Hues

The little boy appeared lost. He walked from window to window in thought. Once in a while he would return to the piece of paper on the floor and touch it with a dab of brown or a speck of green. The strokes of his brush appeared deliberate, yet contained. There was a beauty in the boy that could only be seen by those intent on catching a glimpse of it - and a glimpse was all it was. He fidgeted, he fumbled, he looked at his creations, wiped them clean with a fresh dab of white paint. He did that until the the light in the room grew brighter. Suddenly, and without warning he left. A short while later, another boy entered. He was purposeful, restless and had eyes that sparkled and shone in brilliance. He paced the room and tried to paint a few nondescript shapes and spaces on the paper that lay on the floor. He would look at each creation with reluctant indifference while the colors faded almost as quickly as he could draw. After a while, he put the paints and brushes aside, went to the corner of the room and waited patiently, dreaming of a gushing stream that would float him away and cover the paper in green.

I almost forgot that between the visit of the two boys, a little girl, colorfully dressed had walked into the room. With purposeful air she sauntered to the paper on the floor. She picked up the colors scattered about the room and started dabbing the paper with them. It was as if each color knew its presence on the canvass. The colors jostled for space, yet did not hide each other. They smiled, they bloomed, they showered happiness in a way that would make the hardest rain appear a drizzle. Just as the colors were at their blossomy best, her mother called "Spring, please come out. It is Summer's turn to paint".

There was this idiot who climbed the window and into the room. It looked at me with the eyes that could melt a heart. I had lost mine, so there wasn't much liquid mess to wipe clean. "Do you want food, shelter or a place to slumber?" I asked with a nonchalance born out of years of endless pride. "No, I need a place close to your chest, for I see that you have lost your heart". "So be it" said I; not pausing to think whether it was love, piety or just another word that meant nothing. It stayed with me with unswayed faithfulness. It told me things I should not do, people I should fear and places I should avoid. It rationalized trust, argued over the futility of love, fenced independence, made the past unknown and the future fearful. It lived and fed off me. Then one day it walked up to me, extended a delicate hand that encirled my entire being; I heard it say "Hello, my name is Fear".

If Mercury were a man inside a thermometer, places I spent my summer vacations would certainly enable him break Robert Wadlow's record. For me summer was the color of the Bougainvillea and the whirring lullaby of the fan. It also meant that I could escape Grandma's strict regime into the collieries where my parents lived. One of our favourite haunts used to be the river Ajoy. Snakes abounded the shallow waters and were patiently hunted by the eagles, while the little fish watched their nemesis being devoured. A proud flash of blue allowed some of the gilled beauties to join Odin's feast at Valhalla. My friend, the humble kingfisher was a pro. Sunset merged the bells of the cows returning home with those of the temple. While such sights and sounds were part of our lives, I suspect that some of those in heaven came down to watch the wonders that the little place offered. Else, why would the sun throw a palette of crimson and yellow at us everyday before it allowed night to sneak in with its invisible blue. It repeated with the regularity at which our souls seek love until the promiscuous rain stirred up the starved earth. The soddy smell of union rekindled the passion that built itself in the cradle of summer's austerity.....and through that love, new life was born.

An evening with influenza may not be the most poetic way to spend a sunset. Alongwith the nagging headache are the rising temperatures and the burning eyes. Usual respite lies in a double shot of paracetamol. It used to be different 3 decades ago. Fever meant lounging in bed all day. Drinking warm horlicks in diluted milk while Grandpa held me up from the shoulders. A visit from good old Kamakshya-Babu (Late Dr. Kamakshya Mukherjee) would pep up the spirits for his first question would needless be; "Heck! Isn't a young, heathy boy like you ashamed of what you have done to yourself?", followed by a presciption of pungent reddish mixtures that had to be custom made at the apothecary. Usually, the fever rose after sunset. With my head sticking out of the bed and a bucket placed underneath, Grandpa would repeatedly pour cold water to wet the hair, while Grandma would be caressing my forehead. The old lady would scold me for playing in the sun and for eating too many oranges. While the coolness of the water on the scalp felt heavenly, a drop on the face made me look up to see Grandma move her face away to wipe her tears. With that picture in mind, I would slip into the throes of most satisfying slumber. Life was all about "being flued in happiness".

The calender says it's winter. Parts of the world I lived in have a fine crust of snow, while others are happily tucked inside cosy blankets post the fall admiration of red and brown. Big fat squirrels have hidden their acorns and the lovers have shifted from the river fronts to the fireplace. The roses in India have spread their colours, while the himalayan foothills are mesmerized in the smoke of burning cowdung and rich steaming tea. Women across the North Indian plains revel in the bloom of their poinsettias, while the daily pedestrians at Chennai cherish the subtle respite from sweat adorned brows. With Christmas round the corner and the end of the school season, is there a new tomorrow that awaits? Or is it going to be a repetition of colours, people, behaviours, toys and hopes? I pray for a status quo of the changes in this cycle. For every time I raise my face to feel and smell the winter air, the colours, memories, flowers and people I have known rush in to make me alive. Alive to enjoy the neverending masquerade of sensations that cloak themselves under the label called "joie de vivre".

An ode to the child soldier

The colours of truth and the grapes of wrath,

Wonder if they look the same?

To the mind's eye that blinks to think,

and to the mother that seeks faith in pain.

The children came home, after the war,

wreaking stench, arms cut and minds drenched.

Did they savour those stories untold, which strangely,

had the same colour as the light that makes the rainbow.

For, hurt is sorrow and also the truth,

And the best shall always remain,

Not the cut hand, nor blood glistened rifles,

But the colours, the trees and that little girl,

Who threw a flower into the fields,Upon which grew the tree,

That bore the grapes of wrath.

Flying on the dusty street,
climbing the naked mountain,
painting pictures of the dead,
using the blood for ghastly stain.

How long need I tread my soul,
in favor of the road ahead?
Is that a smile to the lips of the child,
or is it just for another loaf of bread.

I fly and seek all the vales,
past which the rivers flow.
But all I recieve my little friend,
is just another fatal blow.

For thus the joker lives,
and trades his tales for gold.
Until the crowd tells him one day,
that his lullabies are a bit too old.

A little grave under a pinch of sod,
where the story lives ever and again,
behind the curtains and the hills,
the dusty street and the mountain.