She trudged along the stark expanse. Alone.
The darkness engulfed her every step, falling about her, in a dense cover. She gasped, unable to breathe, her throat as parched as the earth around her.
No echo to her footsteps. The cracked barren ground offers no respite. Her lips are matted with dust, her hair flying about her. She stumbles and falls and lies there helpless.
There it is then- that little hand- coaxing her on or is that her mind playing tricks?
And then she hears the giggles. She looks up in surprise and sees the cherub as the first light of dawn strikes the sky. The light surrounds the babe, his golden hair lit up like a halo. Smile, he says, and come see my world. Grasping her hand, he pulls her up. Her thirst forgotten, her tiredness vanishes as she follows this little God. He is pointing out everything all at once, his enthusiasm infectious. "Look- an anthill!", he says one minute- "Ah! The flowers", he says the next. And the barren land is transformed to lush greenery. Hues of amber dot the green as the sun rises higher into the sky. He is laughing and smiling all at once and she finds herself revived and rejuvenated, caught in this new found wave of euphoria.
She picks him up and twirls him around, laughing along with him. Then holds him up, looks him in the eye and asks him- "And WHO are you?" He gurgles but does not answer. He hugs her, tight- as if, he'd never let go. And she hugs hims back, her eyes closed- wishing not to ever let go. And they become one.
She opens her eyes to the first ray of sunlight. She gulps. Her throat is still parched but she smiles. She looks at the sun and smiles.
She'll live, she knows.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I am an Aquarian. Hence, as per Tarot lore, my card is The Star. And while The Star resonates positivity, my personal favorite is The Sun. It makes me smile, laugh, forget my sorrows and fills me with something we all need- Hope.
I see The Sun and I know that things will be all right and that my God will have me smiling at the end of it all.
Singularity (sing-gyuh-LAR-i-tee) noun : A point in space-time at which space-time curvature becomes infinite and at which measurable quantities become exactly zero or infinitely large.
Singularity.
I jump from the moving bus, eager to get home. Show the trophy to my mother.
The digital clock glimmers in the dark. It's 3:05 AM and its hot. My mother puts cold wipes on my forehead. Father's pacing the room restlessly.
It's foggy. Pale sunlight is streaming through, reflecting off of the dust particles, turning them to glittery diamond dust. I see her standing with her friends, plucking the lily, tucking it behind her ear.
I am crouched in my room. Pale moonlight filtering in through the curtains that are softly shifting in the night breeze. I can see my shadow. Its big. Bigger than I am. Than I ever was. Noises in the background. They are fighting again. I am eight.
Organ music plays. We are together. I turn to her as the carousel starts spinning. She laughs, looking at me, her hair whipping across her face.
Led Zep's blaring in the background. We're cutting lines on the tiny coffee table. It doesn't seem like it has been used for coffee anytime soon. Ever. A whiff. Stairway to heaven.
They are calling out my name. I step onto the stage, dressed in my graduation cape. Father and Mother are seated in the crowd. Not together.
They are rioting on the streets. We are. I fling a stone with all my might. A cop's down. They fire. There's panic- a stampede. I am turning to look back as I run. A streak of blood hits me in the face, blinding me momentarily. Someone's fallen.
We're at the river bank, dipping our feet lightly in the water. I am turning to kiss her. We are making love. On the river bank, under the stars.
The doctor's handing over the babe to me. A precious life, left in callous arms. She is dying. The sheets are bloody; her breathing, shallow.
She walked today. Stumbling and struggling. Her eyes turned upwards as if to seek my approval. Her eyes. Just like her mother's. We visit her grave every year and adorn it with lilies.
Her first day at school. Trembling, eyes brimming with tears. Lips, a near pout. Clutching with all her might her brand new pink school bag. The teacher lovingly takes her hand. I get a teary wave.
She is squealing. The object of her affection a few feet away. We are at the concert of her favorite pop star. Its pink and glitter everywhere. I am shaking my head to get rid of the confetti, catching the eye of the lady nearby, also there with her daughter. We shrug. Kids!
Twelve. That's how old she is. Twelve. She is crossing the road, waving to her friends on the other side. A few yards away, the car is screeching towards the intersection. It's speeding. My baby girl isn't.
Singularity. A black hole in the Extropian worldview whose gravity is so intense that no light can be shed on what lies beyond it. By David Victor de Transend
She likes lilies. Just like her mother.
Singularity. Sometimes I think it's my heart.
Ching ...whirrrrr...
They hear it. All of them. And it pulls them in. Like the sound of sirens that enchanted Oddysseus' men a zillion years ago...For who am I but a siren?
I see them day by day, spending hours at my altar. Praying, cajoling, wishing, hoping and at times even bribing. Just this once they say and just a quarter. We'll give half to charity, they say. Hah! Long forgotten claims.
I've seen them come and go, getting older and younger in front of my eyes. No one's free of my allure. They see the glittering lights, the inviting images and they think that today just might be their day. Ching...whirrrr... and they seek synchronisation...a match somewhere for that elusive prize- the jackpot.
How naive, I think, as I watch them. How naive.
And then there are those that refuse- they deny the urge, that they shan't fall under my spells again. And just when they assume that they stand safely on the shore, the wave comes, inching the sand away from beneath their feet and lets the riptide pull them in. Deep.
There are Gods and there are Gods. Me? I am but a temple wherein the God resides.
The only God that matters.
It was in third standard when i first entered that room- and it was clear. Very very clear. That I was in love.
The smell, the sights, the touch of those wizened pages- I never thought a library could be that enchanting. I remember the first question I asked- Can I take it home? And was very sweetly told- "Not till the Sixth standard" From that day on, till the first day of Sixth Standard, it was about biding time and most of that time was spent in the library- devouring books. Don't get me wrong- I was by no means a geek- I mean, I wasn't reading Encyclopedias, or some such thing- It were the stories. So many of them.
My love affair started with Agatha Christies (yes, in third standard!), moved on to Hardy Boys, then Enid Blydons, Sydney Sheldons- It was crazy! I'd read anything that caught my fancy, issue 3 books at a time (maximum allowed), and return them in 2 days flat, only to issue more. I was enthralled by the mysteries, the thrillers, yet soon moved beyond them to the world of grown ups. The books were my friends, my teachers- who taught me all I needed to know about life, relationships, laughter, humour, suspicions, greed, lust and I began to revere authors who could phrase my feelings better than I ever could. Doesn't that feel good? When you don't know how to describe a feeling and then you pick up a book and there it is- written as plainly as possible, in words you could never have thought of?
And then there are these new worlds- for the life of me I could never have thought them up- but thank God for blessed authors! Oh what would I give to meet Tolkien and discuss the middle earth with him, or Alan Moore to know his psyche while inventing Rorschach. It's a blessing to be able to read and comprehend what these great minds have to say- Bulle Shah with his poetry and Vikram Seth with his prose. People don't understand why I'd read a book again- and I do- all of them. For there's a book for every mood and season and every time you read it- any book- again- you'd find something you missed the first time around. Lord knows how many times I have read the tiny "The Little Prince" and every time I've come away with a very very different understanding of life, as seen through the eyes of le petit prince who lives on a tiny planet with two suns.
I heard it quoted in an ad the other day- A book is nothing but a machine for time travel- and so it is.
And so it shall be. For times to come. Amen.
