Some nights, if I turn the right angle of right and cradle my ears into a certain hollow in my pillow, I can hear the rains.Many a times, I turn up around and strain my ears or glance through the window to my left, mostly to find a dark,silent night streaming into my room,disturbed by neon triangles and the lonely songs of the whirring fan.I turn back again,pillow to my chest, carefully trying to settle my head, back into the magic crevice,listening to the rains that seem to drift in from within infinity.
As a child, I'd unconsciously carved out my own reality, a curious colourful one, where shapes and colours continued to dance in harmony. I remember seeing the world in patterns, making fishes out of window grills, and strange faces out of bamboo furniture. I particularly remember making a peculiar connection between the half watered hole of the cistern and a droopy face. To this day, for reasons I will fail to analyse, it reminds me of a droopy man,with his mouth half open.
Like the many threads that we carry into our present, from the mingled yarn of our childhood past,we do, at times, tend to lose a few. The feeling we get,however, from finding one lost thread again- one long lost thread, especially when tangled within the webs of our undulating present and the penumbra of our future- is almost akin to the warmth of a mother's hug.
When I was in school,I'd developed a notion that the wood in my desk was capable of trapping sound. Placing my ear on the wooden desk, I could hear a low drone of ancient voices,words which were now lost in its multitude,punctuated by the occasional slamming downs of the wooden lids,faint shouts-haunts of the hundreds of teenage girls who'd spent many a summer afternoon making memories amidst periodic tables,animal cells,topo-sheets and the courtrooms of the Cholas.
I'd quite forgotten about this queer notion of mine, when I remembered the other day in college, while resting my head from a particularly lengthy lecture.
Life is often strange,frequently beautiful, and almost always quite cynical and amoral. It is such an aimless conglomeration of ideas and feelings running astray,pounding around the self-made boundaries which promise freedom.And us silly,vain little things constantly trying to analyse and compartmentalise- as if that solves anything,as if that helps anything in any way at all.
Lets just be,why don't we?:)
As a child, I'd unconsciously carved out my own reality, a curious colourful one, where shapes and colours continued to dance in harmony. I remember seeing the world in patterns, making fishes out of window grills, and strange faces out of bamboo furniture. I particularly remember making a peculiar connection between the half watered hole of the cistern and a droopy face. To this day, for reasons I will fail to analyse, it reminds me of a droopy man,with his mouth half open.
Like the many threads that we carry into our present, from the mingled yarn of our childhood past,we do, at times, tend to lose a few. The feeling we get,however, from finding one lost thread again- one long lost thread, especially when tangled within the webs of our undulating present and the penumbra of our future- is almost akin to the warmth of a mother's hug.
When I was in school,I'd developed a notion that the wood in my desk was capable of trapping sound. Placing my ear on the wooden desk, I could hear a low drone of ancient voices,words which were now lost in its multitude,punctuated by the occasional slamming downs of the wooden lids,faint shouts-haunts of the hundreds of teenage girls who'd spent many a summer afternoon making memories amidst periodic tables,animal cells,topo-sheets and the courtrooms of the Cholas.
I'd quite forgotten about this queer notion of mine, when I remembered the other day in college, while resting my head from a particularly lengthy lecture.
Life is often strange,frequently beautiful, and almost always quite cynical and amoral. It is such an aimless conglomeration of ideas and feelings running astray,pounding around the self-made boundaries which promise freedom.And us silly,vain little things constantly trying to analyse and compartmentalise- as if that solves anything,as if that helps anything in any way at all.
Lets just be,why don't we?:)
