It’s been a while since the nightingales sang in the darkness, fidgeting on boughs swaying in the night-wind. It’s been a while since the fingers splattered on the keyboard like an impromptu rain.
There is this dike thin as rice paper, holding back rivulets of waste and repentance that I dare not let loose on my patrons. Yet I must insist the thread that airs the lungs is silken but, the dew in the eyes real and the aviary abuzz.
Forgive me then, if you stopped by this blog and heard no strains, found no wind nor rain on the dusty panes. It has all been here all this while, though more as a forgotten tongue than skinned lungs.
What follows today then is not the next chapter of the story that I had set forth to finish in the month of May, and we are well-nigh into September, but an aside that is a reminder of the music that can be heard only when the last scores have been sung by the tribesmen, of notes that have the foremost claim on our existence if we must be a part of the flock and earn the requisite grease day after day. Life forces its lessons upon us till we are a part of the lessons.
I remember one of the first adages I came upon early in my life was imparted by my beloved father who is now just a memory on a wall. It was a source of immense surprise to my tiny brain that only the wearer knows where the shoe pinches! The wisdom set me thinking for days as I kept staring at the shoes of the folks and their faces in quick succession, trying hard to imagine their respective agonies till I came upon a man crushed like a cane by a lorry on the blood-soaked tarmac. It was a ghastly sight to the pair of father and son and even as he hastily withdrew me from the infernal vision I was seized by the revelation that only the crushed could know how the wheels of lorry grind the body. ‘Sad, but true!’ my guardian sighed. I had taken the premise to its logical conclusion.
No, I am not setting up a preface to blame my friends (and foes) for my woes, naturally unimaginable on their parts. Besides, he who sleeps will have nightmares too, the meaning of which will be lost upon the rest of the flock except the astrologers among us. The long and the short of the anecdote is that some pains are not worth dwelling upon, or burdening others with their unsavoury constituents.
I am, of course, referring to the mandatory periodical uprooting, or ‘transfers’, as they are innocuously referred to, and the inevitable severance from places and people one comes to bond with as humans, and the consequent crash-landing on alien anthills. It is a common enough fate for certain classes of servants, but the latent calamities it wreaks upon each member of their families is as different in shape and texture as the mincemeat produced by hit and run rendezvous on freeways.
Unfortunately, there is no way to determine whose mincemeat wins the trophy for being the most remarkable over the rest. That said, mine has manifestations of a coma that has blunted the tip of my pen temporarily. But, as the Terminator said, I’ll be back! Remember, I do not belong to these strings that twirl me like a marionette.
With that brief caw in the deepening nightfall, I wish to leave a scratch on the soot of silence, and leave with a promise to return from a pernicious future to correct the course of my scrolls, and attend the unfinished businesses on One Grain Amongst the Storm.