The observer and the observed

It was early morning. The sky was still sleeping in the hammock stretched between stars, stealing the final moments of the bluish dark of an early morning. The earth smelled of the cool breeze and the breeze had the fragrance of soil. Everything was stationary as though frozen in some picture whose soul was everywhere but in the picture. The hills were visible through the mist that hovered over the plains. It seemed as if the mist and fog were bedazzled by the splendour and might of hill and chose to tread on the lowly lands. Everything was silent and the only sound one could hear was the song of the dawn audible only to those who cared to wait and listen. The breeze was also quiet, thickened by the laziness of the night.

Esteban twitched in his bed. He opened and then closed his eyes, trying to live the final moments of a dying dream. He waited for the crow of the roosters. The first lights of the cold sun were faintly visible over the horizon. Esteban labored to open his eyes to escape the temptation of morning sleep. Reluctantly he got up and walked to the water pot in the corner of the hut. He splashed his face with cold water. As he wiped his face he tried to remember the dream he had. Most of it was lost by the touch of reality. He wondered about the world of dreams and the way they appear more alive and close to heart.

The sheep in the pen were also awake from the stupor of sleep and eagerly awaited to be herded to the pastures where the grass was flavored with tears of night. Esteban was calm and lost as he led the sheep to the greens. His mind was silent and observant and his face was radiant with the glow of imagination and thought. There was not a sound anywhere. Estebancraned his neck to look for the orange glow over the hills. He was startled by the unusual calm as he pressed his ears against nothing to hear the whisper of the wind.

The sheep walked in a rush as Esteban led them from the back. He wanted to be one of them for a while, nonchalant and dependent. He was tired of the daily chores and the only satisfaction he had had for days was lying back against the trunk of the mango tree and gaze at the birds flying over the blue horizon. At times he left his body and entered that of a bird. He flew over hills and lakes, looking at things from a different perspective, looking at his body balanced against the tree trunk, eyes distant and liquid.

The moon was still etched on the sky. Stretched against the infinite and seamless expanse, it resembled an old ship lost in a very ancient sea. The ghost of the moon ship longed for a port to lay down its anchor and rest its tired sails. The observer craved to be observed. Esteban looked up at the cloudless sky. The outline of the orange mixed with hint of yellow and red was visible over the hill. It belonged to some other world looking down at Esteban, his sheep and the green pastures bathed in sorrow of beauty. The upcoming day looked nonchalantly at dusk dissolving in small waves. In that moment of communion between day and night, one totality made way for other, one tired giant celebrated the victory of other. The moment was of submission, of sleep, of hope.

The pasture was the color of greenish black stone. The sheep quickly dispersed over the emerald glaze. Esteban walked slowly to the mango tree. The tree was still in sleep, silent and quiet as the dark of the early hours. He removed the bag from his shoulders, stretched his arms and poised himself against the wide trunk. He looked at the sheep, lost in their own minds, thoughtfully chewing the grass. Esteban thought “The sheep are saints. They meditate, think and maintain silence.” He slowly closed his eyes mirroring what was inside on the screen of his soul. His mind was a whirlpool of thoughts as he tried to silence it.

It could not have been more than five minutes but ages had passed since he had closed his eyes and wafted over the breeze mingling with stardust. Everything around was still extraordinarily quiet. Frozen in eternity, the vibration of life radiated every small object. The physical dependence was lost in the freedom of mind. The chains broke as Esteban plunged deep inside his imagination, creating and shaping the curve of everything beautiful.

Esteban thought “I am not actually hearing the golden sound of molten wax. This cannot be. It is just not possible to realise something so distant that even folktales elude it.” His muteness was shaken by the voice of sorrow, of love, of freedom, of beauty, of dreams, of wings over the distant hill. He looked around, ears pressed against wind, drinking the finest drop of that melting beauty. The sun was ephemeral, rays embracing the green of the grass. A million rainbows sparkled in the dew drops, bringing a million Gods, a million Devils to a standstill. Esteban looked up at the almond tree in bloom. The canvas was sketched against the blue orange eternity. One picture was painted inside other. The resplendence of goodness rained over the seed of hidden petals. And there perched on one of the highest branches, mixing with the radiance of the golden rays, stood a bird. The majesty of existence was summarized in one creation. The aura of truth was revealed at one sight. The bird was no creation of awe and amazement. It was no work of grandeur. In fact the beauty was so hauntingly simple that it amazed Esteban that why couldn’t he ever imagine such a thing. The bird was singing the song of frigid memories, bringing back to life tiny bubbles of fazed longings and forgotten dreams. Esteban tried to escape from his body to rest his tired soul in the voice of the Golden feathered bird. He tried harder and the more he tried, the more his soul clung to him. It refused to leave and create an imaginary universe, paralyzed by the fear of getting lost forever.

Hours passed and the song went on and on, shining with the rays of climbing sun, misted by the clouds, crying in the afternoon showers, promising for a return with the descent of sun over the hills. Esteban leaned on to his stick and whistled for the sheep to return. His voice reverberated in his ears, mixing with the sound of the evening clatter of birds. The sheep ledEsteban in obedience. Their saintliness was teeming with the satisfaction of satiation. Esteban had no words. He had forgotten his usual rush to return early. His steps were in slow motion. His being was silent while his mind sang a thousand tunes.

Esteban retired to bed early. His quiet mind feverishly searched for the nostalgia of the song he was immersed in. He closed his eyes and transcended into a familiar world. He looked at the green pasture enveloped in seas of darkness. The hills were a ghostly serene blue in the shower of moonlight. The mango tree slept with Esteban in the arms. The wind halted over his face, breathing over his postured body. And there over the hills in the depths of the lake he often dreamt of, stood the almond tree with the Golden winged Bird perched on the topmost branch, singing the song of full moon midnights.

I feel like an Idiot

Its 12:17 A.M. I've just had a smoke without really wanting to. I had it coz I felt like an idiot, chasing something I don't even know I feel for right now. I thought of writing this in word and stashing it in documents folder, never to be seen on read again till a few years down the line When I would have looked at it and thought well!!! I wasn't such an idiot after all. But here I am posting this in a public space coz the sight of a blank word document staring at me brings out what all I have been seeing inside me. A total void, a seething confusion, a complete forgetfulness of who i am and what i seek from life.

Lately I have been in two minds. Its no novel situation for me. I have always been in double states, always looking at the greener grass on the other side and invariably at all times when I have moved ahead I long to gaze back as i realize that the pasture i so despised and wanted to flee was the one which was my fold. At times I feel that I realize things later, later than they are to be understood and lived for and in this wanton mode i always miss to stay back and live in the present. Am too much of a past guy with eyes always set to some future which am not even sure of. Life has turned into one incongrous oxymoronic experience.

I love to write. I have always wanted to write a book and each and every time i read a moving piece, I think I could have written it. They all start speaking of my life, my meanderings and my poetry. I get so obsessed with the idea that I dream it often. I dream of writing, ideas springing in my head aimlessly. I would dream of plots and characters and in my dreams i would take a resolve that as soon as i get up I would pen it all down before it sinks back into the oblivion of my head. But with an uncanny ability of procrastination, I always leave it for some future date when am calm and composed and settled and when I could have all the time I wished for without the hurt and rush of accomplishing and striving for. I while away my time in wait for some day when all signals would be green and I could drive with the wind in my face and tears in my eye.

I take chances. I have always. Life to be is never stagnant but in pursuit of the unknown that i desire and hope for I never take an opportunity to sit and see life as it is. Am always torn between 'what is' and 'what ought to be' and 'what could be'.

I always want to write and say each and every thought that bubbles but i restrain for I don't want to sound like an idiot. Guess this is the reason I am one. In my pursuit for that tiny bit of happiness, i have often let gone the spontaneity and innocence I have so cherished.

But it all isn't about my desire to be a writer. It's about my soliloquy. At times I have glorified it, considering it the note that makes me who I am and pulls me back from joining the herd in some frantic chase of some ideal or state everyone is running after. On the contrary, I also have considered joining that herd, losing myself, forgetting who i am, forgetting who I want to be. The debate is always conventionalism v. conventionalism. It's the battle between succumbing and succumbing and resurrecting. It's between who i think I am and who I am not. Its between my fixed perceptions and my hatred for dogma. As i said it is always an oxymoronic existence for me.

I feel tired, sucked out of life, waiting to be resuscitated, waiting to be pushed over the cliff so that as i get into the free fall I could fly.