The Collector Of Broken Things

I remember my days as a child - a time of brightly coloured walls - through fading memories in sepia.

I'm a collector. It's not a hobby as much as a neurotic disorder. Throughout life, I've been a victim of overflowing cupboards and jam-packed drawers, simply because I cannot throw stuff away. I think it's because I cannot completely dissociate an object from the memory it is linked to. If I throw something away, it feels like I'm throwing away an event of my past; like I'm allowing it to be forgotten. And that is very depressing indeed.

Today I was rummaging through my almirah grimly, preparing to, in the worst case, empty it out, having submitted to the latest ultimatum that mom issued. A bittersweet search ensued, as I tried salvaging memories which were so desperately trying to run away from me forever.

I performed my usual trick of shifting stuff from one drawer to the next, from one unreachable crevice of the shelf to another spot where it would stay hidden for a few more months. The reasoning behind my absurd actions is something which eludes me - as the need to look at these objects and reminisce about the past never arises, unless I'm told to throw them away.

But every time I look at lucky pencils from historical examinations, torn-up tickets and broken relics of first-dates, certificates which will never be useful to me anymore, drawings and sketches from kindergarten, nearly-unidentifiable faded photographs, and birthday presents from the last decade, I am filled with a sadness - a sadness which tells me that these times will never come again; that these useless objects are the only things which preserve these spectacular memories.

And when I look at the wall, just behind the fridge, I notice the spot where I once used to stand-up upright as my brother measured my height with his Nataraj HB pencil. This was done ceremoniously week-after-week until I finally stopped growing, or perhaps until that one-week when we forgot. And then, I remember that corner of the wall where he squirted pomegranate juice, because the fruit amused him.

Even the thought of leaving this home alarms me, for it is not just a home, but a cauldron of memories.

Because without these objects, I will only be left with brightly coloured memories of fading walls in sepia.

The Madman's Lure

I should rather fancy chancing upon a madman and perhaps befriending him, if only for a short while, for the desire to defeat ennui is one of the prime motives of life. 'He speaks the words of another, and not his own,' some of you may cry, and there is truth in what you say. These thoughts are hardly my own, but throughout history, where has one ever come upon an original thought?

This madman, I spoke of, would be the most delightful creature indeed, for he would be the epitome of disorder. Rule-books can be shredded without second thoughts, as can books on psychology and those explaining human behaviour. While an anarchist would go out of his way to defy the rules and processes in front of him, a madman would simply go about life as if such things never existed, which would leave you in a state of perpetual wonder.

And wonderment is what we all live to see in this world. We all desperately ache for change and for experiences which are new heretofore. We want to travel to new places and meet new people, for habitual places, like old faces, are boring after a while. We all want to meet that enigma, who will surprise us with his every action, and we want to delight as spectators of these acts. This madman is the answer to all those yearnings.

Through his loopy eyes, you can seldom tell what goes on inside that head of unkempt hair. You cannot know if he means his words or if he is lying with the straightest face, for a madman cannot tell between truth and lie. He says whatever he fancies. His smile mayn't be a smile, but a cry of anguish, and perhaps he will hug you in a warm embrace prior to plunging a dagger into the centre of your heart. But he will be the most delightful creature indeed! - a world different from the hackneyed persons of today, who can all be reasoned with, and worse, explained.

But we lock away the madman as soon as we see him, for we fear him as much as we love him. Hypocrisy, which is the fluid that is pumped red through our veins, desires to protect us from the very character who we know will fill our lives with colour and music! We mustn't have friends who can't be trusted, after all, for they will hurt us and perhaps become reasons of our deaths. It is rather bewildering that the two things we humans desire the most, trustworthiness and impulsive-recklessness, cannot occur together.

If you must be trusted, I need to be able to explain you; and the moment I can do that, you will cease to fascinate me. But if you can't be trusted, I cannot allow myself the risk of your presence.

Peacock Horizon

The sky was turning into the most magnificent combination of crimson and gold. The moon, beaming down upon the earth with its rays of white light, appeared lonely now. A few clouds gathered by the horizon, making a statement of beauty and splendor to our thirsty eyes. The winter wind blew cold and frosty, bursting through the dunes and valleys of the desert, as I held on tightly to my light jacket.

The clouds appeared violet in a blood red sky as the smell of freshly brewed chai was carried by the wind. Short men who cowered from the relentless wind appeared tall and powerful in their shadows. Somewhere an engine was started; perhaps that of a car or maybe a generator to help battle the cold.

A few birds flew in the direction of the sun, flying so fast you would think the end was nigh. Everything in the desert had changed colour in an instant – with the sand turning from rust to deep shade of amber and with the sky now appearing blue and black. You could watch all this a million times and still it wouldn't cease to enchant.

You will fall in love with the desert twice a day – once when the Sun gets up in the East and then when it goes away in the evening. If you take away the experiences prior to them and those which come after, the two instants when you see the Sun peeking over the end of the world are entirely indistinguishable from each other. You cannot know if what will follow will be a day of bright sun or ten hours of darkness.

But you do not care about what will ensue as you are bound by the enthralling colours of the world around you. It doesn't matter what will come next as you know that it doesn't get any more beautiful than this. The desert allows you to live through one of those few rare moments when all that matters to you is only the present - not what came before and not what will come after.