LOST AND NEVER FOUND
O slumber! the last asylum of the defeated and the dejected, why must even thou torture a timid mind like mine, with all those ghastly dreams, always dripping with gore and grime?
And then, what does a poor fellow, woken up brutally like this, do with his insomnia all night, the gloom weighing down on him heavily, almost suffocating? Insomnia drains him, and sleep scares him. Daybreak seems to be so distant, and when it does come, it comes with the stony practical imperative: “C’mon, you good-for-nothing fellow, no fooling around with life. Get up, and get going. Quick.”
First, it was the ‘Fugue’, then the ‘Tunnel’, and then all those nightmares of the ‘Eunuch’; and now this:
The road is jammed with fuming and fretting traffic. Vehicles creep, crawl, and halt with a screech. Torn between the throttle and the brake, abused engines breathe vitriol. Exhausted, sweating drivers shout and honk at each other. Nothing really moves. Nothing really happens. Everything is static in boredom and inertia.
A long unending silent march dragging across the traffic signal is the cause of the jam. Black flags flutter in mute protest. Hundreds of emaciated, barefooted men, women, and children pull themselves tardily on the scalding, molten tarmac. Each one pushes a hand-cart. The handcarts carry dead cattle, garlanded with yellow, withered flowers.
“What’s the strange march?” asks someone.
“The polaa* procession.”
“Like this?”
“It’s the killer drought this year”
The strange march seems interminable. Apathetic commuters get impatient, and feel impotent.
“What the hell, the vulgar rabble is doing here?” someone cries.
“Somebody please go, call the police, and just shoot the guys.” Someone else cries louder.
The crowd is stunned at the inflammable remark in that volatile atmosphere.
The men, women, and the children in the march, too dazed to react, move on silently like floating ghosts.
The dead cattle, as if provoked, suddenly stir, come about alive, shake themselves out of the carts, grow to monstrous proportions, bellow wildly, and with a demonic outburst of energy charge at all the helpless humanity: the peasantry, and the urban crowd alike.
A few minutes of desperate stampede, trampling, cries and roars, dust and fumes; and all that remains in trail is a wriggling mass of bleeding flesh, broken bones, mutilated bodies, overturned vehicles, blood and oil splashed everywhere.
Their fury vent out, the cattle are now quiet. They stand at the roadside peacefully, unmindful of their own blood-stained heads and horns; large, sad, watery eyes once again full with their natural piety.
I get up with all that sweat, the headache, the nausea, and the palpitation. It’s not even midnight yet.
And now, what do I, woken up brutally like this, do with my insomnia all night, the gloom weighing down on me heavily, almost suffocating? Insomnia drains me; sleep scares me. Daybreak is so distant.
Exhausted, sometime in the wee hours, I doze off.
And then..someone sings me a sweet song, beautiful, fresh lyrics and soft melody, like a mother humming lullaby to her sobbing, fretful, guilty child. The melody takes me gliding effortlessly, in the cool clear skies, crystal sunshine, and pristine clear air, over lush green meadows, serene blue lakes and grave oceans, sunny deserts and sublime snow peaks, to a dream fairyland. The dreamscapes, echoing with melodious refrains, gradually fade in a kaleidoscope of fleeting incoherency, and at long last, I nestle in deep sleep.
For the first time in life, my dreams ring with lyrics and melody. For the first time in life someone sings me to a fairyland; for the first time the sleep was so peaceful. For the first time, I find the morn so fresh.
My nightmares have etched their gory, corrosive details on my wounded psyche, as if with acid; so deep, and so indelible they have been since years. However, try as I may, I recollect not a single note, nor a single word of the precious song. It’s lost, never to be found.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*polaa, a festival of rural India, when cattle, particularly bullocks, are worshipped as a gesture of gratefulness for their contribution in agricultural activity.
O slumber! the last asylum of the defeated and the dejected, why must even thou torture a timid mind like mine, with all those ghastly dreams, always dripping with gore and grime?
And then, what does a poor fellow, woken up brutally like this, do with his insomnia all night, the gloom weighing down on him heavily, almost suffocating? Insomnia drains him, and sleep scares him. Daybreak seems to be so distant, and when it does come, it comes with the stony practical imperative: “C’mon, you good-for-nothing fellow, no fooling around with life. Get up, and get going. Quick.”
First, it was the ‘Fugue’, then the ‘Tunnel’, and then all those nightmares of the ‘Eunuch’; and now this:
The road is jammed with fuming and fretting traffic. Vehicles creep, crawl, and halt with a screech. Torn between the throttle and the brake, abused engines breathe vitriol. Exhausted, sweating drivers shout and honk at each other. Nothing really moves. Nothing really happens. Everything is static in boredom and inertia.
A long unending silent march dragging across the traffic signal is the cause of the jam. Black flags flutter in mute protest. Hundreds of emaciated, barefooted men, women, and children pull themselves tardily on the scalding, molten tarmac. Each one pushes a hand-cart. The handcarts carry dead cattle, garlanded with yellow, withered flowers.
“What’s the strange march?” asks someone.
“The polaa* procession.”
“Like this?”
“It’s the killer drought this year”
The strange march seems interminable. Apathetic commuters get impatient, and feel impotent.
“What the hell, the vulgar rabble is doing here?” someone cries.
“Somebody please go, call the police, and just shoot the guys.” Someone else cries louder.
The crowd is stunned at the inflammable remark in that volatile atmosphere.
The men, women, and the children in the march, too dazed to react, move on silently like floating ghosts.
The dead cattle, as if provoked, suddenly stir, come about alive, shake themselves out of the carts, grow to monstrous proportions, bellow wildly, and with a demonic outburst of energy charge at all the helpless humanity: the peasantry, and the urban crowd alike.
A few minutes of desperate stampede, trampling, cries and roars, dust and fumes; and all that remains in trail is a wriggling mass of bleeding flesh, broken bones, mutilated bodies, overturned vehicles, blood and oil splashed everywhere.
Their fury vent out, the cattle are now quiet. They stand at the roadside peacefully, unmindful of their own blood-stained heads and horns; large, sad, watery eyes once again full with their natural piety.
I get up with all that sweat, the headache, the nausea, and the palpitation. It’s not even midnight yet.
And now, what do I, woken up brutally like this, do with my insomnia all night, the gloom weighing down on me heavily, almost suffocating? Insomnia drains me; sleep scares me. Daybreak is so distant.
Exhausted, sometime in the wee hours, I doze off.
And then..someone sings me a sweet song, beautiful, fresh lyrics and soft melody, like a mother humming lullaby to her sobbing, fretful, guilty child. The melody takes me gliding effortlessly, in the cool clear skies, crystal sunshine, and pristine clear air, over lush green meadows, serene blue lakes and grave oceans, sunny deserts and sublime snow peaks, to a dream fairyland. The dreamscapes, echoing with melodious refrains, gradually fade in a kaleidoscope of fleeting incoherency, and at long last, I nestle in deep sleep.
For the first time in life, my dreams ring with lyrics and melody. For the first time in life someone sings me to a fairyland; for the first time the sleep was so peaceful. For the first time, I find the morn so fresh.
My nightmares have etched their gory, corrosive details on my wounded psyche, as if with acid; so deep, and so indelible they have been since years. However, try as I may, I recollect not a single note, nor a single word of the precious song. It’s lost, never to be found.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*polaa, a festival of rural India, when cattle, particularly bullocks, are worshipped as a gesture of gratefulness for their contribution in agricultural activity.
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