Every drop in an ocean contains the water of all the rivers that flow into it.The pain was at its peak now, and strangely sweet. Like when you catch a leather ball on a winter morning. It is so intense that the only way you can handle it is by looking forward to it again.
He had decided that he wanted to be in his forest house. Alone. Well, almost alone. He had surrounded himself with his past – all of it - whether warm or frightening. Old letters. The first western music album he had heard. A well thumbed children’s fiction book he had not returned to his school library.
At 47, you have already lived many lifetimes especially if you had a seeking gypsy spirit. To contain all those lifetimes in one room was a ridiculous thought, at least in hindsight. You could not blame him altogether though, he had no precedents to go by.
He had read about these moments, seen them on TV shows, but nothing had prepared him for what was coming up.
Soon, a burst of joy in an infinite sphere entered him. Bright blue joy. With that the smell of fresh mangoes on a summer afternoon. The smell was a strange mix of green and yellow, he wiped his brow. The fan had stopped working. Through the window, a breeze brought in the girl-smell of a sweaty teenager carrying a large school bag. One of the books was a love story. The character was like him, detached yet loving. She had often sat with him on the steps near the school playground, asking him about what he wanted to do with himself. Salvation was more than a song on a young boy's lips. A large tape player was spooling a rock track. He was trying to decipher the lyrics. He could see from the eyes at the back of his head, someone pouring out from a half empty whiskey bottle. Still so hot, he wiped his brow once again. The taste was foul, and he pretended to go out for some fresh air. He poured out the drink into the pot outside in the porch. Sweet Gulmohars, lanes washed with blood red flowers. Freshly strewn about by the stormy monsoon.
Three thousand aeons in a moment. He smiled to no one in particular.
There is no particular moment that you can recall when you can recall when your name, body and form are associated together in your mind. It’s probably difficult to establish whether that degree of objective self awareness is possible at all. However, this is that moment when all your wisdom is brought out and challenged to a test. You have to give up a forty seven year old identity, and faith is your only crutch. Faith that you are merely getting off on one of the stations. For a restful cup of tea. You can reach out to the top tier, pull out a jacket, take out a pack of cigarettes from the left pocket, or was it right? And get off on a cold, very cold platform. Its foggy outside, and the vendors are calling out half sleepy. In a strange accent. You can barely see your hand which is anyway mostly hidden inside your jackets pocket. It’s thrilling to wait for the train to start moving, thrilling to know that you might have to miss it. And not know when the next one will come.
What will it be like to have to stay in this unknown town for an unknown period? What if this town has only blind people? Like in the telefilm he saw when he was young. And the only person with sight is the beautiful daughter of the priest. What if the price for marrying her is losing your vision for ever? What if..
His thoughts are jolted by the distant whistling of the train. He looks outside his window. The last leaf is barely clutching the thin branch. The monsoon breeze is flapping around the leaf, now almost brown.
He takes one last breath. The leaf sways downwards and goes deeper and deeper into the valley. White silence now.
