Sitting in my veranda, through that grilled wooden frame door, I used to notice ‘Pichandi’ roaming around in the street. Bare footed Pichandi with a long stick in his hand always covered up in rags…almost half naked. But the little eyes in the street always looked at him in terror and mine was also not an exception – sheer after effect of terrific stories being injected into little minds by elderly women in these families! A black cow tied up at the other end of the street always having a clumsy face with its eyes always wet. The whole picture is in gray-scale with certain patterns in black and yellow. The patterns are separated using purple margin. They are shapeless, formless; but they never touched together.
Drums started beating. Its rhythm sounded unparallel for me. I closed my eardrums to let those sound waves die down by itself in the air without reaching me. I couldn’t help myself and I started walking in the other direction closing my eyes. I longed to see at least the ghost of that lost sailor.
On my way, those old mango trees gave me a smile. But my smile was feeble then. Of course how could it not be so – confused mind searching for the truth! The river flowing silently for years taking away the sands from beneath my feet and I felt – ‘am slipping’!… My grips are not firm for I don’t know whether to follow my overflowing mind or to flow with the wind! Flipping through my pages, I noticed that the grayness of that gray-scale picture is reducing slowly! I skipped a couple of my heart beats and suddenly opened my eyes… just to see the blades of that rotating fan above me chopping the light from the chandelier, again creating black and yellow patterns!
Nothing changed. Pichandi is still in gray-scale. That black cow is still tied up at the other end of that street… color less tears… color less tears of that dumb black cow!
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