Sometimes the setting sun spills across the horizon like a tilted tub of molten orange peel ice cream. 

Lap it up. Lovingly.

And everything else that overflowed with it. 

The confused moments. 

The pointless words. 

The half-framed sentences. 

The unborn thoughts. 

The suppressed sighs.

The broken dreams.

Nestlings still await your return, seeking strength through the sunless hours.

Light a lamp.

Kindle the flame.

Whatever gave light without burning itself out!

 

A busy road on a regular rainy afternoon. 

The car stops at the traffic signal. 

Different people approach the halted vehicles to sell their articles - showpieces for the dashboard,  chips and munchies, flowers, strawberries and balloons. 

And then, there's this girl. An adolescent. Shabby. Unkempt. She moves from car to car with a bunch of balloons in her left hand, across habitual apathy. Suddenly, she stops by the dewy window pane of a car. Thinks who-knows-what for a fraction of a second. And then with utmost care, draws a heart on the glass. Completely ignoring the curious glances of a bemused spectator. 

Another girl - a younger friend perhaps, joins her soon. And once she's done drawing, both exchange a glance. The younger one steps forward and just below her drawing, slowly writes 'l-o-e-v'. 

By then, I have this perfectly stupid smile on my face. 

Love misspelt is also love. 

Do you wake up to old forgotten names? Those that were part of your identity at some point of time? Those that were You, at some nondescript hour of finite existence? 

Those names that you do not hear anymore. People that you were, but are not anymore. 

Or perhaps, you are, somewhere deep within...those old selves. 

Selves that sublimated because the sun was too much to stand. Or selves that melted away like mercury dripping down the soul in calculated precise droplets, scarring every bit of You that it touched. Or may be selves which decided to unite with your shadow...those that visit your form each day with a tangential inclination - touching and yet apart - those projections of You that merge into your being as darkness sets in...the silhouettes you know so well and yet do not endow with recognition.

Old selves are, sometimes, like old rooms. Air them out, when you can. Those rooms You have lived in. They are still fragrant with the reminiscences of half-forgotten details. Air them out, with utmost care, every now and then - before dampness invades. 

 

 

I do not know why but I am never able to look at the tricolour for long without getting tearful. 

No, it's not "plucky patriotism". Medals, trophies and victories do not make me swell with pride, if you see what I mean. 

Neither does the Muse of History constantly work on my memory with ancient narratives and sagas. 

Also, the calendar does not inspire me into rehearsed routine demonstrations.

To add, there are few things which touch me and fewer that evoke emotions. 

And yet, this mystery of the tricolour... the symbol which is so vast..so enchantingly beautiful.

A symbol so expansive that it contains silently embedded within its being, so many stories...so many histories...the symbol that flutters in the breeze - just the same in the hands of a shabby child on the street as it would do on the most prestigious poles - easeful fluttering as stories continue to be told... the symbol which accommodates all claims, covers all follies, forgives all manipulations, conceals all insecurities and stands upright, perhaps, to awaken the drugged conscience of a collective. 

I do not understand my dazed mind which imagines the tricolour to be woven out of so many individual narratives that are lost. Forever. Like, lost lives, broken promises, betrayed faith, slaughtered hopes.

I do not know, but I sometimes wonder whether it is just coincidental that independence and integrity - both, begin with an I - the I which (and it must be coincidental) happens to refer to one's Self... 

 So what exactly happens when you are listening to that old number again?

The song which had faded down the subconscious...the melody you would hum as the happy little feet tapped and made the prettiest gestures with the little arms gleefully... the song which would add new words to your vocab - enriched by the lisping attempts of the little one...the rhythm which would bring a twinkle to the eyes of the little darling and would set him off in motion, circling around the length and breadth of the room with ecstatic steps...the song which had all the power in the world to light up the sulky face of a little greedy soul denied an ice cream in the immediate past...the song which in the laziest hours of the day ensured that he sprang back into action - that busy little body in red toddler boots...the song you played almost strategically each time you knew nothing else would work...the song that was magical then..and yet could not re-instill life into the cold wrinkled body drawn out of the lake.. 

What exactly happens, I wonder...when you are listening to that old number again which was so loved by the child that left so abruptly...

When you go down to offer puja in a place of institutional religion, there is a certain grammar you are expected to follow. Certain rules. Since you must interact with the divine through an intermediary in the given space, your language must be moulded according to the established norms.

I'm reminded of a special incident which occured some years ago. I went to this very popular Hindu temple in Bolpur. If you make an offering in the temple, it is mandatory to mention a name and gotra (as a signifier of caste/ lineage). The idea is to ensure that the intermediary (in this case, the priest) may make an offering to the deity on your behalf in chaste Sanskrit (apparently), specifying the particulars of the beneficiary.

I have always had a difficulty accepting the idea that someone you acknowledge as the Omnipotent and Almighty, would need such specific directions in an archaic language so as to understand what you want of him/ her. 

Nonetheless, grammar is grammar. Anywhere.

So, here I was standing in front of the priest asking me for the details of the beneficiary. I smile and tell him, "no name, no gotra". 

I see him turning away from me. And he chants amidst his prayers "na naamo, na gotraayo".

The institution remoulds itself - even if for one moment, to accommodate the individual.

That instant lives. Like a rainbow reflected in still waters.

Life is a conceptually alienated figure. 

What goes on is a habit of sorts.

The better you have practised, the better you pretend.

Shadows emerge. Reflections appear. Silhouettes play on in an illusion of light.

Things happen. The way rivers do. And flow on eroding edges of precarious sanity.

Close your eyes. No one dies all at once. And it's okay. 

Condolences are rehearsed songs. Sing to yourself.

And the better you have practised, the better you pretend.

So, there was this happy place. With several groups of people. 

There were the Sremraf who cultivated the land and produced food. 

There were the Srehcaet who taught lessons to children. 

There were the Srotcod who treated ailing people. 

There were the Sredart who performed trade. 

And then there were the Sretsinim who looked after administration. 

There were several other groups too such as the Ssrep - responsible for keeping people aware of everything going on.

And then there were the Sretsej who took upon themselves the role of entertaining the people. 

And the people loved entertainment. 

So much so that they seated the Sretsej on pedestals like demi-Gods. 

The Sretsej were so impressed that they soon forgot who they were. They mastered the art of playing the fool and started building their castles in thin air. 

They created a new sky and graced the place like stars. The twinkled and people appreciated. They fell and people cried. They played and people admired. 

The admiration so got into the heads of the Sretsej that they forgot who they were! They left behind the business of entertaining people and living on their applause. 

Instead, they started speaking gobbledegook to draw attention. 

And they were so obsessed with themselves that in this erstwhile happy place it started raining gobbledegook! 

Whether it was something they understood or not, the Sretsej never stopped showering the common people with their gobbledegook. 

And people reacted to their gobbledegook! 

Pages after pages and channel after channel in all forms of lesser worlds governed by the Ssrep was filled with their gobbledegook. 

One married, another coughed, yet another burped (and we stop here to keep it decent), and everything became the subject to be covered! 

This amount of hero-worship for entertainers seemed unmanageable. They began pouring gobbledegook on every other topic thereafter. 

Whether it was an issue related to the Sredart or the Srehcaet or even the Sremraf - as long as the Sretsej could seek attention, they filled the place with gobbledegook.  

But then the people never understood that it was all gobbledegook. 

They looked for meanings, naively. 

How could gobbledegook yield meaning though! It is only an instrument to steal the show.

Dismissing is an art. No language can counter gobbledegook.