A busy road.. or not really? The weight of various people that tread on it everyday somehow imbibed along the crevices of the tram lines that traversed it horizontally. A long day it has been, the north eastern corner of the sky almost seemed flush by heat, almost weary of it. Dark crimson giving into more of darkness. A light breeze attempted to soothe the sky, leaves trembled, a witness to its passion. He stood enraptured by the turbulent stillness around him, enjoying the reverberations below his feet in sync with the drained out tram.. yet he registered none of it, a crumpled piece of paper caught at the edge of one of the tracks caught his eye. He lowered himself, picking it up.
He could not help but be at awe of the neat cursive yet pacy handwriting on the paper, despite it being covered by mud and even shoe-prints. Verses. A few verses on this trampled and forlorn piece of thing immediately had his attention. He started reading it, a conscious effort to take in words, register them, to not let his concentration waver.
A busy road.. or not really?
He could not help but be at awe of the neat cursive yet pacy handwriting on the paper, despite it being covered by mud and even shoe-prints. Verses. A few verses on this trampled and forlorn piece of thing immediately had his attention. He started reading it, a conscious effort to take in words, register them, to not let his concentration waver.
A chanced morning, in an unknown road
That triggered notes, which tune my soul old..
Is it the warmth of the winter sun,
or the tireless river amalgamating into the mist?
Or is it the forgotten face from childhood,
That had sought refuge in lines and their gist?
It might even be an evening nestled in the hustle of the city,
or the reminder of time, the watch on his wrist?
A chanced morning, in an unknown road
That triggered notes, which tune my soul old..
That triggered notes, which tune my soul old..
He sighed deeply, looking up, his eyes glistened in the moonlight. Too overwhelmed he was, hit was he, by the past. Words capture time, they had they said. Never had they said, that they could keep us under the illusion that we could travel back in time too. A moment in these words, one which the tram-line was a part too, now he was sucked into it too. A moment that was lost, he got to live again. He got to live two moments though, one that someone else painted for him, and the one that his fate did. A shiver ran down his spine, leaving him weak at the edges. He folded the paper neatly and put it in his pocket. His eyes trying to search the dark, a trapdoor to his past. With unsure steps forward he started dwindling from sight, as if lost in the embrace of an old friend, away from harm. The road was empty again.
A busy road.. or not really?
I could see him, the road, the crimson sky, and still it appears impossible to decipher each of those numerous thoughts running through him.
ReplyDeleteLines on the crumpled paper, a chanced meeting with his own past, the old soul, an attempt to pour it on a piece of paper, and a rush of emotions brought along with it, beautifully written. Each sentence saying a thousand words, as subtly hidden as expressive as they seem.
Lost in time, on a busy road!
Brilliant work Labani. Loved it :)
One is simply overwhelmed with the way each detail is expressed,and caressed in the folds of a wonderful play of words and prose alike. The reeking expanse of everyday living is captured like one is almost witness to it. The last paragraph is a winner by all means. Says so much in a matter of a few words. The conflict,disarray,the melancholy,the question! Ah,a reader's delight for sure.
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