It was the same old summer sun, witness of countless tales. A lone
figure strolled down a grassy lane, his feet straying off the road as much as
it was on it. A face that portrayed a mask of mirth as if a forlorn trance had
settled upon it indelibly. Nothing seemed to break his reverie, not the
irascible radiant sun above, or the soft whispers that surrounded him, nor did
he look up once to savor the stunning landscape the midst of which he found
himself. It was as if he had forsaken the world just as it had done to him.
He trudged the seemingly endless path. Seemingly endless to the mere
observer, but he knew this path; he knew it like his hand, back and front. He
had walked on it a million times, stepped on every inch of dirt, stumbled over
every misplaced stone. It was his vista that never changed, where the universal
law of transience digressed, a fey realm where the senseless made sense, where
perception took a plunge into the unknown, where his totem kept spinning.
Nothing surprised him here, for it was his safe place.
But today was different, as is the beginning of any story. Then again,
it wasn’t exactly a beginning; here there were no beginnings, like a midsummer
night’s dream. Today his eyes held a questioning gaze at the gentle breeze that had sprung up. It
tickled his cheeks and
ruffled his hair, like an old lover, long forgotten, yet unabashed, yet uninhibited. It was
alien in his breathless
field, and it bothered him. For it was his safe place and it bothered him that it bothered him. As he looked up again, the mask of silent
amusement fell, for a
fraction of the fraction of a second, indiscernible even to the shrewdest of eyes; yet it was there. Lines of some half-remembered
dream that seemed to plague
him, an awful wraith crawling through
his soul, snatching at the fabric of his very existence. Then the detached countenance was back, as if it had never left, as if it was
there forever, as if the
shattered mask had melded by itself. He cast his eyes back down. The world was crazed and he wasn’t.
Yet today was different, for it always is. He looked up again; weary
of whatever was awaiting him in his solitude. Then he stared with wonder at
what he longed to see every time he walked this lane. A crested lark perched on
a mighty oak. He stared in awe. But something was amiss. The lark did not sing its
sweet melody. It did not soar the petulant blue sky. It sat there as haughty
like the kings of yore, condescending his gaze of wonder with all the authority
of wanton fate itself. The only time he ever betrayed his emotions, and he did
not care. Echoes down the lanes of time, footnotes on pages ragged. The silence
that set around seemed to stretch on in a thousand layers. The longer it
lasted, the shorter it seemed.
He opened his eyes an instant later; a blink of an eye later, to be
exact, he saw what he knew he would see. His safe place vanished with the
darkness of his eyelids. He saw her before him and what he felt he did not
know. All the words wouldn’t suffice; now he knew what only a tranquil hush
could convey. He saw her holding his hand, looking away. He saw the same cool
breeze send a few strands of her hair down her face. It did not provoke a
questioning glance from him now, for it did not caress him now as it did before.
He looked at her and wondered what was it she had which he knew no face in the
sea that surrounded him.
She turned and their eyes met. It had been two decades since he had
seen those eyes for the first time, which had held him her captive ever since.
But there was much that had changed. He was not what he was once and nor what
he thought he would be. What remained was just his paintbrush, once, now and,
he knew, forever. His paintbrush and pencils which did not forsake him amidst
the ruins of his fanciful childhood dreams. He could have watched her forever.
But right now, he had to complete his work.
He tore his eyes off her face and started the final strokes at the
canvas before him. It was the perfect piece, the best he had ever done. It had
everything; the sea, which refused to say its farewell to the shoreline, the
gentle breeze, which loved anything which stood in its way, the sun, which seemed
unsure whether to leave this world at the mercy of the gloom, and her holding
his hand. He looked without seeing, a haunted gaze. A mere trickle, but a rain
in essence. He kept his eyes steady, unblinking, almost as if scared of the
darkness of his eyelids; he did not want to go back to his safe place again. He
looked around at the noise of the beach that seemed to engulf him, like the
darkness trying to subdue the tongues of flames of a dying fire. But silence
weighed on him.
The silence of the lark, the silence of that which was found and
lost. It weighed as much as a realized heart. It was as light as a feather-tickle,
but it was also had the crushing load of a million words. A burden worth
bearing, a gift and a curse. It was a drizzle in the dawn, an autumn breeze,
but it was also the relentless downpour of scorching memories. Memories which
were worth the price they seek. He took down his work and went to her. He
smiled at her, but she did not recognize him, it had been a long time, too
long. Thanks to years of cynicism, thanks to the law of transience, thanks to
the soul of the universe. He rolled up the canvas and handed it over to the one
next to her, to the one whose hands she held, the one with whom she left
thanking him when he refused payment, even though he knew he needed it. This
one was for his lark in the mighty oak. The seaside-artist watched them leave
and sat before a blank canvas, waiting.
Turn the pages and you’ll see a man fall, he thought.
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