About a week shy of the onset of the New Year, I presumptuously augmented the copyright notice at my blog to 2017. Don’t mistake me, I have long stopped caring about the trolls looking forward to plagiarizing my mumbling —anyone with an ounce of gumption would rather honk his or her own larynx. Perhaps my missed a blip pondering at its failing prowess in filling white spaces, ever hankering for a reassurance that would never come by. Will I or will I not toot my crumbling bugle in the forthcoming year, glue together hieroglyphs that engage my readers? It was a voodoo of sorts.
It could be a manifestation of the treadmill test that I failed recently, a harbinger to the scalpels of the cardiac surgeons. Although I am yet to slither into the ‘decade in which most people die’, the point at which George Michael flickered away ‘peacefully’ is not too distant a feature in the range ahead. And to think that I am yet to write the magical book that could make the judges cry.
I became acutely aware of the ways I may falter belying that promise I had shed like a teardrop in a moment of frailty. I felt a crater growing deep inside me eating up the innards in its wake. My limbs would slip into a daze beyond the reins of the brain in the night. My heart would lurch precipitously in the carapace of ribs in the sinewy gloom. Lungs would labour in the fugue induced by the insect repellent and mint balm. I yearned for a rendezvous with dawn.
Away from home, I remained on a high alert in the perilous civilization I dwell in. The cats in the neighbourhood, once fond of me, would rather not cross the tangent of my movement. The stray dog who has long coveted a pound of my derrière would look away at the invisible moon in the ozone and let out an ominous wail. The pigeons hitherto fond of discharging on the wasteland of my skull would flutter away in a huff at my sight. Gutter chutes and drains under my footsteps grew deeper and sinister in welcome. I could hear even the overhead power cables humming in wicked anticipation. Many times over, BMWs driven by pre-adolescent bums nearly made mincemeat of me.
Six more days to go, I told myself and I lived. And then, five, followed by four, and so on and so forth. And Voilà! There was the beatific New Year, luminous to all those who weren’t felled by the bullets and trucks of the terrorists, road crashes, cancers, haemorrhages and strokes. To be sure, it was much less aglitter to the kin of the perished and departed, and to many it was rearranged irrevocably in the aftermath. Then there were those to whom time was merely a curb in the continuum of astronomical space.
Some more sand has trickled into the lower cone of the hourglass and I can see through the vacuum in the top. I can touch the nada with my soul’s tentacles, palpable by the very absence of matter. I realise I’ve been fortunate to live by my optimism but the temerity was clearly not worth the effort. There is little sand left in the orb of hereafter to keep blowing a whirlwind of consequence. Then, what is a grain of sand without a storm?
May your bugle never gurgle,
May your overhead power cables hum only rhapsodies,
May your hieroglyphs be meaningfully glued,
And may the one grain of sand at times be the discomfort in some people’s eyes.
– an old Irish blessing (or something like that)
Many thanks, Bruce!
May those you love bring love back to you,
and may all the wishes you wish come true!
I yearn for infinitely more from your blog in years to come.stay blessed my dear friend.
And I will yearn to carry on anew this year and the next and the next. Thank you, old friend: you inspire me to infinity!
Are you saying one grainof sand cannot a whirlwind make?
I have pretended to be
a whirlwind of my own
for long, in typhoons
and storms. The noon
of my vigour
now threatens to peter
into the pale moon
of dusk; the gusts
of letters are now
tinged with must.
And the lagoon
into an mud spoon.
Listless though, I am,
the old speck of sand,
neither gelid nor parched
at this milestone arched
in the glory of the end.
Sometimes, you will flick me
away like a housefly.
Sometimes, you will find me
in your eyes and cry.
A ghazal in response! Wonderful. A grain of sand turns into a pearl, doesn’t it?
Wow! Thanks for reminding me of that, Shubha.
If you are a writer, you must write. It is as simple as that. Write what you want to write and don’t give a thought to what you think you should write. That said, all of us fall into a funk sometimes. We all go through times when we need inspiration. I think your heart will lead you in time.
Thank you for your kind words, Ginene! The commandment will help me keep my head in the air for good. I hope my fickle heart follows suit.
Well said Ginene 🙂
Words, I guess have gestation periods. Some come to their own early in the life time of the author, some later, some still later. Who are we to say when the words should hatch and emerge out of their shell and take off on flights of fantasy dazzling the whole world with their splendor. We the authors can only bring out the words into the world, nurture them, take care of our them and protect them fiercely like a mother dragon her eggs till we are able.
That was spoken like a seer, one who has hatched and brooded over broods of words over years. And so true! We are only mediums that the words may choose at moments chosen by none other than themselves. Let us then be the guardians of our muse and be sated. Thank you for opening my eyes, my friend!
looking forward to reading more from your pen or the keyboard
the hourglass can be turned up side down and filled to the brim Umashankar ji
Now then you remind me of my favourite video game, Sands of Time. I wish life could be rebooted too.
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