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.