Tuesday, June 27, 2006

Still-life.

This is the fourth time in the week and I am seeing exactly what I saw the last three times. The same two people. The same house. The same garden. The same dog tied to the same Silver Oak stump. It looks like even the leaves on the ground have not been blown off by the winds.

It is like a picture. Frozen, unruffled, tranquilised.

Familiar and yet unfamiliar. Times I knew and times I could have never known. Like a collage made of two time-frames, so intelligently harmonised that it tends to appear like its true. Like its today.

Pleasant memories bring a million smiles. You want to be wrapped in them, bury your head and heel inside and try to smile with the times that went by. You want to be that kid you were, jumping for the moon. You want to make those mud-castles, play with those toy swords and get wet in the rain. You want to hide your grandmother's spectacles. You want to blindfold your father, cupping his eyes with your palms and wait for him to find out that that was you. You want to run around the house in a superman costume. You want to stand on a parked scooter, hands on the throttle and dream it zooming.

The plastic slide on the lawn was one of my favourite plaything. Until the time I was big enough to scale the steps on its ladder, I used to sit on the pram watching my elder brother climb it, faster and faster each time, clapping my hands as he slid down the curvy orange plastic. And when my legs were sturdy enough to run and climb, I used to climb up its ladder, sit down on its yellow seat, with my legs on the slide and my eyes looking down on the earth below. I used to imagine I was a mighty king, overseeing his vast army of men and horses from a fort so high.

I can see me roosted on that yellow seat. Legs on the slide and eyes looking down on the earth below, imagining to be a mighty king overseeing his vast army of men and horses from a fort so high. I can still see my face gleaming. The same sneer of contempt. The same innocence.

You do not know what lies ahead of you. But you know what it will be made of. Your wishes and with it, your dreams. And you hide your wishes for tomorrow carefully under your pillow. Looking at it every night before you retire. To see if it looks any different from yesterday. And as those wishes age with you, they look more and more beautiful. The Japanese call it Sabi, the beautiful patina that accumulates with age. Yes, the beautiful patina. You want them to breathe life one day. You want those wishes to become memories one day. And you want to cherish those memories some day.

I remember the recliner with those long arms and the folding plate in between. I also remember that old copper teapot on the tripod. The plate is unfolded. I see a glass teacup thats half-full. The old man is reclining on the chair with his legs stretched. His eyes in the direction of an open book spread on the plate, beside the cup. He looks totally at peace with himself, not caring to see how dull it indeed is around him. The veranda has never looked so faded. The wooden chime on the front porch where he sits seems to have lost a reed. The walls look like they need a repair. The flooring has cracks all over and its also time to change the doormat.

But amidst these vapid looking objects, I can see the brilliance on my face. The same sneer of contempt. The same innocence.

I walked past them. The little kid and the old man. Faded shots of life tied one to another. One within another. I knew what it is to be. I knew what it is to be me, with the same sneer of contempt and the same innocence.