Fraska Chronicle 2

The twilight was slowly getting intense. I was leaning myself more to the walls of the temple as the beautiful idol of the Queen was slowly winking. Unbelievable it was that she winked her right eye as if the whole beauty of the Queen comes on to her right eye that quickly shrinks and opens immediately with an enticing smiley curve on it.

******                                                      

An evening with the idol of Queen amid the gentle breeze, between the flowers. That was the garden. Garden of flowers. The flowers of heaven, as the Queen poses her comfortable posture in all easiness. 

Temple is where the Queen was. People mistakenly have kept the idol of Queen in that holy place, I thought. Ah sure, these thoughts are so brisk. So brittle that they fear of being shattered. 

Every temple witnesses a seller who sells incense sticks at its gate. They earn selling the belief on the smoke.

I ordered only one stick. A white stick. Lit its end and drank few puffs. Many a months after I did it. I felt little more excited with the presence of delicate idol, and devotion to the music of silence. 

Excitement increased, the summit brought an awe. The view of happiness spread at the foothill in the backdrop of the scanty silhouette was paradisiac. Beauty of it all was more like the stars of a star stud saree of the princess. 

Few minutes passed. The gentle breeze brought the fragrance of rose, and the lights on the walls of the temple invoked the serenity. The hall slowly gleamed. Awe was more. I felt like something was happening around. 

Sincerely I took the next puff of the some from incense stick. The deep inhalation quivered the lungs inside, and probably brought the aura of mystery on my dark face like the volcanic molten lava exposes with the fiery brightness. The charming brightness of lava does nothing wrong except devouring every tiny bit of life. The smoke was the lava, with the brightness of excitement. Lava covered me. A pack of hazy lava covered me like the molten lava and was consciously unconscious. 

I took the last puff from the incense stick so deep and pressed the final piece of it on the ashtray.

*******                                                                           ********                                        ******

In a figment of time, as the lava was all over, I got an unpredictable curiosity “what does the gleaming idol mark out of me?”

No sooner the pinching question provoked me, I found the idol just beside me in a jovial mood. She was smiling. Beyond a simple and common expectation, the beautiful idol came alive. The Queen just winked the eye and smiled. Her cheeks were with the dimples on them as she smiled and winked. 

Mesmerized I was and left doing nothing than seeing at her. The halo around her head grew larger. 

Finally, the temple was full bright with the light from her, garden bore more flowers and the music of flute grew louder.

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Morbid Dreams and Pallid Panacea

Dreams are not the smooth lubricants of living, rather are the chilling downy flakes in the warmth of cozy life. They push you outside in scanty garments and let you feel the coldness to its extent. Endurance becomes the habit, as a result, no matter you become a Sisyphus. Aspirations, hopes and wishes are injected in to the balloon of life with the straw of dreams, the duly painful medium.

Cactus pricks sharp, and so do the dreams but it lasts long like the toxic alcohol affecting for few more days with uneasy hangover. Hour by hour, the venomous intoxication grips the smooth breathing and strangles the life, pushing into a crevasse of freezing rivulets. Lace your boots and do donning, otherwise the current perishes you, dragging helplessly far away, beyond the scenario of present and profit. The clumsy preparations and overlooked periods become the Achilles’ heel, the root to immediate loss.

These days dreams have been less in volume, the substantial quality has been withered. A dark alley just opens up like an unprecedented avenue of drowning hopes, the scary echoes reverberate the alley walls, of the haunting past. Condominium persists and makes confusion with hallucination – the morbid dreams.

Those dreams, along the striking sunbeams, as the dews relief with last breaths, before the birds leave the nicely knit nest, like the crystals of pearls and sparkles of precious diamonds, approach. The overwhelming pleasure beams in the mind along their genteel footsteps. Finely arranged carpets of hope enjoy the gracious gait of the glorious and gay dreams. The being celebrates the profound pleasure of those rainbow – the spectrum of colorful dreams. They disturb the fine and calm morning sleep with discomforting restlessness. Mind swirls and hurls around in an uneven speed, tossing with the sharp realities. The more the dreams (pathetic and poor?) collide with the dreary deserts of hopeless topography, the malicious infection affects that colorful array. Tapestry loses the lines and the abstract existence of the dreams appears sickening, awful and rueful. Ingenious beauty converts into ingenuous ugliness. Shopestication thwarts. Bare black bricks beautify the bleakness. What else rewarding more than morbid dreams? The last resort, hope, remains the bizarre panacea. Yonder it resides. The exhausting enclosure stay of hope has painted its brow pallid.

The back pack of courage must adjust hope inside it otherwise the lofty journey abruptly ends in between, ending the both ways: neither marching back nor pushing ahead. Stagnation. For ages the panacea has been exposed in a sufficient amount as per the need but the later temporal graph includes it in dim lines; the pale presence. Panacea is not reliable, my dear. The torn pages and broken pens all need a skill to patch up and scribble on. What else bounces back, except the withering panacea?

How can one recruit the escaped dreams? The alchemy is of no use; the pallid panacea is ineffective. Shrunken time and exasperating context has to dilute the eternal medicine. No way out. Has to enable the lost potentiality of catholicon. It gets enlivened from its own promising power, a dab of hope sustains. This remains the pen-ultimate resolution, apart from the very crisis of being. The yellowish sun sets, but not for ever, yet with a promise of enchanting and bright day break as an ex gratia to the pallid nostrum, as usual. 

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Fraska Chronicles

 “Sir, how can I help you?” a girl in a completely black dress up whispered, with a piece of paper in her hand.

She was not remarkable in any sense except her uneasy looking teeth. The row of teeth was overlapped with the teeth in bonus. Luckily, I was not afraid seeing that. The humble utterance of words and the fragrance stemming from her torso had enchanted me, instead. I could feel the ripples of the whisper that she made. The sound coming from the passing vehicles had been so yonder that I hardly paid mine heed.

Scanning the menu and flipping the pages of it, I stopped a while and said at once, “a cup of strong black coffee.”

She bent her body as if she feels it easy to note down the order. She looked as though she scribbled certain thing on a note paper, then handed it to a waiter looking guy there.

What could I do there till the strong black coffee comes on the table? Many ideas pop on the mind as the instant guests with colorful dresses. They appeared immediately and went like the gust of the west wind. I got my eyes with the business to fix them on the reception table where the damsel had sat with the things around. She was restless, hardly finding herself busy in any of the activity. Her restlessness was the source of mine visual engagement. I, now, reckon that mine eyes were busy finding the gal out of any engaging business, even without blinking.

The only boon of the cell phones is to use them at the hour of awkwardness, to avoid the clumsy personalities around. But, I had no intention to avoid her, rather get into her. Contradictory enough, at the utter surprise, I was pretending as if the eyes are glued at the cell phone but the total intention and attention were on her activities and actions. I liked her appearance and dress up. You can call me a gypsy who loves many things and she had not been an exception at this hour.

A lanky lady came by the side of the table, with a cup of hot coffee in a tray. The innocence of the lady could be sensed easily from a far. Her gentle steps and the serious smile as she served were sufficient to find her so. She hardly let her know her feelings through her smile. “There you are, sir” she barely spoke. The eyes of her fixed on mine. Nothing happened. She returned with her easy and usual strides.

Everything had been so unusual to me though I had been a regular visitor there at Fraska. The eyes were reluctant to be away from the dark damsel during the hour of the inner urge of mine was winding up to be spelled out. “Cigarette” please, I let that gust of incoherent demand be out. She just nodded. “One”? That was the answer with question, I believed. Smile was mine answer and assertion, both. Pardon me, if I become too much emotional while telling all this.

The blonde hair had been a sharp contrast to everything she had been donned with. The black clothes that she had clad with were matching on her body as the size of the wings of a fluttering butterfly in the garden of roses. The wavy walks she made from the reception table to mine one was the thing I had long waited for. What could take me away than that? She came. Not only she came, a fairy came from the world of imagination with all the glamour of walks. “There you are”, she handed the cancer pipe with a gentle care. The match box was the supplement.

Smoked and drank, not only the tea but the imagination and the power of fancy. I swallowed each puff and exhaled the holy puff, the swallowed one. I could hardly find myself busy in rolling mine fingers on the mobile screen. Who cares if an enchantress stands in front of you? On top of it, I was the connoisseur of the beauty.

The last butt of the cigarette got itself pressed on the delicate surface of the ashtray. Distressing, it was as the last bit of the pipe scuffles on the ashtray, I could assume. The smoke that was emitted from its rubbing was the metaphor of its lost love. Hardly, I could sympathize it. The cup was almost empty with few drops of black coffee left there. Resurrection of it was the most impossible promise. I had no any intention to add more cups of coffee to drink. Thus, I decided to leave the café. Went near to the waitress, and wanted to know how much to pay. She let me know the amount. Without any utterance, I silently fished the pocket out and put the money on the table. Her divinely chiseled fingers gripped the paper money. Mine eyes were constantly vigilant on her dark colored eyelashes. She flipped them at me as her hands slowly captured the money with her fingers. Without any more remark, I silently stepped out of the café, having her image all over my memory! 

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A Clean Break??

The most wonderful part of living with relations is its dynamics, which ever continues; never ends. Life, if the rubber band is, stretches up to tomb where less ash, whenever left, will be swept away by drizzle. Relations smear the band. The more we live, as we stretch it more along the dim aisles of haunting time, the smear stretches. It's sure, it won't be seen same but flattened away as its own ex-gratia. If we become able to stop the gyre and drop the one end back up to the same frame of time, there will be the smear. But it never happens!! Everyone expects it - some one to smear again or some one to erase.It,if possible, is only a dreadful dream!! It is not necessarily to be on the moon to think and to dream up so. Here upon, the smear hides itself along the stretched band. It's life that always gets smeared, after and after. A single spot, matters not. 

One is rushing on its wings with the one end of the band in its hand; always invisible after taking back its life from the lofty,sylvan and artistic representation, probably being afraid to reveal in human array. I suppose, I am running after him( or her?). Heart beats are the evidences like the trails of footsteps on the sandy desert. Calm cliffs, scary dens, restless green trees, oceans reaching the horizons, icy mountains, snowy ridges, warm ashes, fierce flames - outside the train, pass quickly. Band stretches smoothly on the train line. Shit !!! Nowadays train passes through palaces of height along the depth of oceans - around the globe - never the same way again, I reckon. If not, to whom? I make myself sure that my numbing heart jumps as it pumps the hot blood in and out. Train has no break, so needn't to fail. 

Cold grows not, nor even the summer!! A tattered coat on a stick( Yeats). While donning, I was sure of its perishing outlook, fading beauty and its end. I check my pocket. It lets the paper in it, socked by the toils oozed out from the heart through the hairs of the chest, slowly and salty though. Anyway, it is a faded shirt. Paper in hand,shirt, before it lets the body parts peep out, outside from the window of the train! Wind play it!! You go mad!!! 

I am pretty much sure, the train has not come out of the tunnel under the sea. One day sun rays will hug, caress and kiss it. Snow will be ready to let it ply on. 

Tunnel, the total darkness but needs the light not. Wonderful!!! Wind may feel its blowing and howling because it has not known the train passing by. It does not feel the speed. Train speed-less in speed.Surely, it does not need light always. No wings in a fan as moves the quickest. Picture behind unblocked. Wind see picture and giggle much :D We laugh together!! No, lets smile first, grin and laugh aloud:DD 

I will hear you on hilltop - echoes of your giggling. 

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