Nawafar untied her blue sari and watched it spread over the floor. It twisted and made a few turns here and there... Like a river, she thought.
Was she to jump into that river again and allow herself to be carried by the torrent to some far away places? Had she been ten years younger she might have done it, but not this time. She was getting older every day and each day made her realise that she would finally want to unpack her bundle, keep paintings on the walls, light the lamp in the evening and sit on a threshold with a cup of tea and a book in her hand. And she knew it very well that it will be a small house for one person only.
She was watching the stars last night. The Orion was just above her head and she tried to remember those days of her childhood when she would sit in the evening and dream about finding the imaginary South Star in the sky. A bat flew above her head and sat on a near by tree. She turned to see the Moon, but the view was obscured by the high buildings.
She was watching lines dancing and forming intricate patterns in front of her. Moments later she could see a cluster of bodies contort and mould themselves into various shapes... Like Gond paintings, she thought.
When the kaleidoscope of images came to a stop she took out her shawl and went for a walk to find the moon. It was hiding behind the clouds. Delicate clouds that looked like dancers on a stage of the night performing their acts for the audiences that were rushing below them too busy to look up towards the artists displaying their skills. She stood for a moment in awe of the spectacle taking place above her head. It was so beautiful, so ephemeral, so magical... It was one of those moments that makes one think of the beauty and mystery of existence... It was one of those moments that you would love to share with somebody... But she was standing alone. The boy was not there... He was just a mirage that she conceived with her imagination.
A single tear flowed down her cheek. It fell into the river and then Nawafar folded her sari and kept it neatly inside her trunk.
I woke up in the morning and rushed to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. It's been many days since I last sat on the threshold. I don't sit there anymore. The naughty children from the neighbourhood spotted the two caterpillars and they killed them one day when I was at work. It made me sad. I was waiting so badly to see the caterpillars turn into colourful butterflies in front of my eyes, but the silly children did not allow them to live...
I'm not sure if it is a metaphor or reality... Or maybe both. I am always confused on this one.
Don't you think that it is amazing how often our inner lives and the outer world exist parallel to each other?
And if you do, do you think you could paint a butterfly for me? The most colourful butterfly in the world. And the sky, the moon, the river, the trees, the parrots and the hand to hold while watching the sky at night...
Was she to jump into that river again and allow herself to be carried by the torrent to some far away places? Had she been ten years younger she might have done it, but not this time. She was getting older every day and each day made her realise that she would finally want to unpack her bundle, keep paintings on the walls, light the lamp in the evening and sit on a threshold with a cup of tea and a book in her hand. And she knew it very well that it will be a small house for one person only.
She was watching the stars last night. The Orion was just above her head and she tried to remember those days of her childhood when she would sit in the evening and dream about finding the imaginary South Star in the sky. A bat flew above her head and sat on a near by tree. She turned to see the Moon, but the view was obscured by the high buildings.
She was watching lines dancing and forming intricate patterns in front of her. Moments later she could see a cluster of bodies contort and mould themselves into various shapes... Like Gond paintings, she thought.
When the kaleidoscope of images came to a stop she took out her shawl and went for a walk to find the moon. It was hiding behind the clouds. Delicate clouds that looked like dancers on a stage of the night performing their acts for the audiences that were rushing below them too busy to look up towards the artists displaying their skills. She stood for a moment in awe of the spectacle taking place above her head. It was so beautiful, so ephemeral, so magical... It was one of those moments that makes one think of the beauty and mystery of existence... It was one of those moments that you would love to share with somebody... But she was standing alone. The boy was not there... He was just a mirage that she conceived with her imagination.
A single tear flowed down her cheek. It fell into the river and then Nawafar folded her sari and kept it neatly inside her trunk.
I woke up in the morning and rushed to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. It's been many days since I last sat on the threshold. I don't sit there anymore. The naughty children from the neighbourhood spotted the two caterpillars and they killed them one day when I was at work. It made me sad. I was waiting so badly to see the caterpillars turn into colourful butterflies in front of my eyes, but the silly children did not allow them to live...
I'm not sure if it is a metaphor or reality... Or maybe both. I am always confused on this one.
Don't you think that it is amazing how often our inner lives and the outer world exist parallel to each other?
And if you do, do you think you could paint a butterfly for me? The most colourful butterfly in the world. And the sky, the moon, the river, the trees, the parrots and the hand to hold while watching the sky at night...
