Letters to Dad

Dear Dad,

I was an obstinate child. Like a tree that refuses to bow down before gusts of wind much stronger than itself. But quite unlike that proud tree, I never faced my comeuppance. Few twigs broke sometimes. But the wind was never able to completely break me. You have been the mountain that firmly stands between the wind and your proud yet fragile daughter.

I remember in school when I had to write my home work and there was no blank sheet left in my notebook. How I was worried that I would not be able to complete my assignment. Or was I worried I would fail to impress my favourite English teacher? The first would be sad but the latter would be a tragedy. After all, wasn’t I her favourite student as well! And so I was worried; to lose the imaginary title, perhaps. That changed when you came home from work in the evening. I narrated to you the tragedy that had befallen. You heard it patiently. As a solution you searched an old notebook with a couple of used sheets. You diligently removed any trace of ownership from it. This should work, you must have thought. But as I mentioned (and you must know it too) I was an obstinate child. I wanted a new notebook. I failed to discern the fatigue that marred your calm face then. That was tragedy.

The mountain cannot bend down. It might not even be aware of such an alternative. And even if it is aware, I still think it might not give up its responsibility. It will keep on taking the blows of the egotist wind but will never bow down to let it destroy the valley, the proud tree.

Yours sincerely.

The Great Conjuror

Words are great conjurors. The right words. They play tricks with my mind all the time. When I don’t think about them they flood my thoughts. Sometimes in the form of a song, a verse or prosaic prose. Yet, like the receding waters they quickly escape my memory before I could make a note. And when I try to contemplate, like the golden deer in the Ramayan decoying Lord Rama, they decoy me. In both the instances, the sheets of my diary remain virgin. And I like a hopeless lover trying to pacify his love, serenade to them just so they would come to me again. These right, conjuring words.

And I am faced with this predicament often. One evening I saw two little black birds mimicking each other’s flight. It seemed to me one was the shadow of the other. Alas, who was real and who was the reflection I could not fathom. In that rhythmic fashion they flew, slowly out of sight. And I wondered how much love there was between them that made them foresee each other’s movements. Inspired thus by this show of oneness, I will write a song to reminisce it, I said to myself. I pulled out my diary and held my pen, softly tapping it against my temple. Hours I sat; like a mountain waiting to touch the cloud. But it was summer. And soon it dawned on me that I was tricked in vain again.