So Many Things
Actually I was never so alone. Now when I say alone, I mean everything I do and I have points towards only one person as responsible, me. And I am in such a situation for the very first time. I liked Rabindra Sangeet but never used to play them myself or had never sat on my own interest to listen to them. Now, so far from home, when at the infant dawn, I go to the roof, I realize how so many things have come with me. I realize how many things were always there for me. I was just enjoying all the comforts of other’s responsibilities. Now all I want to do is grab some more of them and take them away from the sky.
Up on the roof then, when I close my eyes and take a deep breath, my senses expect a very familiar smell to enter and start a concert of all the beats I know with vocals of the chirping birds singing in the morning and all the praise from the dew wet jasmine will add to the glory of the opera. But it just doesn’t happen. The eyes open up, the smile departs. I look around from that seven storeyed high roof to see an unknown city which has youth but no motherhood. And after that, I look straight up, towards the sky. Yes, it knows me. But wait, what is that? It does not dew on the eyes! Then what is that? Nevermind. The sky is still looking at me. On that clear blue background, just like the sun’s love on a winter laden afternoon, I see one stroke of a golden line. A perfect stroke of by marvellous artist. First the strokes are gradual but after a few, they are more rapid, even more and more. The whole sky is getting covered by arbitrary crazy lines. Now the artist is nowhere, it appears like a child is desperately trying to make others understand what he wants, he creating a tantrum with a slate and piece of chalk but no one is able to understand him, not even I, although I see a part of me also up there. He is scratching the sky and he is scratching the sky.
And after that the first rays of the young sun appear at the corner of the big blue. My eyes turn to its bright red costume. But it’s tough to look at that. The eyes close by themselves, that empty deep breath leaves my heart. That’s the reality, towards which you cannot look straight, which slaves that independent slate of that child and paints it in its own colours. But still that’s the reason for own mornings, our lights. And lying on the flat floor of the roof, my dark long shadow due to that new light says, “The song is over, but your time starts now, go downstairs, your office shuttle will arrive after sometime.”
