His mind was stuck in something , which he found hard to fathom. Was this the trauma of past or the uncertainty of future ? As ill luck would have it, future is intrinsically uncertain. This is not a mordant insult but a perspicacious approach to bring reminiscent of the inevitable truth of life. Therefore, the past is the only culprit left at large. The past is that malevolent shepherd which drives the sheep into the meadows of mind and crowd it with a nebulous mass of something that is now a part of rotten and trivial moments of life. Something that should be forgotten with a blink of an eye or with the fall of the glory.
Lamenting over this past is the greatest and most invincible flaw in human- the best of all the squandered muddy vesture, yielded from prestidigitation on the dystopia below heaven. Which mere mortal has the sword that could intrude the eternal flow of time? Nobody. In the annals of human history, many braves have blessed the mortal clans. Which one of them had been able to climb up the sandy lattices of time and mould it to the way that leads to past? Nobody. The conclusion is but a sour truth– the truth which the ages have witnessed and will continue to do so, tenaciously. Man is a stubborn creature. Even if he struggles hard , he could not free himself from the shackles of past. These shackles are hefty. They have made bruises on mind. They dilute the thinking. They are engulfing the reasons. But, man has accepted them by panegyrizing it as a stony characteristic of human race. They, adament to escape the shedding of slavery tainted and penury drenched garb, bow down to honour the myriad of apocalyptic mind memories.
This man, our protagonist, was unable to filch himself from the stream of memories. Merry, melancholy, mirth, failure, love and many more, like the ostentatious knights of past times, ran their horses into the new dimension – the world conceived in the lap of perplexing and overwhelming thoughts – and enter in a scuffle to decide the quietus of the fragile. A plethora of memories , with their reins commanded by the past, galloped in his mind like unchecked and untrained colts.
First memory was that of his childhood. The stupendous charm of world seen through those small eyes. But after thawing the sheets of ignorance and age, the world came out to be the smallest. The childhood memory of that man presented a small boy who was learning to ride a bicycle. His face, tinged with pink hues of gullibility, presented the fright which his heart dwelt. What if he falls? What if he receives injuries? What if he …? and so on. These questions were preoccupying him. This fear of precedented failure grasped his attention. He found it a herculean task to push the fiendish pedal with his tender feet. The pinkish hue took no time to be ousted and it gave the throne to the dry maple leaf yellow, as it unquestionably shares a bond with fall. But its reign was short lived .
The father of the boy was beside him. Encouragement fountained from his father’s mouth and cloaked the fear with shroud of faith- an undeterred faith. A saccharine smile bestowed his face. He mustered all his courage and drove his bicycle. He knew that his father was with him , to protect him and prevent him from going off the path. The father, the expected deux ex machina , extripated the fear out of that budding mind. The fear is nothing but an excuse- an excuse sagaciously cherished by the ignorant mind. The Apple was eaten. The wars were won. The dogma was challenged. The revolutions were triggered. The dictators were glorified. The masses were ameliorated. The progidious expanse above the blue horizon was subjugated. Amidst all this, fear has no mention. Animosity between fear and promethean thinking is concrete, which cannot be dissolved.
The father, the son and the bicycle disappeared. The mind of the man was ready to welcome another memory. This time , a large blackboard with some rushing symbols smeared upon it, managed to gather the epithet of Cynosure. The black and white giant was ersatz of the beginning lines of Keats’ Endymion – a thing of beauty is joy forever. However, a teen boy, on the last bench at one corner, was indifferent to all this. He cared a little about Keats. He cared a little about that thing of beauty. He cared a little about an endless fountain of immortal drink. He cared a little about the love of the shepherd prince. The boy was enchanted by something else . Being lost in something is peccadillo of teenage years. Through the pellucid glass pane of the window, he saw the beauteous garden. Each and every flower of that garden was his pal -be it the conflagrant petal marigolds or the incarnadine petal roses.Those vividly painted creatures were ample to besmirch the alluring magic of poetry. But, this bond between the lost one and the gained ones became a victim of time. As a bolt from the blue, a lustrous white piece of chalk landed on his temple and gave some temors there. He looked towards the blackboard only to find the loath drenched face of his teacher, Ma’am Gupta. Although she belonged to the lot of people which have a peculiar inclination towards curbing their anger, she found it extremely strangulating to tolerate a child not paying even a penny worth attention in her class. Consequence was the reproach laden words of his teacher and the obnoxious superimposed waves of laughter of his classmates. But among these pinching noises, a place in his heart bore silence. That was the place where the love for those flowers found a gaff. That silence instigated him to leave that class. But the ears were more susceptible to noises.
The teacher, the child, the blackboard and the flowers were veiled with darkness. Another memory was yet to arrive in the mind of this man. This memory was not very old. The place was eerie. The light of the candle kept on the table, the exquisite red roses bouquet and the air of tranquility induced by the scent of those roses, created a perfect scene to confess one’s love. A young man, in his mid twenties, sat at the table with his inamorata. For him, she was the embodiment of beauty and pulchritude. Her hair, confined within a hefty braid, initiated some commotion in the heart of her lover. The man had already confessed his love. The lady was yet to do so. She looked into his eyes and found the pool of unconditional love. But, giving it an unusual company, was fear- the fear which led the young man towards the blaze of inferno or the bed of nails. The smile bestowed on both of the faces- that of the victim and the tormentor. The tormentor confessed her love and liberated the victim. Never, in the past, had such a pardon been granted. Cupid came down and whispered the enchanting words to cast a spell on them. The light of the candle started to fade away. The molten wax dried and solidified, same as the love of the lovers.
At the threshold of mind, there reached another memory. And knocked so loudly that other ones were disturbed. Tragedy is heavier than lighter feelings. Moreover, tragedy is not momentary. It is a scar of agony on the body or the scar of agony on the mind. The dagger stuck within the body or the dagger stuck within the heart. The funeral of exhilaration or the birth of exoneration from the shackles of world.
The memory presented the tenure of dusk on mighty sky. Darkness was smeared over the expanse above. Stars were thrown by God like grains of sand on the dark floor. There was a small boy who sat on a park bench. His father sat beside him. The former was stuck in the Web of beauty of the sky. But, at the back of his mind, he had a question which was gradually absorbing him. He took a sigh and said, ” Dad, where did mom go?” The father gave a waning moon like smile and said,” God called your mom and made her a star. Look, the brightest one is mom.” The child was credulous. A star among billions will be redolent of his mother. He was convinced. He believed in God. Children believe in God. This is because they are the closest to his heart. The oblivious eyes seek no shelter except the heart of God. Therefore, the father of the child didn’t throw light on the misery of this harsh world.
All these old memories were flashing as an array in the mind of this man. They fabricated a turbulence of entwined emotions. Whilst his mind was in state of unrest, his body was lying still. After wandering helter skelter, the mind came back to its abode, much like that Prodigal son of biblical parable. The man was suffering with excruciating pain. His cheeks were smeared with blood. His hands were too heavy. His legs were stiff. His head rested in the pool of his own Red. His breath was instigating him to stop thinking. All his body parts launched a crusade against the rule of their LORD- the mind. All the slaves wanted liberty. All the slaves wanted freedom. But these serfs failed to notice that their Lord himself was a slave of past. The clutches of captivity were to be broken by the desire of destiny. And, this story too, would not let the justice die in the arms of cowardly demeanor. The slaves will be liberated.
The eyes were closed. The breath was ceased. Shedload of body parts were function less. The slaves were liberated. They were treacherous. Their LORD went astray!