His thoughts were truncated like his breathe. The breathe had only managed to come out, it never could get in. Nobody knows where those thought were revolving before they fell off the orbits and vanished in the wilderness of the night to be remained unknown and unspoken for ever. The half-drunk tea has spilled on the road. The burnt white china clay pot carrying the tea had jumped of his hand. It has fallen, broken to pieces, two large pieces and many small ones in perfect harmony to God’s creation, too few bigs and too many smalls. The spilled tea, the broken pieces of china clay tea container and his blood-spilled body with truncated thoughts and breathe lie separately forming a triangle, keeping identity and separation, yet defining a relation by forming a triangle that they were together but now separated by the space of time. Soon they will depart in their ways, their manners and defined manners, never to be part of anybody thoughts that they were together, a blood-spilled body who has forgotten how to breathe, a broken china clay tea pot, a pool of spilled tea, brown and hot, in contrast to that pool of red and hot blood. They had never expected this unexpected truth, the end, so hurriedly, so unceremoniously. They had all expected a contended and respected exit.
Spilled tea had vowed to defeat the laziness and drowsiness. It had dreamt a strong world full of vibe and alertness. Alert to exploitations. Alert to happenings. Alert to changes. Alert to misery. Alert to cry. An alert man. An awake man .But----------. It is spilled. Over! Message is yet to be conveyed. It is yet to be understood. But it remained between undefined and defined. How a spilled tea can be defined? The end had come soon! The china tea-cup had its own dreams. Ah, many lips will kiss me. Life is full of kisses. Warm and moist. Twinkling eyes. I will delicately held that tea from spilling down while he expresses his heart to the love one, while they argue among themselves, but the twinkle in eyes will return and the smile in the face will return while they kiss me for I will remind them the pleasure of kiss, the love of kiss, the story of kiss and the smile of kiss. Ah! What a loveable life! What a blessed and beautiful life! Everybody loves me and kisses me. The lover, the divorced, the lonely, the rich, the poor. Ah! I am the common minimum divisible amongst all. A likable. A kissable. Now, it lies broken, broken to two big pieces and many tiny pieces. Fallen apart. Fallen at random without pattern as if they do not know each other. They have forgotten, once upon a time, in the past, nay, it was not once upon a time, it was a moment ago, a moment short enough for breathe to come out and go in, they were all together forming that form so likable and kissable. But that tiny moment was further divided. The moment, after the breathe came out, stretched to infinity, immortality to mortality. Now, the china clay tea cup lies in many undefined broken forms as the breathe refused to go in. May be, it has forgotten its way or has loved to immerse itself in that Vastness and Infinity perhaps with a thought, ‘let me see beyond the routine’.
And he? Yes, he! His three children, son-daughter-son, a perfect sequence, desirable sequence, like the LORD of PURI, a sister in-between two brothers. The elder, a sensible one, he will definitely successfully walk, the walk of life and stand firm on his feet, the third manageable, needs a little direction, a little guidance, expected of a third child, usually dragged. And the in-between, the little demon, the loveable terrorist for she will terrorize with that cute talks, smiles full of mischief, her artificial jealousy and competition with mother, her sweet laden naughtiness, her play of always pinching the bottom of younger brother, imitating the silent and serious elder brother, her whim, her demad, her cry, her play, her jump, her presence, her sometimes moody and unbearable silence, her laughter, her ‘hear-me-all’ loud study of geography, her eating, her sleeping, her getting up and vacillating drunkard walk to the bathroom with her tooth brush dangling from the mouth as its end sometimes dropping the saliva in the already slippery ceramic floor and her mother shouting simultaneously for being careless and dirty and that ‘who cares’ attitude which flourishes day by day by papa’s unconditional love, despite mother protest and words of wisdom. Your daughter has grown up. Grown enough. But he always behaves as if he has never heard that. His thought had traveled with that unreturned breathe to a village, remote and green, his school, his multipurpose school bag, his teachers, his struggles, the poverty and his stepping up in the ladder from school to the nearby town where he studied chemistry ,the beauty of atomic structure resembling planetary system as his life moved around the part time accountant job in the temple where that kind hearted couple(mousa and masi} while taking care of the deities in temple also took care of him along with their children for he, the boy, was too loveable. How are you mousa and masi, my second parents? Definitely I have not forgotten you, never I shall for you are living GOD to me as my parent who gave birth to me and struggled for me as both of you have. A little difference you live in little town near that temple and they live in that remote village, in that inherited, old parental house which they considered as their temple. Bless me all four of you, my parents who gave birth to me and loved me and my parents who loved and cared me though I was never born to you but I existed in you. I need blessings from all four of you, as I still struggle in that unending struggle for elder one is yet complete his study, my second one is yet marry and my third one is yet to leave my finger.----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------THUG-----THUG. There are two sounds in the air, the first one when the collision of that speeding truck came and the second one when he fell flat on the ground, eyes to the sky. Though thought was curtailed and truncated in the cruelty of reality and the wind of the forest blew away his breathe for never to return, but his eyes wide open, his head in pool of thick red blood tried to see that frail woman, always complaining about his daughter and always praising his elder son, the last one is of course is always loveable. He tried to call her but the blood oozed out his mouth, he tried and tried to search that unreturned breathe. At last he wished and pleaded. Please, please; do not come back if you are not destined to come back; but go and console that frail lady with three loveable ones and tell her that I remembered her along with those three kids while I left. Go to that temple in town and to that village, touch the feet of four of them as I do in the time of departure. Slowly his eyes became still. Nobody knows whose reflection those eyes carried when those became still. Nobody knows whether he heard that loudest and last THUD sound of that night when the speeding truck went off the road and collided with the big trunk of that Banyan tree and hid its face in shame and sorrow.
John could not believe that so many changes can take place in so little time. He was his co-passenger in that night bus which travels throughout the night to reach the destination. They had all got down for a cup of tea near by that dhabba which stands alone in that forest. John had seen him strolling in the middle of road while sipping the tea. Night was deep and road was empty. Nobody had expected that inevitable. Along with other passengers John went near to that body. It was still and silent. Eyes wide open. He was a tall person with bald head. The back of head is still bleeding. Blood has oozed out from mouth and now it is foamy and frothy. It is over. All over. The wind of the forest was strolling in a stoic and salient mode, but it had a pattern. John knew if that pattern is put in a flute it will emit a plaintive number. In that silent night, near that silent body, John could understand the pattern, that plaintive number. But surprisingly, something was ticking in that cruel night, the old-fashioned spring loaded wrist watch of that silent body. Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick. Time moves. John put moved his fingers on those silent eyes. The eyelid dropped without any sound.----------------------------------------------------------------
The body was dressed in new cloth as it lied on the logs of wood in that HINDU cremation ground. His elder son had dressed him. He put some cooked food in his mouth. Again he was covered with log of small woods. His son dressed in white dhoti, as a sign of responsibility and adulthood, yes, he has to be now, moved with the fire around the dead body of his father. John had not counted how many time he moved. He being a catholic was not aware of the custom. But went on his knee along with others when the son put the fire on the dead body. Somebody started wailing; yes it is the middle one, the daughter, the naughty one. The elder son held her hand and so did the younger one. They formed chain and soon they held the hands of each other to form a triangle, a triangle so different from earlier one with spilled tea, broken tea cup and that silent body.
The smoke raised from the fire as the dress caught the fire first. In that smoke John could see a smoky figure bidding an adieu.
Bye, bye my son. You dressed me and fed me for the first time and for the last time. You have leaned that now for you did it beautifully with lot of care. I know you will carry on that responsibility in my absence. Bye, bye, my naughty one. I will come back. Surely to see you when you tie your knot. You will find me and feel me when your brother, whom you imitate, shall bless you as you start your new world. Bye, bye my little one, I know you are intelligent enough to walk without holding your father’s fingers. You will walk with your intelligence. You will walk better.
The smoke went further up as it burnt the skin. The smoke was little darker this time.
See you in next life my loved one, the mother of my three jewels. I know you are brave enough not to cry in front of my children. As my body burns I mingle with you. We have become one. One body and one soul. My respected parents, my two mothers, oh, my lovely mothers and two fathers I know what burden and agony I left for you. I love all of you. I could not have tolerated your departures and that is why I departed before all of you. Oh, my brothers, oh, my sisters, oh, my relatives, oh, my friends. May God bless you all? I pray for all of you as I burn. You will never have truncated thoughts as I had.
It is now smoke, thick smoke. The breathe had left. The soul had left. The thought had left. And now, the body left. The journey of ultimate departure ended to turn into a memory, an agonizing memory. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Many days have passed. But it all appears to John like yesterday. Till today when that night hums and the solitude rules, the memory of that triangle resurfaces. Spilled tea, a broken china clay tea pot and a silent body. The note of the melancholy number that wind sang resurfaces. With that comes the sound... TICK..TICK..TICK..TICK.TICK
But soon it gets replaced by the other triangle formed by those three lovely children. He kneels down and prays to the MOTHER MARY wishing those three dots forming triangle to grow and flourish and those lines of loves connecting three dots to get strengthened further. Parijats, you too bless that triangle.
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