She is trying to sleep.
D with a dot , L ,G ,another K from Kishore are falling like a fish hook in still water which spreads circles of vibrations and plop deeper and deeper to hunt its prey. These alphabets are like pillcrow placed animatedly on her paragraph attempt to write.
In anxiety of her present dream, she clenches hard on her lone pen and thumbs it on the paper as she feels; she is slipping swiftly into something. Words, language, diction, wit, humor, irony and subjects, all seems to submerge her into a strange burden of plopping alphabets.
G denotes Gayatri Vasudeva and her words. She knows how beautiful and expressively Gayatri writes.
Her words melt on the surface of her mind leaving a greasy outgrowth. Every time she reads work of Gaytri and other writers like Deepa , Leerakh , Kamal Kishore ,June Pinto or other of her contemporary writers, she feels both thrilled and excited which soon turns into her personal nightmare.
By so and so, her eyebrow cringes and joins its inner end in horror of not being able to produce anything new or worthy.
An omnipresent third person sits on her shoulder and predicts her failure as writer. Her lack of generating masterpieces, her lack of transgressing her own time(only these days) and her inability of freeing her always heavy head ,whams inside in a ever now and ever constant way with terrible intensity of splash through a tube tunnel into girth of chlorine bleached indigo water.
She is in a park. This is the same park she was yesterday. She sits on that same tilted bench facing water and sees sun setting down all orange and pink just the way it did yesterday. This park is empty now. It is as empty as yesterday it was filled with people.
She sits there quietly listening absent rhymes of birds and hums of bees. Suddenly she is again surrounded with people, same people who were there yesterday. In her mind she describes how it would be in a story.
People walking with unknown urgency…a lanky lad of two or three sitting aloof with his miniature palm pressed on his honey colored skin… green leaves and flowers revolving upside down with gust of parallel wind… different pairs of teeth shining on different shapes , sizes and colours of faces…lawn is green and even. ..there are some large trees spruced copying shaped of blueprint clouds of school children drawings…in the northwest corner stands tall buildings that makes trees look Lilliputian… some are lying on their belly while their partner pats their head …there are few dogs , all well strapped and few plastic Zoo animals holding painted ‘use me’ buckets …there are few dried up leaves , apparently all mess has been clear in the morning and what is around is greenest of carved green in the middle of sky capering towers emiting luminating brozne lights from their matchbox shape glass windows… in them thousands of people sits on their comfortable sofas and out of them only handful will ever read her stories…
She stops thinking for a second. Her brain drips in silence like mercury in a thermometer. A pain ceases and she looks around. This moment in the park, she can never describe it. She misses terribly her camera. If only she could take pictures.
The moment when the man in white track suits hurls soft crumbling ball towards his over enthusiastic young boy. Their hands wildly stretches open towards the sky – a perfect form when a hand coordinates with the liquid sunlight flooding from the leaves. That very expression on their faces. Half hidden and half visible.
This expression breaks free from the multitudes of other expressions in cabs , cars , houses, hospitals , shops , schools , hospitals and places outside this moment. This fissure in time, captured in time with a click on a digital memory card. May be printed (in later stages) variously with different photo shopped colours and hues and contrasts to emulsify this episode in moments of eternity.
“What is she doing writing? “She asks herself.
She should be a photographer or a painter. She could have played with colours and exhibits such instances on a cream colour wall while costly yellow liquid light enhance all layers. Some students, few bored travelers and many rich luxuriant’s will come and see them. Her reveries might end up on some walls near embroidered sofas, Italian imported chandeliers and iconoclastic family portraits.
She imagines herself sitting in her exhibition, carefully scanning art enthusiasts and corporate big whale buyers. She is accompanied by her accomplish promoter. A lady with her tip toe cat steps glides across most painting whispering something to her circular shaped big belly husband, who nods along slowly fluttering through wisp of leaflet carrying painter’s biography. This woman suddenly becomes aware of the painter’s gaze and her cavorted anxiety. She smiles inwardly and fixes her eye on a painting titled ‘Sunset in a Park’. She looks deeply into it and wonders something. She takes another look at the face of the painter to make out her age and says something to her husband who in turn smiles and doesn’t nod. This woman knows that this painter is young and here she has come to buy maturity. A famous painter’s work upstairs with thousands of dots and liquid colors painted by acidifying metals plates on crust colours , she just saw it and brought them. Buying this agile eye painter’s work is about taking chances.
. Her husband need to see further into this painter’s credibility before anything.
The painter stares as the couple leaves the hall. She stands up and walks past all her own paintings. She gets stuck at the painting where a man in white trouser throws ball towards his mentally challenged son.
She remembers where she is and thinks of writing something again. She stands up and climbs up to an artificial bridge. She looks into waist deep water and the peddling boats as they skims past her. She focuses on a boy stomping his ankle into the water while his father and another man , maybe his uncle and some cousins of his , peddle their way under the bridge. They wave at another boat of decoratively clad women with their younger sons, kept as close they can keep, peddling few meters before them. She focuses her gaze towards this boy who stomps his feet into water. She scans his clothes. They look shabby and adorned with cheap decorative threads. This boy has a milky complexion and thick dabs of kajol layered from one corner of brown pupil eye to another. She winks blankly on her discovery and declares in her head- this boy of seven , most beautiful in his family , son of weekly a paid labour whose brother, a coal miner of a small town, has taken him out on a picnic. Ignoring his mother’s plea, this boy, whose beauty transcends artificial beauty of his surroundings, sits at the back of his father’s barge. On his last fifteen minute journey circulating this pool, he looks lazily at the jeering faces of the boat men and takes liberty of splashing water with his feet. He knew so less, the thing that has never had happened is going to happen. Between merry and chants this boy will die in this this absurd water by drowning. His mother will run ravingly and his father won’t believe his luck. The man with white trousers and others will….
She was writing all that in her head when she notices the boat sliding under the bridge. The boy stares intently and his boat enters the shadow of the bridge. She couldn’t control herself and with a torpid of a deer freeing itself from tiger’s prance, she runs towards the other end of the bridge. The boat slowly appears and the boy, now puzzled ,looks at her. She smiles and waves but the boy does not respond.