Skip to main content

The unwinding spring of life!



Life goes on, before you realize, it is well past you, like the bus you could not catch while waiting in the bus stop you stood all your life. It’s the sheer intensity and the velocity of the things that I seem to miss. It is like a movie with so much squeezed into every frame that it becomes infinitely superior to and lies there while the audience only collect those bits that are in their reach. Somehow, I feel left out of the circle of preoccupation. I stand transfixed at the propensity of life’s amazing ability to float around, in air; in every heaved sigh, in every hair stalk I brush with my hand, in every electron that oscillated perpetually. While I stand there, the activity around me seems to push itself ahead with the preset momentum, like a clock that unwinds in its spring.

The spring of my life unwinds in interminable intervals, I control the unwinding energy by pausing it for while here and there. Perhaps it is the heat, or the friction , for every time I pause the spring’s unwinding, I am left vacant, as if nothing matters now. As if the thoughts are so consumed with the attention that they try to put it all into a perspective, cajole me, just as a child sitting alone is consoled by its mother, that there are things beyond his reasoning. Albeit, for now, he can relax in his mother’s embrace.

And when the spring begins its unwinding again, it is fast, as if it had been in motion all the way, as if it all never happened. And, life goes on, till another moment, where I hold on to the dear spring, dear life and look around in awe at the beauty that I had left unfinished. I am a part of this emerging beauty, and I had left it all without noticing, now I pause and fill it all up with my gaze, here a flower, there a cork floating on water. Now I am there, a moment here, and I am lost again in the unwinding spring of life.

How could, I wonder, how could some one just ignore this process and bemoan that his identity is all supreme. The stream of life, the fine sense of it and the naked beauty of it all. So much that shapes and situates in the capsule of time, so much that passes for nothingness, how could one not realize.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Entrenched Prejudices taking the form of Patriotism

What a great way to celebrate the Independence Day? I am bemused, apparently owing to the wide exposure of emotional experiences hitherto seemed innocuous. Delve a little deep into the acquaintance with idea "patriotism", one will invariably be granted with an uncalled inquisition, one gets to stare at a disconcerting vacuum. Why do we brand ourselves with nations that are a mere collection of geographically propelled, culturally augmented, self aggrandizing people? Answer is elusive to many for the reasons best known to them hitherto for their own good are turning skeptical now. Man whom the evolutionists assert shares a common ancestor with chimps and gibbons, naturally after parting his ways with his cousins (chimps, gibbons) choose to retain a comprehensive emotional, physiological and mental disposition. Man, if he ever chooses to embark on a space ship that supposedly travels back in time is bound to diminish his self esteem owing to his impromptu urge to track his ance...
Post a Comment
Read more

Photograph

I was born at about 8 PM on April the fourth, in the pleasant summer of 1994; the night was calm and the four walls of my birth place imposed a thick blank darkness about me right from the birth. My mother’s umbilical cords wound around a thin cylinder; I was the 24th to be inseminated by the index finger of a nineteen year old pimpled primate. Before me, the others were put to sleep in sets of clearly delineated columns; around the cylinder, they all crooned about in good health. Our embryonic development was constrained between two rows of perforated umbilical cords. I distinctly remember, at the time of my birth, a great blinding flash of light pierced through me; it lasted for less than a second, but it was the most harrowing time I have had. You might be wondering why our mother ‘Kodak’ was so utterly circumspect; to understand this, I must, with your permission, take you down the path of evolution. In the olden days, a specialised primate ‘photographer’ peered through the well ...
Post a Comment
Read more

Pressure Cooker

Daubing the top of wicks, one by one, with drops of kerosene, J proceeded to rest her newly bought Hawkins pressure cooker on the stove. “Now, you wait for the whistle” said the wealthy neighbouring lady who assisted J that morning with the cooker. With an assumed indifference, J waited for the whistle to lift its bottom over the lid and dance in merry. The kerosene stove, she was told won’t do justice to the cooker; she needed a proper gas stove with sleek finish and hollowed eyes that spewed blue flames with the turn of a switch. The kerosene stove with its twelve tongues brocaded over the epithelial layer of its throat, strung into a circle, served her family since the time of marriage. Her son squatted beside her, giggled and found it amusing as J rubbed his cheeks with her hands warmed before the many tongued stove. In the forlorn house under the wooden roof that leaked, between the pale brown walls that flaked, over the grey rugged tiles that cracked, mother and son lent their t...
Post a Comment
Read more