Reflections - A Journey Through Life

I lived in a large bungalow alone. It stood in the middle of an unkempt overgrown garden. On one side mango trees formed a jungle. It was dark there. The small cozy room I occupied opened to a narrow stretch of covered veranda at the back of the bungalow. The veranda was covered by wire netting giving a clear view of the unkempt lawn overgrown with grass and occasional shrubs. I liked this chaotic unkempt look. It was nature left to itself. On Sundays I took rest. After finishing morning chores, my small luxury was to sit on a chair in the veranda. Common birds hopped, flitted, flew across my garden in search of their food. Undisturbed. Quietly sipping tea I enjoyed their quests. Weekdays I worked from 10 to 8 in the evening. Office was within walking distance, but still I had to use my car. Evenings when I returned home, my bungalow silently waited for me. I used the backdoor entry through the veranda. During summer as soon as I reached my door intense sweet smell greeted me...

There was no light anywhere except the back-lights of the car and the starlight. I stood silently. A little apart from my car. Looking around and up at the night sky. After two hours of drive I had told my driver to stop in the middle of nowhere. Just to drink in the night sky. My town was still two hours away. It was late night. No car coming this way. My driver, a quiet non-interfering person. I felt deep peace seeping into me. Huge empty expanse now dark—lying dormant— sleeping under the December sky. This morning only I went along this road, the rolling green sunlit fields merging with the horizon mile after long mile. I loved this road during the morning drive. Now I am in love again, a different kind of love. My puny body rooted to the mother earth, my eyes soared among the stars finding company, strange but rich comforting company. The twinkling stars told me—we are with you, forever.

Color of life Cars stopped at a red light. I looked around. A couple in the car beside mine. Glow of wealth visible on their skin. A hand rested lazily on the open window sill. The long row of multicolored bangles on her hand stood out brightly. The colors…sign of wealth and happiness. The colors spoke aloud—look at us, we are the symbols of life and joy. Night fell. At a corner of my footpath lay a middle-aged old woman, half reclined. Skin sooty black, wrinkled and ravaged from long periods, maybe whole life on streets. Her sari, though once normal, now had turned blackish just like her skin. On her lap lay a child. Deeply undernourished inevitably. Layers of dirt and poverty covered him from head to toe. Together they merged nicely with the half-lit street corner…except for the shockingly out-of-place row of bangles on the hands of the woman. They tried to tell a story of life, yet untold. It was morning again. Busy hours. My car stopped. Accident scene. I looked out. ...