"... together, we'd march into the new world. You and I, alike- as equals. There would soon be a dawn- that would last forever. The trees- green forever. Birds- chirping forever. And men- awake, forever..."
The crowd cheered in a mad frenzy. There was a glint of hope and joy in all those eyes, that could easily be mistaken for insanity! People of the Earth.
"..do you think if he could see me now"? said Govardhan, unsure of what the reply would be.
"Are you crazy!? Don't you have eyes? He's addressing almost 5000 people out there!"- came the reply.
Govardhan knew that this could not wait for long. He looked at the crowd gathered there, for a while.
"..What should we do, if we need all of that? Can we make it possible"?
"YES!!! YES!!!"
He heard them shout in unison. He felt, as though the entire nation's cry echoed from that crowd.
"How?"
S.i.l.e.n.c.e...
Everyone wants to change the world. Everyone wants peace and prosperity. Everyone wants their voices to be heard. But the question always remained though- 'How'? And there would be a door opened, only when there would be an answer to that question.
Govardhan could not wait anymore.
"Das bhai! Please try and understand. This is urgent. And I am sure that he would want to hear it right away.."
Das looked at Govardhan. He was, probably, for the first time seeing him closely. There was a sure mark of panic on his face that was usually calm and composed. Das knew what must be done.
"... I shall tell you how. Friends, I shall tell you the secret to change the world! I shall show you the doors that would lead you into a paradise! Into Utopia! I shall...."
There was a pause. The crowd could see that their 'Leader' was temporarily interrupted by some unknown person. They would wait for him. They knew that their 'Leader' would soon come back to them. Tell them the secret to the new world. Lead them into the heaven... They would wait.
Das returned to Govardhan. He whispered something to Govardhan.
"... So my friends! Would you be with me??"
"YES!!! YES!!!" They chorused.
"I need you to give me your word upon that. The world now, is filled with jackals and other scavengers- who wait for the others to fall. And the moment they do- they never, would have another chance to raise up! I need all the help that I can get from you. WE SHOULD UNITE OUR HANDS AND LIGHT UP THE FIRE TO WARD THEM OFF! YOU, my brothers, YOU are the future. YOU are my strength! Your hands on mine- together we would hunt them! Drive them off to their dens and close their gates! DO I HAVE YOUR WORD"?
"YES!! YES!!!"
Govardhan hurried back- making sure that there was no one apart from him and his shadow. He walked fast- past the crowd. Past the people of the Earth.
He soon reached the end of the ground- away from the crowd. There was just one other shadow, behind the tree. The shadow, probably sensed that someone was coming near. So, it let the light fall upon it. There stood a man now, facing Govardhan. He was smirking.
"Well. what does he say"?
"He does not agree. And he's definitely not pleased by the way you are trying to deal with him", replied Govardhan.
"He said that, did he? The 'Leader'? He knows that if this news gets out, let alone being 'Leader'; he very well knows what he'd become! Did he tell you that too? That..."
"Yes, he did. But he says that he has still got one work for you. And he said that you, and only you can do it for him", said Govardhan, his eyes, never leaving the other man's face. He was a master. He knew how to handle men. He knew- that one blink of an eye- and he'd lose the man.
".... I AM GOING TO BRING YOU CHANGE!"
The clap was so loud that the whole ground was vibrating to the rhythm of the clap!
"Brothers! Listen to me carefully. There are forces around that are trying to take away things from you- that are yours. We must identify those forces. We must not let them take away our happiness! We need to be together. We need to control those forces together. We are the brothers. Brothers, who would fight with these forces. We would form an army of power and love- a combination that could never be broken by any force upon this Earth. We would march together into the new world! Would you walk along with me, my brother? I am prepared to shed the last drop of my blood for the new world! Would you shed your blood with me? Would you give your life today, so that there could be a smile upon your child's face, tomorrow? WOULD YOU....."
There was an abrupt pause. Every single eye turned towards the back of the ground... Towards those blazing flames from a moving pyre...
That winter, gave me a story. Gave me a home. Gave me dreams to carry along... That house, is a legend.
There was a portrait that had always been there, conspicuously on that wall. Some said that it belonged to the man of the house. Some, said that it belonged to her lost love. But everyone had to agree upon one thing. The portrait had a soul and its vibrancy was palpable. And when one looks at it, one is bound to smile! The elegance and the poise. If this had been the man, who had captivated her heart, then he was bound to be worthy of her! There where he looked, no one could ever look… It was known only to him. His vision- as clear as that of an albatross! Strange thing, smile. One never knows why one smiles. And one is never able to understand why they are being smiled at. It's very simple. It's just smile. No thoughts. Only smile! She had drawn him. Prabhat, beautifully put that to me. "May be she put that life into that portrait, that she could never live with him- the unsung melody…" I don't know, why. But, I smiled.
All I wanted was truth. Is that true then, that anything, but truth is available to man? I wanted to find out about her life and her mysterious portrait. Prabhat had warned me, that it was never going to be possible. She never let anyone into her mind. But I was confident. There, I stood, watching that portrait. I knew then, that I could find something. A strange sense of belonging there. Prabhat spoke suddenly, "You do realize what you are doing, don't you? Why do you even want to try"? I couldn't answer at once. The portrait... I was trapped. "Avani"? I was startled! I realized that Prabhat was standing beside me, talking to me.. "Yes? ", I replied. But it felt, as though, the reply came from a distant land from someone whom I knew not. Prabhat was smiling..
That house was a legend. Each of its brick had a story to tell. So I had heard. And Prabhat was a wonderful guide. He knew what to tell me. And he told me just that. The gramophone on the mahogany table. A centaury old memory of muted music. Prabhat played a record. The music from it came from another era. The walls were changing. The walls of that house, I felt, were trying to re-live the past…Still, they tried- just to show us, how it used to be. As though to show us the right from wrong... I felt so. The walls were changing. The song was playing. Prabhat was looking at me. He had never looked at me, that way before that day. He was looking at me, as though he had been looking at me like that, for eons. The walls were changing. Prabhat came closer. He held my hand. He was still looking at me as though he had known me for ages. He spoke, softly, "I now think, you are ready to see her"…
The wood beneath my hand, perhaps realized that my pulse was quickening. They were trying to calm me down. But it was a long walk to the room above. Prabhat was helping me as I climbed the stairs. May be the wood beneath my hand had spoken to him. I felt better. I didn't talk much. In fact, I had not talked the entire while, we were at the house! It was not like me. I talked my life. Usually. But today, I was listening. For the first time in my life- I was listening to the house. The moment I entered that house, I knew that the house had recognized me. They were calling out my name as someone would call out to their old friend.. "Avani..Avani.." I heard my name, from all around. And that was why, I was listening. I had reached the floor above. And from here, I had stopped hearing my name. There was only silence. An eloquent silence. A silence that I did not feel like breaking. Prabhat was beside me. He led me through a door. I was entering into a new world…
Eyes, when closed- may seem just closed. But thoughts may fill in those eyes and mind. Mind- a mysterious non-being, or is it a being, for no one knows! Memories, coming together and forming a dream- that appears so real, that it seems to be the future! What is future? No one knows. Not even those who claim to know. Pretty sights of coloured walls! Whatever that means, one knows not. One only knows this- that she lay there, with her eyes closed. But her eyes, one knew- were filled with dreams!
Prabhat's voice was waking me up-"Avani is here, grandma".. She opened her eyes. I felt as though I was now being a part of her dream. She smiled...
Chandraprabha. I had heard a different story. A story of a woman, of heart as hard as iron. A woman whose life had been dedicated to build a home out of a house. But here, I saw a person, who was like any one of us. No. She was not like any one of us. She was as soft as the first touch of a new born. Prabhat had left my side and had sat himself on her bed. "Avani is here, grandma…”
She looked at me. And when she did, I felt I was all alone. I was there. And no one else. Her eyes were looking at mine. And mine only. It was nothing like one human seeing the other. There- her eyes, looked at mine- and mine only. There were no thoughts reflecting her mindwhen she saw me. Not like a misty outline of a stranger in front. But she was seeing a being. Someone deep inside me. When Chandraprabha looked into my eyes, I felt her seeing me. Me.
I tried to look at her. But I could not. May be it was the life she had lived until today. But all her thoughts were too heavy for me. I could not look at her. I looked at her feet, instead. And in that moment, she spoke. Her voice, as clear as the stream jumping over a few pebbles beneath its surface. "She's beautiful Prabhat.. Come here, child"…I moved closer, my eyes, never leaving her feet. She signaled me to sit on her bed. I did as I was told. She spoke again, "So, you wish to know my story? So Prabhat tells me…" I raised my eyes, to look into her's. Her eyes were smiling.. They knew, somehow, what I would say. I replied, "No. I don't anymore". Prabhat began, "But… you…" Chandraprabha spoke, "Good then. I hope you like being here, as much as I do"... I could now, look into her eyes- strangely. I said, "I am sure, I will". She said, “Now that we understand each other, better, I wish to be excused…" Prabhat, from the way he looked, I knew that he understood nothing. I spoke, "We'd take your leave, then". And we left her room. But her eyes followed me, till I had reached the door. I turned back to see them; they had the same look upon them. She was smiling. Her dreams had come back to her eyes. And now, I could see them too.
It was snowing outside. Prabhat had lighted the fire. We were sitting near the window, watching the snow fall on the window pane. It was sometime later; I realized that he was looking at me. I smiled. He smiled back. He said, "Thank you. I don't know what happened between the two of you, but I have never seen her like this before. Thank you". I did not reply. I looked outside the window. He was still looking at me. I turned towards him again. He spoke, again, "But you could have asked her, about the portrait. About who was the man in that portrait? For I felt that she would have told you.. Why didn't you ask"? I said, "I don't want to know anymore. So I did not ask". He, I felt, was not convinced. I continued, "Prabhat, whoever he may be, must have been a great man, who had seeped in her heart. And their relationship, defies discussion". Prabhat turned to look at the snow. I continued, "I can ask her, if you want to know it". He turned back to me. With a strange look in his eyes. The next moment that look was gone. And he smiled, and said, "No, you need not. I am convinced that I had brought you home".
That winter, gave me a story. Gave me a home. And gave me dreams to carry along. Chandraprabha, or grandma, as I may now call her, had passed on her dreams to me, that winter evening. The house let me in. The house, had probably spoken to her too, about me. Told her what they had told me. She preferred to rest. It was snowing, outside. It was now, next winter. The house was as elegant as ever. It's peaceful slumber, undisturbed by the sudden stranger who had entered into its life, a year before. For I was no longer a stranger to the house. The mahogany table with the gramophone, still played the same song from the other era. The wood beneath my hand, silently thanked me, as I climbed up the stairs to go upstairs. The portrait still lives. The only new thing in that house was a portrait of Chandraprabha, grandma, beside the portrait of the one, she had loved.
There is a love there- that exists- even when there is never anything said about it. It fills, only the heart where it is felt. There is never any questions asked. No answers given. It chooses to be that way. And it should remain that way. A few are able to understand that love. And a few are able to feel it. It gives no reason, no explanation. But chooses to remain, alive- as ever.
From above those stairs, I could see them both, looking delightful together on those walls…And I felt a tear drop from my eyes, as I felt her eyes on me, feebly thanking me. The snow had settled itself on the window pane, as she had left my side, to join him, on their portrait home...
"Nainon mein badra chaaye.." playing. And I'm here trying to look beyond the past! Strange. But I've never written such a post before! For me, my blog is sacred. There should never be some off the mind write-up on it. So, I used to think. But I got this strange idea, while tagging my photograph at my Facebook profile page!
Madhubala. Beauty that could never be put in words. Every time I see her on screen, I get inspired. The eyes bringing out pain, love and innocence all at once. When I have a house that I could call my own, I plan to have one of her pictures, in the hall, along with my favourite Ravi Verma paintings!
The other day, while traveling in the train, I saw an 'Aravaani'. That's how they are called here. She was so beautiful. I did not know whether to admire her or pity her. For I did not feel that it would be fair to do both together. What's the point of all this?
Memories. There are some photographs in our hearts that stay with us forever. They never fade. I remember- the expression on my mom's face when I got her a gift from my first salary. The drop of a tear that came out of my friend's eyes, on our last day of college. The moment when I received my first punishment. The moment alone, on terrace, playing with sand and stones spread about. But everyone has such memories. What is new about that?
No. There is nothing new about that. No. This is not about trying to look beyond the past.
When the dreams about future start clouding the eyes, the past becomes a faded; misty portrait on the luxurious walls of a brand new home. And the dreams never show you these photographs. For there is always a space there, in those frames, that could accommodate more. When the eyes begin to search for the details of the pictures, they are nowhere to be seen! But there is a strange feeling in seeing them. Somewhere inside, a voice whispers, proudly- I used to be that! Suddenly, you feel defensive. You say to yourself- And now, I am this! The gap hangs there.
Even now, I enjoy listening to Ghantasala singing to the tunes of Aadi Narayana Rao. I like watching the black and white movies with prince and princess floating on a flying carpet! Some of my friends laugh at me. There was a time when I felt afraid to share my tastes with them. Not anymore. But what is wrong in listening to these songs? Watching these movies?
I wish to confess something here. I love to spend a holiday shut in a room, all alone. "Main aur meri tanhaayee".. we don't talk. But we like sharing those moments of silence together. That's what we have in common. Flashes from the past- come in and go away. We never feel awkward. We rather enjoy it.
A note on 'Getting a life'! Isn't this a life too?
I see an old lady, trying to sell fishes, each day. She sits all day long under the scorching heat of the Chennai city. And each day, she hopes to sell something. The quantity however, remains the same- morning and evening. Yet, she sits there, everyday. With the same hope of selling her fish. Does that mean, she is not living? No. Infact, she's the one who is most alive! She lives each day on a hope. She lives hoping. Her hope is her strength to live. Her pulse- her hope!
Sometimes, those faded pictures on the frames, tell us things. They had always been telling. But there was no one listening to it. Try listening.. There would never be any need to get defensive, the next time you confront the picture. There won't be any gaps!
Looking beyond the past is not about living in future. Past is not just memories. Past is a life. A life lead with a hope of a future. A hope that bore fruit and brought you here. And there are some clues out there- yet to be explored, in the past. Life is a treasure hunt- and to reach on to the treasure, the future needs to find those clues. The future, needs to look, beyond the past...
A year back, this day, I realized something. It was a realization that I could never forget. Time never plays fair...
It's an affair that knocks our doors every day of the year. People in agony. Dying anonymously- along with those thousand other nameless faces.. Acts of terrorism tearing apart families.. It is not uncommon. Humans born each day- humans taken away! It's a normal cycle of life.
Somewhere- along those lines- these humans begin to forget the fact that they are soon going to be taken away. The result of which is family. There are people who become a part of you. There are people, who smile for you.. grieve for you.
Time never plays fair. On another note, I don't think so. It happens. For it happens.
Still, I wonder at times! How easy it is for us to write things? "I felt sad","My heart was ripped apart..","Plunging into the depths of sorrow..". WORDS! And I am a person, who believes in the power of words..
Sometimes, there are things, that can never be justified by words. Truth, innocent questions of a child, the happiness of a mother holding her new born.. And there are other things too..
I have seen my family, crumbling at a loss- too heavy. A family losing its pillar of strength. A sister losing a brother, whom she held in hand once.. Seen him grow.. Make their father proud! Her tears don't justify her loss.
A tear is that which comes out of a self, only when the self is completely 'castaway'. I feel crippled- here I am sitting and staring at the television- hearing the turn of tables each and everyday- what could I do? what should I do? what can I do? NOTHING! It's a year- my mom cries almost every single day over her brother's death.. Our tears cannot justify his death.. Our tears can never justify our loss.. All that we now have,
I danced to the tunes of the Kucha roads- the crowded bus that usually carried more people than it actually could; the people- vendors, farmers, teachers; and their goods- everything became a part of my life. Years of travel in the same bus, I had learned to be friendly with the broken seats and sweating people. I was a part of their lives, each day- and so, I was a part of their stories. But in my story, there was one man, whom everyone knew- and also, did not!
All day long, he used to sit beneath the tamarind tree. He was very old- some said he was over hundred and a few- over thousand! All I knew was- he was old- he wore clothes that were dirty and torn at odd places. He had an old shawl to wrap himself at night time. Sometimes, he was smoking, what they call- a Beedi. Most of the time- he only sat there- did nothing but stare hard at the sky.
I felt oddly pleased to see that man everyday. Just looking at him, made me smile- I felt that he was inspiring me in some way- I saw no purpose in looking at him- but I looked at him everyday, nevertheless. It gave me a satisfaction! And my liking for him, had what made him a part of my story.
Mausiji. That was how we called her. She was so loud that people at the bus, dreaded her sitting beside them. She sold flowers at the nearby town and that day, I played her host! Mausiji was full of questions. About my name, my family, my profession- and she was full of suggestions. She had her opinion on everything- from the colour of my shirt to the furniture in my house. She said that her generation really knew the way the world functioned. She knew everyone in the bus- and had opinions on them too.
"You see him? The one with the white cap- he sells milk. He had been trying to save all his income. But he has this wife who eats like a pig. Poor fellow! All his saving goes straight into her food! And that Kashiram? He gambles away everything! I always say…"
I switched myself off, mentally, when she came around to that. But suddenly, my attention was brought back when she said-
“See that old man under the tamarind tree”?
“Yes.. Do you know anything about him”?
"Of course. Don’t you know? He used to be a big man- very rich- a Zamindar(landlord). The whole village had belonged to him- but that is past! He’s lost everything. All that he’s got now is- that shawl. He sits there all day long, waiting for his son, who’d gone off, somewhere! They say, he was a very bad father- he’s repenting! I always say…”
Poor man. I wonder how he feels. It is really bad- to own everything and to see them go off your hands- yet, unable to forget the past- for everything always stays in front of your eyes!
All night, I was unable to take him off my mind. I tossed and turned in my bed- I felt sorry for him. The stranger, though he was- however, a part of my life. Govind, the milkman- was always pleasant. When he smiled at people, they felt light and happy. I’d always liked him.
“… and our Sarpanch(village-chief) told us that he’s speak to the big officers. We’ll soon another bus”.
He had news about the village, about the town- about people.
“… they were telling me the other day that Prakash was arrested- did you know? They’ll soon arrest the old man under the tamarind tree too, I hope…”!
“What? Arrest the old man! Why”?
“Oh, don’t you know? He’s a bandit”?
I couldn’t accept the dear old man being a bandit. A Zamindar worked better with me, however. But, I certainly couldn’t help myself- being curious.
“He was a notorious bandit. Years before, he looted people and killed them, mercilessly. People were terrified. They say, he sits under that tree, all day long, guarding all his booties. No one dares go near him for he had laid a curse upon the tree. If anyone else, but him, goes near the tree, their nose would start to bleed and they’d die. Munshiji told..”
The old man was a bandit?! I couldn’t get myself to believe about the curse, but at least, it proved why he sat beneath the tree, always! I still couldn’t accept him being a bandit- so the information only increased my curiosity.
From that day, I stared looking at him more closely. I noticed that there was a mark on his cheek- a sort of scar left by a deep wound. I was beginning to believe Govind- and I was fascinated. The story of the old man was becoming more intriguing- each day.
It was around 8:00 pm. I was tired. I usually reached home by eight. I had had a busy day. The bus moved so slow. It made me think that I could walk faster than the bus. But I was tired. And all I could do was- to wait till I reached home.
Suddenly, there was a jerk and a noise. The bus had stopped. Break down. Some of us got down and pushed the bus to the nearby village. It was the old man’s village. But there was no old man beneath the tree! I felt strange to see the tree without the old man. It felt odd- vacant!
I joined the others, who were gathered at the nearby tea stall. I bought myself a cup of tea. The people were talking. But I couldn’t bring myself to listen to them- until I heard- “.. the old man under the tamarind tree, vanished..”
I turned around so fast that the man behind me, who was just speaking, spilled his tea all over himself! I apologized and enquired about the old man.
He said, “Don’t you know? He vanished”!
“What do you mean- vanished”?
“Vanished! He evaporated! Gone off to the Himalayas where he came from. He was a holy man- a Siddha- who knew the past, present and the future. He’d been under the tamarind tree- meditating, for hundreds of years; protecting us all. He’s gone back to the Himalayas to finish his penance. We’ve planned to build a temple for him, under the tamarind tree- where he’s left behind his spirit for the benefit of the villagers. The Sarpanch…”
So the old man was gone. And no one knew where- but he had left behind his memories- for everyone to remember and to share. For me, he’d always remain as the old man under the tamarind tree- a part of my life, my story.
Dark. The night was as dark as the heart of a murderer. But I felt safe. Mother was beside. Her warmth protected me against just anything. All my anxieties wither away- just one touch of hers, does wonders to me. The quiet night, was only destined to be quiet for a while. But we were not supposed to know yet. I felt the eternal quiet- a night, so calm and peaceful- an assurance brought about due to the sense of another being present beside- one whom you could touch and trust.
I lay lost in thoughts. I couldn’t sleep. I was just too happy. Everybody had been so happy that day. The day I was born. Father said that he had not ever been happier- than the day I was born. I knew he had spoken the truth. His eyes had never lied to me. My mother had probably guessed that I was not sleeping. She had started to pat me… gently. How come mothers know that? I could never understand that.
It had been an unusually quiet night. So quiet, that I could almost hear my own thoughts. I turned in my bed. I could see father. I think that I had got the best father in the whole world. Mother had been complaining since a few days back about “difficult days ahead”. I never understood what she meant by that. But father! He had never complained- about anything. He had always made sure that we were happy. He said- “It’s a man’s shame that his women complain. I would never let my little princess cry”. And he was a man of his words.
There were noises. Distant noises- coming closer- slowly- then rapidly. And all of a sudden- it ceased to be a quiet night. There were cries everywhere. People ailing. Crying out in pain- agony. People angry. People, in rage. In panic, in despair. It was a moment in my life when I felt all the human emotions- simultaneously. What was the cause of this commotion? I wondered.
Suddenly, I felt myself being lifted up by such a force- that I was being pulled back onto the firm ground from the land in my dream. It was mother. I could see her crying. Why was she crying? Father was beside her. The look on his face… What was it? Could that be fear? No. But it was fear. A strange helplessness- despair, had crept into him. I had never seen him like that. He looked at me. I tried to smile. But I couldn’t. I felt that my doubtful, uncertain glance at him had only weakened him. We were running. Like fugitives. Like animals being hunted. But why?
I saw people on the road. Some were holding up torches. The flames from the torches were not as bright as their eyes that shone with mad pleasure. Some of them had swords. Some- knives, spears. They were beating and killing everyone. I could recognize some of the people who were running along with us. Those were the people, who were being killed- tortured. We ran faster and faster. The noise around was unbearable. May be, we were dead. And we were in hell… What else could it be?
Suddenly, I had fallen off my mother’s clutches. And before I could realize what was happening, my mother had ceased to run. In fact, she had ceased to move, talk or cry. She was not… was she? Where is father? I looked around. Some of the men with swords were holding him. I started running towards him. He looked at me, and when he fell down, he was still looking at me. The men with swords were coming closer, towards me. I was not running. I was not crying. They were standing, now, facing me. Judging me. The noise was dying down. I could now see, only their eyes staring into mine. I heard myself say, “What did I do”? And all I could hear was, the echo of silence…
