Awesome Blossoms: Horn OK Please (6 page)

The following morning, he was the very first one to arrive at the Park. His workers gazed perplexed at him when he gave the new instructions. Soon, the quietest of the ex-members raised a hand. “My elder brother had a Pan´s flute.” The sweeper looked at the dark-haired lazy woman, and she nodded, agreeing.

That day, each one of them stayed for a few minutes right at their work positions, waiting. One of the violent ex-members held his broom and stood by the side of the bowl, the other one, on the other hand, stood inside the bowl.  The blonde lazy woman stood at the beginning of the Second Path; the dark-haired lazy woman stood at the beginning of the Third Path, having changed positions with the quiet ex-member of the gang. And that ex-member waited by the wooden doors, inside the Passage.

The chief sweeper waited too, holding his broom, at the beginning of his daily path.

The ex-member inside the bowl proceeded as he was co
mmanded to: he raised his broom and hit hard on the edge of the round pond.

And, as the sweeper
had expected, the miracle happened: the water inside the round pond reacted to the strong beat. The waves vibrated over the liquid surface, running fast, traveling towards the center of it, and, after that, back to the metal edge. They hit that edge and made it vibrate powerfully.

And then, a sound similar to the one that a huge drum would have emitted
, rose in the air.

The second ex-member knew that this was the sign for him to start his job: he pushed the soft bristles of his broom against the Bowl´s polished edge and started walking. And the edge of the Bowl vibrated, and produced a noise, louder and louder, and soon was emitting a profound, unique note.

It was now the turn of the blonde woman to start her job: she hit the first metal slab of her path with her broom. A clear note rose in the air. As she walked the path, and hit every slab while walking, a sweet melody filled the park, the notes of a huge xylophone in a beautiful harmony.

The dark haired woman started sweeping the flooring patches of her path. Each
one of them produced a different sound: wrinkled cement was harsh, as a guiro; cobblestone sounded a bit like jingle bells; gravel was cheerful, like a couple of maracas; and, yes, the dark haired woman encouraged herself to sweep the shallow water surface producing a sound similar to the one of a rain stick.

The quiet ex-member, once he heard his companions almost reach the boiling point, started to improvise: with his broom stick, he opened the doors, first one, then another, then another, listening to the sounds, trying them, remembering his childhood´s Pan´s flute, composing while playing, letting the strong gushes of wind, guided by the shape of the narrow tunnel, pass through every ope
ning he left for them. It was the biggest wind instrument in the world, and he soon would dominate it.

And the chief sweeper, listening to his companions, ran happily through his winding path, striking here and there the tinkling, hanging sculptures, learning while playing, mastering little by little the technique, getting ready to present the First Singing Park to the world.

The chief sweeper played as he remembered all that he had been reading the evening before in the Public Library, the book that talked about the artist, who wasn’t a rich person, but someone who, when young, had to work hard for a living, had to even sweep houses for a few coins. But became someone who, while sweeping, learned that dreaming, imagining, designing, inventing, singing, are the things that cost nothing, they come for free, yet priceless!
***

SECTION II

D
AISY

By Shriya Bisht

***

Let me be a stranger again and unfold the overt.

There are distant voices, from a familiar milieu.

The place is quite a fairyland and I've heard the music before.

Someone plays the piano with such ease that it
camouflages with the decor.

Wait is like a bunch of lilies. I count them and the time goes by.

The sugar melts like the notes that spill like caramel.

The candle flickers with a new note struck.

It's dim lit and the chandeliers are familiar too.

Across the
table are faces and some voices.

They become fainter as the cheese melts with the
generous sips of an old Bordeaux.

The Entourage puts up a nice act.

The display on the table is to be devoured with the same passion as it's been created.

There's a tapisserie just
like music....yes it's musical!

It sings of a sublime era
....may be symphony let's say Beethoven's symphony no. 5.

I could even go further to the next century and settle down for a Mahler's
8th!

I
’m a stranger again with a thin veil in front of my eyes.

The ambience begins to smudge slowly and I'm too la
zy to distinguish red from blue.

Yet the overt is
unfolded which is crystal clear

CHAPTER FIVE

By Devyani Kalvit

***

My father gave me the greatest gift anyone could give another person, he believed in me

- Jim Valvano

One Last Moment

I
t must have been a day in summer. The blue jay romped through the lantana bush hunting for the cicadas. A honeybee whirled over the bright yellow flowers. A magpie registered its presence with a shrill cry. The sky looked piebald splashed with hues of blue and pink. Dusk slowly made its way for the dark night.

The mellow aroma of dry and dusty earth wafted through the atmosphere. The wild wind started
blowing and it brought with itself a blur - one for the atmosphere and the other on their lives. The life, which was mellifluous, like a bard's poetry until yesterday was ensconced in the elegy of today.

For a man with a stooping gait, the walking stick was his co
mpanion. He carefully placed it on the unlevelled path as he trudged forward. His loincloth clung on tight to his meek figure. His shirt had torn patches here and there which appeared to be stitched in a hurry. His footwear looked worn out as they tried their best to cover, if not cushion, his bleeding feet from walking on the
treacherous terrain. The network of extensive wrinkles on the face veiled his emotions as he continued walking on the narrow path that led to the small town situated on the banks of river Ganges.

The loud chirrup of the crickets was the only sound that could be heard for miles to come. Humidity made the atmosphere stuffy. The snobbish breeze carefully waddled through so as to create heaviness in the atmosphere. The dry earth impatiently waited for the first caress of the rain as it silently bore the pain of having cracks on its surface. And he impatiently waited for the first caress of destiny as the melancholy slowly trickled down his heavy heart.

As he sat down for some rest, the horizon glowed red with innumerable desires. He looked at the long way ahead. Without wasting any more time, he got back on his feet and started walking. With each step, his breathing became heavier. After almost two hours of walking, he reached his destination. There was an empty bench in the corner. As the beads of sweat trickled down his temple, tiredness seeped in.

He made himself comfortable on the bench. He fetched a small crumpled piece of paper from one of his pockets. With shaky hands, he opened it and looked towards the horizon. He narrowed his eyes as he tried to look beyond what he could see. His cornea that had already turned milky due to onset of cataract couldn’t a
fford him a promising vision, but that is when his will power would come into action.

He saw a small mud hut with thatched room in a secluded vi
llage. It was one evening in winter. He saw a little boy snuggled up inside his mother’s shawl as she cooked supper in the verandah, which was neatly coated with a layer of cow-dung slurry in a traditional way. As the smoke left the fire reluctantly, it shivered furiously before finally perishing high up into the sky leaving a thin streak of its existence behind.

The hut looked spartan with its two rooms partitioned by a mud wall. A thick sheet of straw matted together placed in the entrance served as the door to protect their small world from the fierce world outside. One room had arrangements of a makeshift bed and the other room was full of kites of variou
s sizes, small and big and colorful. A young man with the dexterity of an artisan was busy making the spool. His eyes sparkled with determination and a fire that sent warmth to his son and his wife now and then.

For a moment, the man got up and fished out a small tin box from under one of his cupboards. He shook it from side to side and a childlike smile filled his entire face as he heard the clinking sound of the coins inside. The small boy ran to his father on hea
ring the sound to which the father responded by lifting him up in his strong, sturdy and dependable arms. There was an incessant happiness that emanated from that small hut.

The man embraced his son and looked towards the hor
izon…and their eyes met…

A meek tear drop made its presence felt in the old man’s eyes as he stared at the horizon, but before it could make its way out, the old man dozed off on the bench. The journey had already taken its toll.

***

Far away in the city, a man adjusted his spectacles and resumed typing. The
thick-rimmed glasses kept sliding down the oily skin. The glasses looked stained with marks of oil. It was a hot summer afternoon. The fan tried hard to throw the hot air away from it. The steel table cringed at the thought of summer and let out a warm sigh. The houseflies buzzed past the table now and then as the stench of the drainage kept peeping inside the room. In fact, the room reeked of dumping grounds just beside his room.

He looked at his watch; it was an hour past noon
in the afternoon. The fan still cluttered with every rotation. The dim bulb flickered now and then. He got up from his chair and opened the steel cupboard. The layer of dust suddenly got whacked out of slumber as it slowly settled down on the floor.

He took out a small red bag. It was soiled with stains of grease. Small strands of fabric had freed themselves from the shackles of togetherness and ventured into an independent world. They left behind a huge void, large enough to provide a sneak peek into the past. He quickly packed in a few clothes and locked the cupboard. He combed his oily hair as streaks of white audaciously smiled back as he stood in front of the small mirror.

His raiment was plain and simple. It narrated bits and pieces of the austere life that he led. His eyes had grown weary due to hard work. Though he was a man in his early twenties, the laws of age had made him their prisoner. He looked like a man in his fifties. His sleek figure struggled almost every day to take the oncoming physical as well as mental encumbrance. His existence defied his presence as a mute spectator and the world passed by at a fast pace. 

Suddenly, the fan came to a standstill and the bulb switched off. The power cut, he ignored the routine. Thin rays of sunlight made way into the dingy room through the glass window. The dust particles waltzed with the sunlight as he prepared himself to leave.

A small rickety bus took him to the railway station. As the bus stopped near the main entrance, the engine whirred hard. He took out his wallet. It looked as empty as a huge ballroom. He fished out a five-rupee coin and placed it on the empty palm. The bus conductor grinned and the driver revved up the engine.

The mayhem of the railway station made him a little scared. He didn’t like to venture out of his room. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and walked towards the platform. He bought a ticket from the counter and looked at the time. It was two in the afternoon. He still had one more hour to go.

The platform looked alive with people all over the place. Porters ran around carrying luggage with ease. Hawkers cried aloud to make their presence felt. Some sold chains and locks to strap the luggage securely in the train while some carried things like combs, hairbands, toothbrushes, etc. useful for a journey. Some elders sat around the corner, smoking hookah while some children danced merrily around the balloon seller. 

The travelers waited for the train. Some of them sat back on the platform while others chatted in small groups over a cup of tea from the tea-stall.

A limp beggar trudged through the crowd stopping every now and then for alms. With each step, his hopes rose high which were shattered the very next moment. Finally, he disappeared in the sea of people. What remained was the rhythmic sound of the clutter of his crutches.

Finally, the train arrived. But it wasn’t the train that he was supposed to board. The activity on the platform suddenly reached a peak. People came in from every direction. The porters lunged at the luggage while the hawkers tried to sell their goods to the pa
ssengers. Tens of cups floated out of the small tea stall. The snacks counter squeezed all the contents. Some travelers got out of the train to fill their water bottles. Others splashed the cold water on their dusty faces and got drenched in relief.

He clutched the bag with a firm grip as he sat in a corner amidst the chaos. His watery eyes were searching for some peace. It had been seven years since he had last traveled in train. The wind passed through the balustrades of the past and brought with itself sweet memories of the time bygone. He remembered the fear in his heart when he traveled in a train for the first time with his father. Even for a single moment he didn’t let go of his hands as he sat huddled up close to his
father. He remembered the colorful toys and the tasty food that his father used to buy for him during the voyage. He remembered how his father used to tell him stories about the people who traveled in trains to fulfill various purposes. Some traveled in the train to visit their relatives in other towns, some traveled to search for work in some distant land, some traveled to start a new business, while some others traveled simply because they were running away from the time traps.

He had always wondered what time traps were and he would innocently ask his father about the same. His father would simply smile and point towards his heart followed by a gentle tickle. As the train chugged on the railway tracks, the sound of heartfelt laughter of the father and the son duo would reach a crescendo before slowly ricocheting into the hustle and bustle of the present. 

In some time, the activity on the platform subsided. Number of people on the platform decreased as the train jiggled out of the station. Finally, his train arrived. He fought his way into the general class and got cooped up on one of the seats. At last, his journey started.

To his left was a young man carrying some papers. He looked calm and in some minutes, he dozed off. On the opposite seat was an old couple. The man was bald and he had a white beard. He was wearing a dhoti and a shirt. His wrinkled hands were meekly hol
ding a walking stick. The old lady had no teeth. On her lap was a small black bag to which she held on tight. They looked tired and scared as they looked outside the window.

He then shifted his gaze towards the trees moving in the opp
osite direction. It had begun to grow dark. The sky looked vibrant with a mélange of colors. The silhouette of the trees glowed with an orange tinge as the sun snuggled up in the warmth of the night.

He felt hungry. He opened th
e red bag and took out a packet. It had his dinner that he had bought from the platform. Even before he had his first bite, he looked at the old couple. With watery eyes, the old man and his wife exchanged knowing glances and looked towards the floor. Probably, they didn’t have dinner with them, he thought.

He felt bad for them. Amidst a group of beasts those fawn eyed old people were sitting all hungry and tired. He got up from his seat and offered them his dinner. A note of thanks clashed with their choked throats as they blessed him. He felt happy.

He slowly made his way towards the exit door. He made himself comfortable on the floor and gazed outside. It was a moonlit night. The star-studded sky reminded him of the stories his grandfather used to narrate to him. The city lights blurred into a milky glow as the train moved away from the civilization. The skyscrapers and big wastewater drains gave way to farmlands stretched along the entire length of the train. The tarred roads made way for the mud roads strengthened over the repeated passing of the bullock carts over many years. The scarecrows tried to intimidate the beings of their night by signifying a presence in their absence.

At a distance, he could see the flickering flames of fire coming from the small huts. There was a peaceful quietude that was e
nsconced within the surroundings. It seemed as if modernization had not touched this part of the world that had still kept the traditions and cultures alive signifying a world in its own.

He looked at his
watch; it was ten in the night. He had one more hour to go. As the gentle breeze caressed his face, his mind started floating in the sea of memories. He didn’t know when he had dozed off, but when he woke up, the train jolted to a halt. He sleepily looked at the display board; he was finally there where he wanted to be! He got down and looked around as the train jiggled away.

***

It was dark, except for the faint glow of the kerosene lantern that dripped out of the station-master’s office. The platform was bathed in moonlight. A zealous zephyr kissed his face as it brought with itself a waft of memories of the past. He picked his red bag and started walking towards the office. With each move, his heart thumped louder as uncertainty oozed out of his mind.

The railway tracks dazzled bright as the moonlight landed on them. They seemed to extend to infinity in either direction. The loud chirrup of the insects had enveloped the night in their warm embrace. A cool breeze started to blow over the silent terrain. It danced with the dry
peepal
leaves lying on the platform. It whirled and winded through the empty platform. The leaves of the banyan tree swayed gently as the moonlight played hide and seek with the foliage. The rhythmic croak of the toads now and then signified the presence of a water-body nearby. A sweet scent of jasmine flowers enwrapped the moment. A gentle clinking sound came from the wind chime that hung from the ceiling of the railway platform. Muffled barks of village curs emanated from afar. A white owl registered its presence by a hoot as it dived into the surrounding shrubs to find its prey. The beings of the night were already on prowl. 

The platform was empty except for one bench. It was an old, rusted iron bench. The green paint had peeled off from here and there baring the cold iron surface vulnerable to the present. The twisted iron rods smiled back as they buckled up to provide co
mfort to yet another passenger who had ventured into that unknown town. An old man slept in peace as a swarm of mosquitoes buzzed over his head. In one of his hands, he clasped a crumpled piece of paper. He looked weak and thin. Old age had eaten away his muscles as mere bones smiled out of his thin skin.