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…