A white butterfly flipped its wings so as to dance in the blue sky ,partly kissing the green and slender leaves of tamarind tree that stood beside the red brick fort of the British Empire.The scintillating trance of that little beautiful creature made me fall
into the depths of a floating day dream.
In my dream I chucked out a contemporary celebrated writer ,who always wrote about spirituality and love in a capsule format.It was with a startling shock ,I happened to realize the fact that his first book was a stolen masterpiece from Latin America.The writer stood behind the door of my library for a few seconds and left.
I sat on a chair in front of the window of my library which was regarded as my favorite spot in my home.From the window ,upon a turn ,my gaze sailed up to Marquiz shore ,where i could find "The Love in the Time of Cholera" in focus.As a matter of instinctual impulse ,i had a burning desire to write about the lips
of my love.I wrote these lines in the scribbling book that I had kept on my table.
" The scattered light from the mango tree with its enchanting warmness along with the breeze poured a stream of love which in turn made me happy.I wished,if I could see her again.I waited for near the wall painted in yellowish green ,where King Napolean's
words are inscribed .The shadow of the banyan tree near the wall along with its constant murmuring reminded me the taste of her lips,in fact love...
I was not satisfied with what I had written so I instantly striked them out with red ink pen.
When my daughter woke up and ran towards my table screaming on her way saying Achaaaa ,we will play elephant ,we will play elephant .
I knew it from my own experience with my achamma that children tend to remember such instances of life till their last memory ends in complete silence.I have such memories of a three wheeled cycle and a song played in evening and velichsppadu with his sword.
Upon her request ,I shed my human skin and transformed to a big elephant.We walked through the library visiting every junction and corner.Upon walking
Dostoevsky smiled ,Kafka never said a word.It might be because ,he is an existentialist.
It seems to me like Gabbo and Pamuk where in discussion .Gogol and Chekhov watched us as characters in their own short story.Minutes passed by,
she told Achaa..Elephant might be thirsty.Elephant should drink some water.So it will be better ,if we go to the kitchen.
No Medha,Elephants can't go ti kitchens .They drink water at rivers and lakes.I ,the elephant lifted my fore arm like a tusk and imitated how elephant would drink water .But she was never satisfied . She said no no no achaaa.
"Elephant wont lift his leg while drinking water ". Haven't you seen Ice Age and how elephants drink.She went to her play room and brought a duck and fitted on my nose so that elephant could now use duck as his tusk and I repeated all action many times.
And my wife came with a coffee in a favorite crystal glass with blue scribbles ,the smell of coffee with elachi refreshed my mood.Come Medha ,we will tie our elephant in stable." .My wife has got amazing humor sense .We all laughed .
From noon to evening nothing much happened and ni impression of boring moments are recorded in dreams.In the evening me ,Swetha and Medha walked up to river side .We went to Kalikavu temple in Raghavettan's boat .I loved the way , Swetha smiles,when she admires Medha for her innocence in interacting with nature like talking to cats and waving to birds and giggling while chillness of the river stream touches her legs..
After I reached home , I saw wild strawberries in my home theater so that tomorrow
i could start taking class on Igmar Bergman's movies.It was a quarter past twelve ,still I am not feeling sleepy.The reason was as simple as the emptiness of an artist's life.
I realized the fact that ,I am in daydream that accidentally acted upon me on seeing the trance of a wonderful white butterfly.
Years passed by and one evening ,I come to know that all books of a celebrated writer
had gradually disappeared from my library .On my evening walk to the river side and on rewarding sail in Raghavettan's boat to kalikavu temple ,I happened to see a dancing white butterfly . I felt like all the events are repeating as in an old dream .The book, the boat ,the river ,the temple and finally the white butterfly,but not in that order.I rushed back to my room to check my writing books ,where i found some lines are striken out with red ink.
" The scattered light from the mango tree with its enchanting warmness along with the breeze poured a stream of love which in turn made me happy.I wished,if I could see her again.I waited for near the wall painted in yellowish green ,where King Napolean's
words are inscribed .The shadow of the banyan tree near the wall along with its constant murmuring reminded me the taste of her lips,in fact love..."
Every thing is repeating.I murmured. But the dream and reality never be alike. never.
They have to be different .After seeing wild strawberries for tomorrows class on Bergman's movies , I glanced over the clock to check the time.It was a quarter past twelve in the night.In my bedroom my love is slept.I tried to forget the fact that she has to catch the morning flight to Paris tomorrow.
A dream and a living reality .They never be the same. Some thing is missing .As I am on the verge of an enlightenment ,I smiled.It might be my imaginary wife and daughter ,in fact, a life....
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ഒരു അഭിപ്രായം പോസ്റ്റ് ചെയ്യൂ