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.
