Innocence of Childhood…

Cotton-wool clouds rolled into the blue sky as I rested in the dark shade beneath a spread of mango green, heavy with fruit.

The mango orchard was full of fragrant flowers and succulent fruits. Birds screeched as they flew from one branch to other. In the whole orchard, I was sitting alone; I looked like a butterfly resting on a leaf.

Suddenly I could hear voices; I looked around as a crowd entered into the orchard. Most of them were school kids, dressed in smart uniforms. Their hands were loaded with coloured toys.

There was a pond in one corner of the orchard, covered by trees. Some kids ran around the pond and few stood on the edge. The children giggled watching themselves in the clear water of the pond. They built pyramids and castles with sand beside the pond.

One child hurled a stone at a sleeping dog as another hurled a shell into the pond water. The first one laughed as the dog ran away with fear and the second laughed at the gentle ripple which spread as the shell fell into the water.

A whistling child came running to me and flashed his two-toothed smile. I made him sit on my lap but he was restless and managed to slip away.

Really, childhood is the best part of life and childhood memories are the sweetest ones to be cherished for the rest of life.

Random Thoughts on the Grave…

This is a post, which the reader may feel a bit harsh, a bit bitter and a bit sour to read. But as life is a combination of all tastes, here is a brief account of my random thoughts on the grave.

You can hear the echo of the skeleton’s laughter when you are near a grave. All through his life, man runs round and round the materialistic desires and after reaching the grave he realizes the truth that makes him have the last laugh on his life.

The grave is a place where dreams get shattered and are pulverized to dust. Simply, it can be called the place of burial. It is even a place where people cry all the salt out of their tears till the tears become salt-less and faces of surrounding people appear as white as marble.

Can a graveyard be considered a sacred place? Here is a real-life example which may assist you to answer the question. Once, in a crematorium, the pungent smell of burning human fat mixed with the thick smoke rising from the fire and moved towards the sky. The smoke of the pyre that got engulfed with burnt carbon particles was carried by the heavy wind that flew in the direction of a nearby temple and the devotees inhaled minute amounts of it. Here, the religion comes into question and can you call all those who have inhaled the part of that smoke while in prayer, impure? If they cannot be called so, then can the crematorium be considered as a sacred one.

Tears, wrung from the heart, soak through the white ashes of the bones devoured by the fire. Last remains of people keep lying in heaps of ashes all around the place. This cremation ground sees the end of all.

The crematorium keeper warms himself from the pyre flames in winter. Also, roses which bloom all over the grave look as beautiful as the ones which grow in the garden. Bees which collect nectar from the garden do collect it with the same enthusiasm in the graveyard also, suggesting that both life and death are not two distinctive paths but are like the parallel railway tracks which always run together but never dare to meet.

Man is like a thirsty deer that readily springs up and runs madly at the sight of a mirage, assuming it to be water, in a desert. All through his life he chases the illusions called desires and finally give up when he arrives at the grave.

The Restless Boy Returns…

This is a sequel to my September post “The Restless Boy”. Majority of the readers wanted a sequel and after taking my own time to bring it into a presentable manner, finally here it is. Go on my dear reader, check what the boy is up to this time. I’m sure you could spot mischief in his cute little eyes.

The rattling sound of bullock carts, herd of buffaloes grazing, earthen pots being sold on pavements, women walking on foot through mud tracks and balancing brass pots full of water on their hips, flakes of dull green cow dung on either sides of the road - yes, you guessed it right, we are at the threshold of a village, the place where the cute little boy lives. It is vacation time for him and we are sure to find him engrossed in games.

Now we have reached his house. His mother is sitting in the veranda and stitching a patch on the old umbrella. The jar which used to be packed with home-made country cakes is now empty; definitely the boy is not at home. As usual, he is on an outing. Come, let’s catch him.

The boy is nowhere to be seen. On his way home from school, he used to often spend hours in the mango orchard, wandering around in search of the ripened fruit. Sometimes he goes in search of a disused well and peeps into it to estimate its depth. But as it is vacation time, he does none of these and hence it’s difficult to spot him.

Look, there he is, the boy is as cheerful as ever. He is not wearing a shirt but is busy chasing dragon flies in the fields.

Look, the boy is sitting on the bamboo fence and staring at the chameleon. He is busy observing with innocent eyes, the way it changes its colour.

Look, the boy, though soaked in sweat, dances restlessly to the tune from the latest film as dust clings to his wearied feet.

Look, the boy is hiding among the rocks and feeding on the sunlight and the wind.

Look, the boy is sitting on the bank of a river and throwing stones into it. He laughs as the ripples shy away.

From clothesline hung in the courtyard, a crow caws as the boy returned home for lunch. He draws cool water from the deep well and takes a bath. He sings his favourite song while washing his dust stricken body. What is he having for lunch? Well, I could spot salty mango pickle on a green plantain leaf. Wait, he is now mixing the steaming rice with the pickle and ghee. He is gobbling tiny morsels of the steamy mixture.

Just after lunch, is the boy relaxing, where is he? Look, there he is in the garden, playing with earthworms of various sizes.

It was a long sun burnt day and finally after his days work, the sun was packing his bags, giving way to his counterpart, the cool moon. Oil was poured and the temple lamps were lighted. Then, the temple bells started ringing. The boy on hearing them ran down the lane and hurriedly climbed the steps and reached the temple.

There were fireflies in the temple surroundings and the boy looks astounded as he notices a spark at the end of each firefly’s tail. As the temple deity was being decorated with scented tulasi garlands, the boy smears his forehead with vibhuti and sindoor and offers prayers to God, wishing that his mother should give him innumerable chocolates, biscuits and sweet pan cakes.

the cute little boy is restless, as always…