Candle Flames… II

Sunday, May 5, 2011 . 33 comments . Posted in General

Every night gives way to a new dawn… and that has been a universal truth always. It was a truth filled with hope of a new beginning no matter how troubled the past may have been. Each passing moment may sound like an echo of some ancient bells of a dormant dream. Life is difficult. But that is OKAY. Nothing comes easy. But it is the pain that is unbearable. And the greatest pain is when no one understands the pain the other goes through.  Someone must be there, to take a stand beside every soul to touch their heart and give some love. Syd loved fairy tales. He was a man with the heart of a child. His life became a mystery after the 27th of November. He lost the will to communicate through words but that just opened a new gate to unleash his pent-up emotions. ART. And unknowingly, it had begun the healing process in him. The dashes of his brush and the splashes of vibrant colours on the pale canvas spoke volumes of his feelings and gave insight to the man he once was.

On the hill beyond the horizon, the ancient bell of the old, old church on the steeple chimed thrice. His grandfather was buried there. The man he always looked up to… for help, for guidance and for inspiration. He had taught Syd essence of life in a simple way – “All good things you do will always come back to you”.  Syd now recalled his big, brown, twinkling eyes with pain and sadness in his own. How he wished he was alive and there for him! Today is November 27th. It is a Sunday. And he is at his haven of peace. Yes, there is peace. There is silence. If you can call ‘silence’ as ‘peace’, then yes, Syd had it. No one is around. No one bothers to be around for anyone anymore. You are on your own. You are left to be on your own. The lone place is vast and grassy. The sky above is clear and the sun plays hide – and – seek with the tufts of clouds. Slowly, like crystal tears down a babe’s alabaster cheek, the little drops of rain began to fall. They fell with a purpose – to touch his soft skin and to soothe his cold heart. The chirping birds watch from the safety of their fragile nests. The green leaves welcome the drops of rain, for it is their only chance to sparkle in a world where they grow, forgotten. Syd loved this place. For as long as he can remember, this was his home, his haven, his safe refuge. Even when tragedy struck, this place understood him like no human could, consoled him like the mother he never had. November 27th. Time flies… His eyes wandered here and there, looking for a place to sit. He walked bare-footed through the wet grass, dragging his long coat to sit on a stone that read, “The Good Never Die… They live on in the annals of memory and time”. He sat there, staring at the unique land, and decided to open up his heart once again to the only family he had – the land he called his own.

Syd was not a loner two years ago. He had met and married Rachel. Rachel – the girl with the long brown hair and merry brown eyes. She was not beautiful, but she was a beauty. There was a beauty of spirit and soul, which reflected on her face, and made it quite radiant. It created an aura which surrounded her. And this radiance and this aura had captured his heart. Their love was known to each mortal in the town. She met Syd at a coffee shop when he was reading a book about a painter whom both of them admired. She was a painter too. But she was not a silent character like Syd. She was intrigued by life after death and the tragedy behind unworthy lies. She spoke at lengths about both these mysteries. They started meeting often, and finally fell in love. That was on the February 14th. The day the whole world celebrates Valentine’s Day. They celebrated their Love.It is true that all good things must come to an end. But too prematurely, for some. Some reach the skies of bliss, when something unimaginable occurs, and they come crashing down. On the eve of November 27th, as they were driving towards an orphanage, they met with an accident. Rachel was killed. Instantly. A gentle life snuffed out by death’s cruel clutch. Syd escaped. Barely. But he escaped. And that made the difference in his life. Oh, how he wished he had died with her. He was heartbroken. He was wrecked by absence of her smile, her touch and her laughter. He didn’t cry. He just sat down and recalled all the dreams they had seen together, and the times they spent each other in each other’s arms. You know you are alone when your loved ones are gone. You know you are alone when you are all by yourselves. And his life was now an empty shell, with no one to call his own. And there was pain. There was agony. But out of agony, Hope is born.It’s almost evening now. The crickets are chirping their evening song, telling him to go home. But there is no one waiting for him there. There is nobody to open the doors to welcome him with a tender kiss. Life is dead. Above all the cloudless sky, a star shines at him, smiles at him as if saying “Dear One, you are not alone”. He found love in that glittering star. For he knew it was her, his Rachel.The dusk swept the day into the waiting hands of night. He is still in the same place where heaven touches earth, and womb gives birth to an infant through the doors of Heaven, only to find final rest in the Tomb. Rachel’s tomb shines even at dark. Like her. On her tomb, the infamous verse was written “All go unto once place; all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again”. Tears fell slowly down his cheeks. The church bells bid him farewell. He walked back to his house. Everyone thinks that life ends with just a story to smile. But no one believes that a life has more than many tales to cherish. Syd is a recluse. But he is dreamer who never gave up on his hopes and dreams. For out of agony, Hope is born.

The night is still young, and he walked under the shade of golden lights that flickered. The narrow lane to his house looked scary, but his spirits were on fire that could set blaze any obstacles. And when he reached his doorframe, and pushed the doors to get inside, a note with a telephone number was stuck just below the bells that were hung so low. He didn’t bother to read it, but pushed the doors and got inside. His life was always this way. Every Sunday he went to Rachel’s tomb, prayed and came back, to be lost in memories. This day was no different. He found his bed, and crashed onto it. But his eyes caught the letter kept beside his pillow, with a fresh rose flower. His hands reached to pick them up, and he smelled the tender flower. The rose is beautiful. People always are careful to pluck a rose flower thinking the thorns might hurt them. But he wasn’t scared of anything. He found a different letter along with the rose flower. It was not the usual letter that he writes and keeps while he leaves the house. Because every day when he comes back, he reads it again, and goes to sleep. It is like a strange hobby. Something like an inspiration.

And the letter read, “I don’t know who you are, or where you are from. All I know is the intense spirits that you possess. If I ever get a chance to see your heart, your beautiful heart, I would spend the rest of my life in your arms, in your heart, in your dreams. I don’t know your name, your past, or your present, but all I know is that I am falling in love with you. And if you ever give me a chance, I will spend the whole life with you, in your arms, in your dreams. Every life has a beginning, and an end. And I know you are alive, and real. And I want to say these three words to you that, I love you… Yes, I am in love with you… – Emily”

Each small candle in this room shimmers with different colors, and radiates fragrance. The ancient black telephone on the ancient wooden desk is never busy anymore. But he rushed outside his house, looked high above the sky, and saw the same star twinkling at him. And he smiled, took the note that was stuck on the doors, and got inside. And all he wanted to hear was the telephone ringing at her end. For he knew, every night gives way to a new dawn and his dawn was just a night away… And the candles were still blazing at the background, spreading fragrance…

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Candle Flames…

Tuesday, May 5, 2011 . 24 comments . Posted in General

Each small candle in this room shimmers with different colors, and radiates fragrance. The antique black telephone on the ancient wooden desk is never busy anymore. Pictures hung on the pale pastel wall are dim and have traces of dust on the frames. The radio belts out old songs reminiscent of the sixties. There are two other rooms, but they are not used. They are vacant. But that was not the case a couple of years ago. Anybody with an eye for detail could see the depth of dale through the wet panes of the last, lone room. The rain pours. Incessantly. Sometimes mercilessly, But it was always a soothing balm. And the time flies. Oh, how it flies!

The house on the hill lures drifters. And the lawn behind the cottage is crafted in such a way that people can sit for hours, motionless,  and stare at the magic of the stars. He lives there, in a room full of crystal blue bulbs and lights that flicker. His love for rose flowers and fairy tales are wordless. Not many people know the reason why he lives there – alone, though everyone knew that he wanted to settle down in Grantchester Meadows. Something had turned the tides of time in the long chase to the pearl pebble, and that had altered the grand plan.  It all happened when he was a child. Syd loved fairy tales. His dream was to be in one. He quite often sits and wonders why the chirping birds never stop commuting. Early morning they come, settle themselves on the window panes and rub the dust over the window grills. Then they leave without expecting anything in return. For small creatures as they teach us that nature is the best teacher. Here and there they roam, but they are never far away from home. Their resting place under the night sky is upon the turf for sanity. No regrets. No heartbroken songs. Life goes on.

Years fleet by… Nights rolls in Days, like sand rolls over the dunes in the desert … Stars lost its charm, though not their flicker… Rose flowers withered away… And then the fine dawn arrived, and the quaint yellow house next door had a visitor, who was a reporter with a leading Television Channel. She was a pretty picture in her long hair, and big black eyes and her pretty smile. She was a young girl with a passion for her work. Emily had come to report about this meadow, for it had always lured her in some distant dream.  She wanted to find out. And tell the world, for people often crave to know about the unknown. And then she was always a curious child,  who wanted to explore the hidden mysteries in life. This is not her first visit; she had been here 3 years ago.

A few foggy days passed and on one fine foggy dawn, she took her camera and went to capture the beauty of this lovely land. As she walked across the green, fragrant meadow, her eyes absorbed this pretty house which was build upon stable, hard rock. She was drawn to the jingling of musical bells swinging on the rusty porch. She felt like some fairy was gently ringing them and beckoning her. She was curious to find out about its occupant, for he or she must definitely have a fairytale to weave in a magical place like this. When you desire for more, the curiosity is aroused; the fire is kindled. She knocked gently, trying hard not to break the spell of the moment. None answered the peculiarly carved wooden door. She pushed to see if the doors were on her side and open for her.  They were. She entered. Her gaze swept over the room, and drank in the mystical posters, the enchanting candles and the soulful songs that were being played for no one. Her eyes wandered all over the place. She walked through the corridor to see the mystery which surrounded the place. No one was there.

Emily had had a strange childhood. She had this strange hobby of collecting pebbles and storing them in a bronze box. The bronze box belonged to her grandmother. She treasures her memory in that heart-shaped bronze box. There are only a couple of letters and silver rings and bangles in it. Her parents separated when she was just six years old. For all the time spent with her grandmother, she was taught to value each and every simple thing in life. Being the only child at home, her grandmother poured all her love on this pretty girl. Therefore, Emily was taught to believe in true love. She was in a relationship with Scott who was ten years older to her. They separated when Emily found his only love was his addiction to drugs. And that left a huge scar on her heart. She was just 23 when she broke up with Scott. It’s been 5, long years since. And the trunk that was stationed on the last lone room brought back golden memories. But they were stranger than anyone could ever think of. He had dry rose flowers and reels of old tapes. Some of them even read “E” and the rest – “lvis” was faded. The room where the trunk was kept had scribbling on the wall. And the words were in quotes, like the unavailable resident was speaking despite their absence.  It seemed like a drawing room with many words in different shades. One of the lines read “Mother never taught me how to live”. And another line read “Mother never sent me to fight”. But the last line at the corner was more poignant, and it read “Mother never taught me to love”. The curious Emily rambled across the room, trying to delve deep into the psyche of this person.

Syd was a strange, mysterious person. He was an artist who used to paint for a living. His trysts with life and his tales of woe burst forth through his strokes on canvas. He knew the depth of heart. He dealt with silence and knew what it was to feel loneliness. His dreams and his dejections were painted across the wall. Emily was slowly getting closer to his heart. She has come to accomplish a work. Yet, she found herself swept away, lost in Syd’s world; his lone planet. She didn’t know the way out. She didn’t know where he was. But she knew that he was a real character in this fairytale that life had just thrown at her. His feelings were raw, and therefore, genuine. Good always ends up finding good. She slowly walked to his bed room. It looked messy. But it wasn’t. He had arranged even the smallest things in an odd manner. Everything looked messy. But they were clean and tidy. As she walked towards his bed, which was draped with white sheets and a majestic maroon pillow, she found a letter lying on the bed with a rose flower on it… She rushed towards it, and…

The letter read, “The rose is red and it is beautiful.  You know it doesn’t last longer. You know it doesn’t spread its fragrance forever. Yet we love it. Yet we feel it.

Raven’s claws are set steep on the muddy damp soil. So you stare close to witness the pain in its eyes. It lost its balance, and focus, and finally, pride. No one can ever save the bird, because we are scared to touch or feel its vengeance. The one that you feed with milk will bite back, one day, maybe unintentionally. But it does. It hurts. It’s poignant.  Yet we don’t stop doing it. Yet we don’t stop loving them.Around the twelfth hour, when you lose your sleep and wander through your dreams, you get yourself lost in a lone land. No one lives there. No one loves there. Nobody wants to be loved there. There is only music. There is only silence. There is only a timid whisper.

Now, this rose is beautiful. But I know it won’t last any longer. And I know it won’t spread its fragrance forever, but I still love it. Its smell…  Its endurance… And I feel all of us should stay as a rose flower… Those thorns might pierce our soft skin and wound our fragile heart. Those thorns may wreck all our dreams and leave us all by ourselves. But you know you are spreading love. And you know it’s worth it.

Raven claws may wound our skin

Spiky thorns may pierce our heart

Empty pitchers may make noise

But a life worth living for others

Is all that we have got to cherish…

Each small candle in this room shimmers with different colors, and radiates fragrance. The antique black telephone on the ancient wooden desk is never busy anymore. Pictures hung on the pale pastel wall are dim and have traces of dust on the frames. The radio belts out old songs reminiscent of the sixties. Now the telephone rings. But she doesn’t hear. All she wants to hear is the bells jingling again, touched by the gentle, lithe fingers of a fairy. Outside the cloud looked heavy again. It will pour. And it would serve as a balm for her, for the fire that burned in her heart. And the fog covers the entire hills. It seems as if a painter is painting his heart out. And then the jeweled drops come pouring down. And the moment he walks into the house, through the heavy downpour, through the haze, his life would change again. For all that he lost, or was never granted in life, would beautifully abound in his mundane life, and paint the clearest picture he had ever seen. She will be there to run towards him and hug him.

Because some relationships are meant to begin with silence and she knows he is the one…

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