Tale of a Wallpaper

It is all about wallpapers. No, I am not talking about the papers you plaster your rooms with.

And yes, I am talking about a desktop wallpaper.

Starting right from the "in-built" classic range of choices, to jaw-dropping pictures of my favourite bands, movie-stars & exotic locales; each one of them has been a tried and tested choice to give me that perfect dose of  welcome whenever I revive my laptop to sink into after a day of hard labour at work.

Few weeks back, I came across a photo of my school taken from where Angshuman's home (school mates would know) used to be. From where we so religiously used to sneak into the playground for a game of cricket every evening. It was a nice clear shot, and I wasted no time in downloading and making it my desktop wallpaper.

Now, there is a thing with wallpapers. Everytime, your browser hangs, or your media player crashes, you have to bear infinite seconds of  "staring into the wallpaper" before normalcy returns. And in the last few weeks, I have had to do that a lot.

At first, it was just a click of my school and the playground. Then, I began thinking- "There's no one about in the field. What if there was one of our football matches going on? With two iron pillars in the fencing on each side being the goal posts? With everyone doing nothing but just running and running after the ball? With some die-hard enthusiasts attempting beckham's free-kick, only to find it landing on the games' teacher's bums?"

Slowly, and amazingly, I found that each time I opened my wallpaper, wisps of life were breathing into it. I began to see us sharing tiffins sitting under the bokul tree. I saw us running helter-skelter after a stray ball hit a bee-hive in the water tank nearby. I began to hear our noises in the corridors, infinite little pockets of sound so not in harmony. I overheard the principal scolding a boy with skinny knees for dragging his feet and making that "ssssoosssooo" sound on the slippery floor.

Nostalgia was something different. This rather, was a routine. And a little game I got to play (each time my net connection gave me the finger). Each day was something different. Yesterday, we lost in that rumaal-ball catching game after tiffin. Today, a bee's poop stained my blazer. Tomorrow, we are going to practise on that on-existant stage for wednesday's drama.

Bewildering, but it was a sea of memories that that wallpaper of mine aroused in the last few days. I just hope the candle will burn more longer than ever this time around.

*(And those two lizards on the wall continue to fight over who gets to eat the bug)

The Forgotten Traveller

An earthly triangle,

of homebound avians,

Streaking across the evening sky.

Bathed in the advancing dim light,

Soaring towards the quondam horizon, as

A rainbow from the nascent monsoon,

throws a million colours

Into that emblazoned journey.

Staring across the unearthly sky,

Echoes of a distant ecstatic flutter of wings

Reach my wistful ears.

I secure those jealous senses,

Lest they shower undeserved wrath,

Over the joyous birds bathed in home-bound colour.

For, a home I have not,

A Heart I have not.

A voice within resonates differently though,

An aura of worlds foreign,

Whisper into my magnified ears.

Visions,

Of dust and grime, of rain and flood

of untold stories and forgotten shrines,

pass on a secret hitherto unknown,

Yes, you’re a traveler, just trapped in time and space!

-Palash

Cornered in the Wild

The Zebra’s flight took him all the way down the south slope of the mountain, a once favourite grazing ground of the deer. They had been all hunted down eventually, one by one, first by the beasts and then by the men.

Tormented by fright, muscles ripping inside that black and white sheath of his; the zebra ran with all his might. He passed the water buffaloes by the side of the lake; staring unflappably into that chase between life and death, between a hopeless desire to live and an insatiable crave of hunger. 

The lion, he had already given his prey a good headstart. Almost as if the zebra’s life meant nothing to him at all. Perhaps that’s how the jungle rules dictate that kings behave. But in that far-away wilderness, rules are made and broken with every cry of the cricket’s rain drenched throat. The thirst for blood had sprung after a good long time. And the Zebra had to pay that price.

A bunch of wily monkeys, busy hanging themselves from the old banyan tree, were perhaps the only inhabitants of the jungle who didn’t miss the flight of the zebra as he flew beneath them. They watched him disappear into the grassland, towards the cliff of the waterfall. They watched his slowly slackening pace, not out of the impending hopeless realization that the road ahead was a dead end, but of exhaustion. Deadly fatigue had set in finally, slowing the zebra’s swiftness into a mere trot.

By the time he finally reached the cliff, with the river gushing fifty feet below into a mound of rocks welcoming its fall; hope had almost deserted him. The lion reached no later than a few anxious moments, he too tired by the long chase. 

The monkeys in the banyan watched them stare into each other’s eyes. Fear in one’s, hunger and ferocity in the others’. Those eyes talked for a moment which held the air in a roaring, deafening silence.

The Lion pounced. The Zebra freezed. Eyes closed, he reflected his first walk on the mountain’s southern slope with his mother. His first sight of the full moon up from the cliff the day he had dared stay awake. His first painful witnessing of a deer’s murder by a steel bullet.

Then,

He let go.

-Palash

Platforms, Coolies and a Fly.

The goings-on of India’s Railway Stations that I have been fortunate to witness have never failed to escape the corner of my mind that borders on the line between the practicality of catching a train (that is unusually on time, this time) and the imagery in the landscape, the station, the people and most importantly, the trains.

Today, the UP 15959 was on time as usual. Having another 30 minutes to kill, I made a bee-line for the book stall. With a customary greeting, the stall keeper, in between his attempts to squeeze out all the remaining essence from his paan, sang the names of all magazines out this week. I bought one and decided to find myself a place to sit. Something I later found was impossible to do.

 I tried to navigate between the sea of people, both standing and squatting on the Platform and scanned every bench or box in view where I could peacefully sit for a few minutes. But sadly today was one of those days when all of my planning had proved futile. Angry over my own predicament, the poor magazine was tucked inside the travelling bag.

To shake off my irritation, I decided to walk. On the platform. From the west point signpost (where they write the station name in 3 languages, along with its height from the MSL) to the east point. It was something I always wanted to attempt, but had waved it off as being a silly idea. Today was to be an exception then.

I bravely made my way on that fated platform. Meandering among the ever-waiting crowd, without bumping or stumbling, someone inside me had already began to vision himself as a platform-trekker, with nothing but the point in sight, the ultimate goal. 

Shortly, I came across a bunch of sleeping coolies. One with a particularly prominent beard and a dirty lungi was sleeping so, that he completely blocked my path. Flames of frustration rose inside once again, and I decided to wake him up, give him a piece of my mind and journey towards  that coveted imaginary platform trekker title. 

But something made me stop in my tracks. 

The coolie’s closed eyes.

Nowhere before had I seen such contentment, such satisfaction as was leaking from those eyes of his. Mouth curled up in a smile, his dirty hands clasping a small bag of rags, it was almost as if God, the sculptor had decided to show us how happy, how content can one be. He must be singing in his dreams, I thought. For all I know, in mine, I just wail and howl endlessly. 

No. No one is meant to wake him up this way.

By the side of the sleeping coolies, I found myself a box to squat on. 10 minutes later, the 15959 UP made its way into the platform. The Lo co ahead, proudly clearing all urchins, rag-pickers and scores of flies from the tracks as it gently pulled the train forwards.

One of them flies, made its way to the bearded old coolie, and made a throne of his nose. The old man awoke with a start.

“Aree sala, train aai gawa!”

With a great hurry, he jumped onto the nearest bogie and began the game of coolies we all are so familiar with.

My imagery broken, I re-navigated my way to my own compartment and settled down for another round of a sleep with screams.

-Palash

(March 2012)