Saturday, 31 October 2015

Boundaries

What happens in the west doesn’t happen in the east and vice-versa. This is our country and this is our tradition. We love our motherland and we can die for it. North is different from South. And this state, this city, this town, this village and this house is where I belong. I cannot live anywhere else but here.

Lines are drawn and everything is divided beautifully. If not entirely, the plans do work out fruitfully with minor problems here and there. When these minor problems become big, it is dissected thoroughly and the offender is caught, punished and forgotten. Things turn back to normal; once again it’s a sunny day.

But, there is one story that no one can forget. An ordinary looking fellow, who lived in the mountains and always painted the oceans in his notebook, once painted the planet earth on a grand rock, it was magnificent, but he was anyways convicted for it. Maybe he was crazy, that is what most of us believe, otherwise, why will a sane person draw the beautiful earth and then divide it? Yes! That is what he did.

The blue, green planet looked so perfect on that rock as if it was alive, but then, that bloke painted a hand hammering the earth into two, a chasm that spread like the roots of a tree and divided the whole planet. It was a violent crime, of course. How could he even think so? But then, they say he was crazy.

There’s another story about that painter. You know that the earth is changing colour, you must have seen the photographs, it’s becoming reddish with each passing day. Some say that this change occurred only after that painter was hanged, which is true, but I don’t know if these events can be related. But it’s all crazy, no?

Sunday, 25 October 2015

Wandering

Who lives in that small house up on the mountain? It is made of earth, wood and stones. I feel its presence here. The pine trees gathered around it look less like guardians and more like friends.

The fog, very slowly, is encircling the house. Grand mountains stand quietly in the backdrop, reverberating with magical rhythm. It is then that I realise I am holding a stick in my hand and humming leisurely, attuned to the magical rhythm.

I keep walking, espying now and then at the small house up on the mountain. The fog flows away, ending the game of hide and seek. I take out my notebook and start to draw the scene. The mountains take most part of the page. The small house is a beautiful speck of white on dense green background. The trees are spots of different green here and there.

The fog returns and, this time, hides the small house completely. I quickly run and climb a rock as if to brush away the fog. I try it literally, when gaily the fog engulfs everything around me. White magic!

The Truth

Dragging oneself ahead, only because dragging backwards would be difficult and funny, doesn’t complete you. Following an invisible laz...