A FLIGHT OF PIGEON

A flight of pigeon they were..., flying in the lonely sky in the direction of season wind, backing the massive red ball in the west... Dusk was the time, and my early childhood. Alone on the roof of dreams and fantasy, eyes fixed to the white-off white-grayish far-off feathers, wind playing with soft hair, with those pigeons hovering in the southern horizon, one after another after another...

I used to call them ‘friends’. Friends of a lonely child. They were companions of mine since my early childhood, from when I was seeing them rounding the southern horizon by days after days, months, years. It seemed to me that they would continue to round the horizon till the end of time...

Emerald green was the nature, spring...did we presume. I considered myself as being the nature. Joyous I was, for no reason, save the loneliness I was in; if it could be. But nevertheless, friends I had, from the moment I went to the roof, I was no more alone, sky was there to watch over my footsteps, wind was to listen to my songs, and above all, those pigeons covering feather around me, embracing me from any harms that could be caused by the fluffy old world...

Days passed, years progressed. Days of my early childhood ran through the late ones to reach me into my age of eighteen. But I was fresh. Fresh like a seed, before it is put to sprout, wet and muddy, all set to create a new magic to the world.

And that is how life made my paths easier to meet with Purabi. Later, much later I have thought about it, that what could be my fate if I was not to meet with her. I mean, the whole world goes in its own way, even time doesn’t stop for anyone, but again, between that, we do come to meet with someone special at a certain point in our lives. We meet, our minds meet, but perhaps the invisible cord, which binds us to human periphery, does not have enough time to bind us to that deep and strikes us far apart... where from there can be no sign for a comeback...poor men can not believe, if someone has gone from our lives its a hell hard chance to bring her back.
So that’s the way, I met Purabi. At primitive, we were just friends. But as time, as well as life started moving on, we realized that there is something more in the world also than friendship we can share of. That’s the day we knew each other. Our heart beated as one. Love was in the nature. Never had I saw the world more colorful as I used to see then. We never told each other that we love, but it was all in t he belief of us.

And that was the time when life took us apart from each other. It was not that we tried to push things and make our lines cleared, but the truth is that, we accepted it.


After she went from my life, I started writing. It was by writing, I kept those happy moments behind me, which used to often trouble me. Not long after that insomnia affected me, the only suffering which has no medicine for itself. The thoughts of the happy past kept weakening my mind. I nearly broke up. But writing kept me alive all the time. Here is a short poetry written some days ago keeping her in mind:



I loved a rose once.
A small, red rose.
When I saw it,
I wondered of the creation of God.
I kept it in my pocket, and forgot.

The next day, I found it dead.
But it left a thorn at my chest.
A drop of blood, it caused.


I loved a lady once,
a nice hearted one.
Again I wondered the creation of God.
I kept my promises, and waited.

And this time, I lost her...
But she left words at my heart.
Words of love, they were.


I saw a tiny girl,
playing at a park.
And gave her a flower.
What is it? She asked.
Love. I answered.
And she ran away.

'Love it is, which does not die.' I said.



There are many writings like this. And because of my suffering of insomnia, I like prefer night over daytime. No one watches the full night as they do the day. I have seen nights, like the old man watches the clumsy evenings shattering day after day.


Monsoon came. The dry dust of the earth got wet. The scent of the newly wet nature was in the air giving people an unknown reasoned happiness. I, packed up in my room had nothing to do, and started climbing the steps to the roofs. It was a long time I had visited the same. And as I stepped forward, I saw something. I stopped and watched. A boy, of age around twelve, standing alone in the roof, looking at the southern horizon. The season wind playing with his hair, eyes fixed to far-off. As my eyes followed the direction of his eyes, I saw greyish, off-white spots moving in the horizon...FRIENDS!


Nearly one and half decades have passed. But the picture lays the same there. For me, life has moved on, but for the roof, the wind, the massive red ball in the west, life hasn’t changed as yet. Friends will be there...perhaps till the end of time. The boy of twelve will be there, playing and watching the nature for eternity. It’s not our lives, its not the time that move on, it is you and I who change, and the rest of the story remains unchanged. For ever and ever...

-March '09