The revisit: Park

Here I meet my old friend, the park. A heavy rain obstructs my walk.
As it lightened the park, trees shielded me, and I continued my walk. The rain came to make the land wet once more and then gradually vanished.
A bit of fog appears, and I am in a different place. The setting is changed. The feelings are all known, but my presence is not there. It leaves me with a trail of emotions.

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I have met three people of the same kind, all at different parts of my life, all telling the same thing differently and yet I fail to comprehend.

I am absorbed to go to a secluded land. I have always found it isolated. An old car stands in the courtyard and weeds and shrubs grow all over.
I feel empathy, so strong that I might do myself wrong rather than do the wrong to the victim. On some days, I have to fight it strongly to stop it from overcoming the requisite mode of action.

The sun shines and works its balming effect as I walk back home.

The Alley: Entry into the new world

I sit in front of a fan and contemplate. There is a multitude of thoughts crawling through my head. I want to attend to each one of them at once. But I fail in the end to attend to even a single one: chaos, chaos.

I see a nice girl with cropped hair. When I was a little, my eldest sister’s friends met me. I found them grown up as if they are in some zone of life where I haven’t reached yet. When I look at this girl, I get the same sensation, even though I might be older than the girl at present.

I might have changed from one side of a coin to another. But, some of the things I do haven’t changed much. They seem to be at the root level still.

I find myself in the most critical time of my life; a time in one’s life when you are neither young nor an adult. When nothing seems to make sense, and nobody seems to understand you. I should spend this time with people just my age, neither young nor adult. They say, “Don’t suppress emotions”. Will a person in a different mental state understand your observations and thoughts? I don’t think so. What’s of value to you might be waste for the other.

I dreamt last night, and then the continuation of the dream was this noon. It’s as if I stopped writing yesterday and started again today from the same point I left off.

Soon it will be winter, and this sultry and humid weather will be gone. The commence of the winter will be marked by its distinctive smell, like burning wood mixed with the cold, breaking through your nostrils.

My room shares three doors with the adjoining rooms. When all these doors are shut, it forms a small alley. At night there is total darkness in this alley, and it creates a void. This void is my entry into a new world, a world where nothing exists for a split second.

The road less travelled by

It is funny how any sudden visible or invisible thing can bring back memories from the past, just like a flash. An old red building just did it right now. The flash is not even for a second, and you relive everything in that split second.

I saw a face, and I looked back in time through his face to see all his look-alikes in the past.

The path dissecting from the main path ahead of me reminds me of the “the road less travelled by”.

I once overlooked a pair which seemed like getting along nicely. Now, I find them in a different setting.

I just realized that I sometimes tend to force away from the true identity of things even when they are crystal clear in front of me.

I sometimes feel that I was robbed of something important from me once. The robbery was so stealthy that I didn’t even realize what was robbed. But, I could feel it over the years.

I find myself seeking nature to return it to me. When trees are near, I find myself complete.

Walks

The orangish-yellow sky serves as a connector between the night and the day. The environment is pleasant and incomprehensible at the same time. The bright glowing lights outside give the show of festivities.

It is the onset of the night, and I can feel the connection between the night and the day.

It rained a little while ago for a few minutes as if somebody pissed on us from above. The increase in the heat is evident from the sweat on my face.

I am circling in the park just like everyone else here. It feels like a compulsion. A path carved for you, and you walk it without interest.

There are various kinds of walks that I see. Some stroll in a pair of two and talk continuously. They are here for some private talking.

Some walk briskly; the fastest they could walk before they start running; they know the benefits of brisk walking.

Some walk and stretch and twist at the same time; they want to make the most of this walk.

Some walk casually, looking and observing everything they see.

The night is engulfing us now. The lamps have just come up. The surface of the cropped plants are flat and shine under the light. The ones left uncut are fuller and happier.

Park 1.1

There is no fun inside a block among cars and large concrete houses. I read somewhere that green is not the actual colour of the plants, or the colour we see of anything is not the actual colour. It is the colour that they reflect.

When I see a face resembling another one, I find a sense of relief. It is as if God finally made a mistake. He made something again almost the same by mistake (if God created humans). I wonder if there are doppelganger dogs and cats as well.

I enter the extension of the park that I went to yesterday. Whatever isolated place I see there, and like to go to, people are already there. And, I think how late I have been in my explorations.

I would want a new place to walk every day. That won’t be possible, I suppose. There are still plenty of paths to tread. I should finish walking this first. I might be thinking ahead of my head.

The path seems to end here. After that, it is just wet mud. I dare not put my foot in it.

I find people talking. I wonder what they discuss. Most probably not about the park. There is so much to see here.

The park drifts me through time. I feel dizzy. A pungent odour bursts through my nostrils, and I walk away.

I see a minuscule tree with just two and a half leaves. It is like a child born already two years old.

I take the mysterious tributaries going inward to find that they are afraid of me. They try to slip me away. They will get used to my friendly presence in some time.

People raise their eyes as I wait and write. They are just fond of monotonicity. They are incapable of handling anything different from the usual. If everyone is walking, you must walk as well. They convey this to you with their vicious eyes.

As the thoughts crawl through my head, I jot them down. It is as if I have someone to talk to who would correctly understand what I am thinking. People seldom understand each other. The risk of spilling your unfiltered thoughts to the other are many. And once filtered, they lose the essence.

Park tales

This morning is different. The sun has come out from the peeking, and it is shining brilliantly. The usual clamour has begun as the motors strike the usual routine. I miss yesterday morning.

I enter the park, and the trees are cloaking us. They have pocketed us from the outer chaos. There is a shed with 4 inches bricked wall. I strike an urge to enter it. I have gotten this feeling from one time to another when I have wanted to be somewhere. Though it wouldn’t be much inside the shed, I want to enter it.

The park gets ominous in the evening as if some horrid forces reside in it. It becomes difficult to see and comprehend what lies ahead, and each step takes a thought. The dark seems darker under the shade of the trees. Apart from the sight of some love birds and the sound of some actual creaking birds, it is almost exciting and scary.

The air inside the park is too fresh, or it’s too scarce as it is taking my mind into a spin.

Adjacent to the park is the factory line wall. The workers inside work day and night, breaking a sweat. They are oblivious to the existence of the park.

This park is not like most. As I move further, it takes off the cloak and enters a vibrant new light as if it has released some of its prisoners to witness the dawn.

There are so many mysteries to this park, separating and going outward or inward from the main path and teasing you to discover and explore.

Just outside the park rails lies the chaotic outside world but it appears that this inside world is separated from it by a force field, so close yet parts of two different worlds.

I met an old face and hence I know that I am not the only one enchanted by this park. He has his music on, and I am spilling words.
He talks and criticizes the ones not around. I have often found people trying to connect and breaking the ice by criticizing others like they have nothing better to speak.

I gave into my fascination with the park, and it feels as if some questions are answered.

Memoirs of the rain

I was famished. It wasn’t just a normal hunger. I practically yearned for rain. And finally, it happened. What a wonderful incoming it has been! It is raining since morning, and I feel like a weight of so many days has been lifted.

Rain is therapeutic.

I realized that I always walk looking at the path and around me, never having a look at the whole picture unravelling in front of me. But today, sneaking under my umbrella, I could see it. I could see everything in front of me like a projectile fired into space. And, it feels like a new world.

From my usual point, I returned from my walk. I wonder what lay ahead. It doesn’t seem interesting.

At the endpoint of the road, a Gurudwara and a Church lie next to one another. It looks as if they are mocking at the religious boundaries that exist between them or just standing their guard to one another. I couldn’t tell which one.

There is a patch of land with a small bench in between. It is covered by trees at the edges, giving it an appearance as someone comes here to sit alone.

I walked to the junction where three roads collapsed into a T formation. The rain has started again. It was the traffic lights. Thus it gave me ample time to look at faces when they stopped there. I have always had a fascination for faces. I never understood them, and the more I looked at one, the more perplexing it got. I wonder what they hid behind, plenty of emotions to be sure.

The handhelds are a boon. With one in hand, I could stand just at this junction and punch some words. A diary raises many heads, and it feels uncomfortable. It is too much of chaos. It risks the act of showing off (as perceived by the ones around). With handhelds, I can write at the moment of witnessing the moment.

Some people hate the rain. I also used to be one of them. The transition took its time.

I walk through a corridor of shops where a tree has fallen from last nights heavy rainfall. Just a single fallen tree and the whole corridor seems like an abandoned part of the post-apocalyptic era. This place is just not the same.

I see children plunging intentionally into a patch of water. They must think of it as a river. I remember doing the same from my childhood.

I will miss the rainy season as I have never missed one as many as I have come across until now. The rain is therapeutic.