But it snowed
Lollipops and ice candy always remind me of him. He used to sit there eating both of them with absolute joy on his face. It cracked my heart. I wonder if that was the reason I took him. Not to enjoy his beauty or enjoy his company when I saw fit. I don't even think it was to see his sister cry. I rather like to think I was testing myself and see whether the one of ice was really so cold-hearted as to make winters weep. I think I was wrong. I heard it break. I hear it now.
Imagine a castle. Imagine it well, with topless towers soaring, not in straight lines, but in spirals carved out of matchless white stone. Imagine white stone, not ivory. I hate wizards. Imagine ramps and walkways of the same white stone, with parapets of blue. Doorways of heavy dark wood, flagged to left and right by statues of snow lions. Imagine windows made of etched ice, etched not with nitre or vitriol but with bands of hot iron. Imagine, also then, the steam that hissed out of the ice when it was so cruelly branded by the cold artisan. Now imagine, in the recesses of your mind a platform on the slopes of a misty mountain. Fill it with snow. A storm rages, a snow storm with thunder in the background and lightning shards in the fore. Fill it with hail and a cross wind, fill it with cliches. Imagine the castle on the platform. Lower your finger and push it to the edge. Imagine a woman, head held high walking to this castle. Imagine blue eyes. Imagine a frosty stare, for that is what you will receive. Imagine a smile curling downwards. Imagine.
But I was talking of him. I remember him telling me how there were people who entered one's life, turned it upside down and then left without a trace. He told me of a time he met a friend in the Academy. He wished to be a wizard then hurling lightning bolts into space. I was a wizard once. And he talked then about how these people enter one's life and have an electrifying effect for the time they spend with one. And then, these people leave, and one doesn't feel regret or sadness or hurt. One just remembers them occassionaly, smiles and hums Pachelbel's Canon. And one remembers the scene from the Moving Picture the alchemists play at times, what was it called again- My Sassy Girl? Then he went speechless. He couldn't explain what he wanted to say. I could see it on his face, though. I understood.
Imagine jet black hair falling like a frozen cataract from the top of an oval face. Imagine white stilletos. Imagine them at the bottom of wax like legs. Imagine the legs walking in the middle of the storm to the door of the castle. Imagine them stopping as if the owner of the legs made a decision in mid-step. Imagine them turning away from the castle and walking to the edge of the cliff. Imagine a pale yellow moon rising in the distance. Imagine a length of time as the storm spends all its rage and finds itself short. Imagine again that smile.
I remembered another. Then I remembered again Storm and his belief in grandeur. I remembered what he used to say. Imagine.
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!
Imagine a castle. Imagine it well, with topless towers soaring, not in straight lines, but in spirals carved out of matchless white stone. Imagine white stone, not ivory. I hate wizards. Imagine ramps and walkways of the same white stone, with parapets of blue. Doorways of heavy dark wood, flagged to left and right by statues of snow lions. Imagine windows made of etched ice, etched not with nitre or vitriol but with bands of hot iron. Imagine, also then, the steam that hissed out of the ice when it was so cruelly branded by the cold artisan. Now imagine, in the recesses of your mind a platform on the slopes of a misty mountain. Fill it with snow. A storm rages, a snow storm with thunder in the background and lightning shards in the fore. Fill it with hail and a cross wind, fill it with cliches. Imagine the castle on the platform. Lower your finger and push it to the edge. Imagine a woman, head held high walking to this castle. Imagine blue eyes. Imagine a frosty stare, for that is what you will receive. Imagine a smile curling downwards. Imagine.
But I was talking of him. I remember him telling me how there were people who entered one's life, turned it upside down and then left without a trace. He told me of a time he met a friend in the Academy. He wished to be a wizard then hurling lightning bolts into space. I was a wizard once. And he talked then about how these people enter one's life and have an electrifying effect for the time they spend with one. And then, these people leave, and one doesn't feel regret or sadness or hurt. One just remembers them occassionaly, smiles and hums Pachelbel's Canon. And one remembers the scene from the Moving Picture the alchemists play at times, what was it called again- My Sassy Girl? Then he went speechless. He couldn't explain what he wanted to say. I could see it on his face, though. I understood.
Imagine jet black hair falling like a frozen cataract from the top of an oval face. Imagine white stilletos. Imagine them at the bottom of wax like legs. Imagine the legs walking in the middle of the storm to the door of the castle. Imagine them stopping as if the owner of the legs made a decision in mid-step. Imagine them turning away from the castle and walking to the edge of the cliff. Imagine a pale yellow moon rising in the distance. Imagine a length of time as the storm spends all its rage and finds itself short. Imagine again that smile.
I remembered another. Then I remembered again Storm and his belief in grandeur. I remembered what he used to say. Imagine.
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!
The sun on the hill forgot to die,
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly
Came back to dream on the river.
-Elizabeth Barrett Browning
posted by TenG at 6:23 AM
1 Have Spoken Thus
Hi
I am a junior of your alma mater who looked up to you during your final year and still gets inspired watching your edition of The Fourth Estate. Hope you are having a ball both at work and beyond. I was wondering if you could contribute an article for TFE in the context of Golden Jubilee celebrations. Being the Golden Jubilee year of IIT Madras, we are trying to present the thoughts of the personalities the campus can never forget. You can have a look at the last issue of the magazine at http://tfe.iitm.ac.in
On an amusing note, the last issue of TFE was on time!
Thanks,
Apoorva Chandra
Editor, The Fourth Estate
Post a Comment
<< Home