Of the few wonderful memories one associates with places and faces, the art of candle making, clay modelling and pottery is what I associate with my school. Beyond the regular academic cramming, also known as formal education, these three activities represented the small joys of life and taught precious lessons in patience. Constitutionally an obedient one, I quite enjoyed my lessons, but then there were things I could never come to accept or understand (of course my own retardation being the cause). Say for instance, Force is equal to Mass multiplied by Acceleration. Well, how about Forces with no discernible mass or accelaration...! But then that's a stupid question, by all means. Any question beyond proven finitude of formulaic prophecies is a stupid question. Anytime. Candles, clay and lumps of softened mud on the potter's wheel were refuge to the intrinsic restlessness of unanswered stupid questions, where formulas didn't apply. With Christmas around, focus shifted to candle making. Tiny fingers with all their might hammered slabs of coloured wax into small pieces and stuffed a kettle (which seemed larger than oneself) with the wax thus collected. The kettle was then carefully placed upon a burner. Metamorphosis. Magic. All resistance of separate entities melted and fused as the heat permeated the frozen rigidities of the wax slabs. Colours mingled like tiny streams merging melodiously and the little hands felt the slight tremors as a new entity took shape within the kettle. A new colour would evolve soon...with traces of the original and yet a uniqueness of its own. As the process headed towards completion, the moulds were kept ready into which this molten wax would be poured, sealed and solidified. Funny things. Moulds. Made at another's wish, to create several more in the same shape. So around Christmas, amidst a multitude of moulds, was this one mould I never tried - the Christmas-tree mould. Never made one. Never lit one. Somehow this entire idea of a candle shaped like a Christmas tree being lit up, was difficult to accept. For, trees were always precious. And the Christmas-tree was that once-a-year promise of dreams. To strike a match and light it up was always unacceptable. Strangely enough, it still is. The innocent perception of the tree lives untainted though hopes and dreams become things of the past as years roll by. That's how we grow up I guess. Grow up and grey, while the obstinate child within refuses to give in and we pacify it with the rehearsed regular hopscotch of measured mundane footsteps.

Vacuum, momentary or otherwise, symbolically manifests itself in a curved line with a quite redundant dot below. We call it a question, mostly. Perceived through a thin veil of liquid in the eyes, it seems like a snake, ready to strike. Once it's there, you cannot help but acknowledge its existence, its venom. And you begin speculating. Weaving a web of possible articulations which will make it disappear - the vile interrogation mark. You seek answers, you seek people to answer, you seek sticks and skills in knowledge reserves to pacify the snake. Sometimes, you simply seek shelters to run away and escape it, even if for a while. But it returns. Sooner or later. You repeat strategies. Sometimes you win over its existence. Until it is reincarnated.

A question. A momentary retardation of faculties of perception. A discomfort in normal functionality. A dis-ease of the mind. As much a construct of the first person latent jackass within, as the possible answers from within or elsewhere.   


Essentially, there are no questions.
Consequently, there are no answers.