Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Inspirations. Like an elusive leprechaun it springs forth suddenly and before I can capture it , it vanishes, leaving behind a subtle fragrance, a taunting laughter. Too late to imprison that little shimmering spark too late to manipulate, mould, paint and polish it.
I will be caught up in some mind-numbing activity when it suddenly appears and sinks through the gauzy layers of consciousness, making me long to drop everything that I’m doing and plunge into that mysterious chimerical realm. But logic whispers - ‘Later..later..you have to finish this… later you can write it, draw it, ponder on it’.
But later it can never be recalled. Like the most beautiful of dreams, the loveliest of scents and the most delectable of tastes, only a faint memory of it lingers, the magic is lost.
Most often it appears at the early hours of dawn, when I lay tossing on the hot pillow hoping for a slight breeze to cool my sweating brow and dozing uncomfortably. The iridescent wings flutters and I see the pixyish smile, then those intangible earthy scents, the gurgling laughter, the teasing, the flirting, the seduction, the stunning marvel of that moment - but flesh is so weak ! I’m too hot and sleepy to sit up and capture it on paper.
‘Later..later…later..” I murmer… “Just tell me,speak to me,let me feel, let me sink into that exquisiteness, let me drown in this delightful fantasy, I’ll reveal it to the world later’.
Another gleeful laugh, a shower of glistening flames and it is gone. I sleep.
I wake up dazed and sticky with the residue of the numerous creams that are yet to fulfill their promises of taking away my dark circles and giving me glowing skin. The watery sun light does nothing to help me recall the midnight phantasmagoria. I stumble about like a grouchy cat that had been given a de-worming shot.
I sit under the crude, tinkling windchime made up of tiny keys hung from pale green thread - inspired by a lyrical story I read long ago. The lone enormous banyan tree and its innumerable feathered and furry inhabitants form a cool green and yellow, rustling, whistling, screeching, crying, shadowy backdrop.
I have only read of people getting inspired while watching the trees and cows but it doesn’t seem to be happening to me.
I sit for hours sipping infinite cups of ginger tea and eating juicy bits of jackfruit and papaya, doodling, dreaming, sometimes reading, mostly staring at the tree, the cuckoos, the squirrels, biting nails, people watching, chewing a stray strand of hair and all the time my pen fills pages and pages with distorted lines, circles, snatches of songs sometimes I almost capture a vague shadow of the little spark that visited me, a lot of squiggles, stick figures, until someone tells me to get up and do something useful.
Today while I was trying to be useful someone got me a packet of tiny rubbery beads. I soaked it in water and after a while I saw that it has grown into such unimaginably charming, sparkling, transparent, cute, jelly-like bubbles in different pretty colours!
They were like something out of a fairy tale - magical eggs from which elves and pixies hatches and fly off , their rainbow coloured wings shining in the sunlight.
My parents said they were poisonous because some stupid kid had swallowed one of these 'crystal jelly balls' got bloated up and died. It was there in the newspaper, a single column report along with a note that it’s sale has been banned in this district. And that was that.
But those strange, crystal-like globules remained with me, became my obsession, becamea fodder for many wild and weird dreams.
I spent hours gazing into their glowing,glassy depths, run my fingers over the jelly surface, squeezing them, bouncing them, holding them, letting them fall from one palm to another and watching them catch the light of the morning sun and imagined little magical embryos sleeping inside their moist souls.
Seeing this obsession my cousin gave me another packet, these contained tiny black beads. I soaked them but they grew into a hedious cluster of plain, opaque blue and black globules. So alike yet so unlike my lovely, fairy eggs!
These were so disappointingly opaque and ugly! I put them in an old plastic bottle and kept it inside the bathroom window sill.
Much later I wrote a story about a boy who wanted to commit suicide. He mixed up all the medicines in the medicine box and swallowed it. But all the medicines cancelled off each other and the boy escapes with just a mild headache. The story sounded so corny that I flushed a handful of those horrible black bubbles down the loo to distract my confused mind. They tossed and bounced like a bunch of pigeon eyes being electrocuted.
That last line is the corniest sentence I’ve written so far - pigeons’ eyes getting electrocuted !
“Do people flush little, black, jelly-like bubbles down the toilet when they hate the stories that they have written?”
“Wow .. That is so, um.... you know, Post-modernistic!”, a buddy send me that sms in answer to my answerless question.
A million tiny suns in wonderful hues set inside the glassy eggs.
Its already past midnight nearing the enchanted hour when the little crystal eggs will hatch and baby pixies crawl out, spread their gossamer wings and come to peep at me and once more the shimmering sparkles will fly, rare tunes will be whistled, there will be delightful laughter, enticements … all the while, too sleepy to think straight, I will melt into this awesome dream mumbling “later…later…later”.