst all my boasting successes in life. I felt alone again. The world seemed crushing upon me and I wanted to get out of those falling walls and roofs.
I got down in the next stop. I wanted to come back home. I wished soulfully for a return journey to the place that I had left so carelessly. I wanted to come back to the abode of happiness that I had not cared for so long. The deeds were all for doing. The love was all for loving. The prayers were all for praying. The soul roamed chasing a forlorn solitude that ignored those loving eyes, comforting hearts and warmth of togetherness shamelessly.
I keyed in. The summer day had almost faded into the twilight. The last rays of sun had intoxicated the world. The day’s work had ended for the birds. They would soon share their nest together. They would sing the last tune for the parting day.
I stretched myself upon the settee. The night unhurriedly drew its curtain; a cool breeze poured in, wiped my forehead, and softly touched my face. Afar the stars stared at me with tiny twinkling eyes. A wet flow ran down. My eyes were lost in holding those sopping dreams; it drenched my skin, went deeper bedewing the veins and arteries, and the deluge swept away the soul cages with whatever it had wished leaving behind only some shiny droplets of emotion and a few unpaged promises.