The land lies stretched before my eyes. Empty. A lonely tree breaks the straight line of the horizon. I'm too far to make out what tree it is, but it stands straight and tall, almost proud. It's lush, but silent. And alone. The air is still. No wind whispers between its leaves. Its not yet evening, but the sky is heavy with clouds and the sun is no where to be seen. The clouds have taken on an unreal hue, and this doesn't seem like reality. More like a picture postcard, where an inept artist has tried too hard to make an impression, and given himself away in the process. But it is there alright, unreal as it may seem.
My tree stands there, looking a little pathetic. I already think of it as my tree - I know I'm going to keep coming back to it. Its one of those frames the mind's camera doesn't forget. I look at the tree. There is an air of half-expectancy to it. Like its hesitant to hope and just stands there unsure.
He touches my hand and I turn to look at him. Our eyes meet and he reads my thoughts. As always, there's no need to say anything. I smile and he gently tucks a few stray strands of hair behind my ear. He turns to look at our tree and my eyes follow his gaze.
Its stuffy here, I say half to myself, half to him. He doesn't respond. I turn towards him and my eyes stare into emptiness, into the vastness that surrounds me. Everything is still, and empty and I look once again towards my lonely companion - the tree. I wish it would rain. I know it won't. Not just yet. I walk on. Suddenly weary.
3 comments:
Tumbling upon the vagaries of mind,
…out came a nip of desperation! flavoured with a sting in the heart,
catching breath, inside the blood of time.
Curving through sleepless nights, the moment eclipsed,
with the billows full of rain, trickling like merciful rhymes, into the cauldron of temptation.
Something was about to come,
Something to go by
Just to show up Roy, I'm going to write a stanza or two of my own-
The road goes on forever.
Not a yellow brick road,
not gravel, not concrete, but tar.
The road of tar stretches before me;
long long and a bit more long.
Haunted promises of a discombobulated love;
The love which started in Bora-Bora and ended in Timbuktu--or was it Kathmandu?
Our eyes meet; she's myopic.
$20 Wal-mart frames stare back;
Wistful remembrance of many turgid afternoons.
Like a honeysuckle;
choking the outer drainage pipes of a Gothic mansion;
the ghosts of past give me atomic wedgies.
Remnants of the emotional torrent subsist on fragmented dreams;
I have meat-loaf for dinner.
Oh...excellent post by the way.
It has a certain Hemingway-ish quality to it.
When I recall the past and shed a tear, another tear comes rolling by pleading me not to weep.
Great post, Rashmi! :-)
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