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The Taste of Ash
The ash that we touch was once alive; perhaps in nebulous forms of the living - never fleeting, never remaining. When it churns to that bleak grey, we learn to truly love it.
Here is the gaudy image of Vivek - a boy of eleven, the radiance of youth seated within the periphery of his face. Furtively a glint of sunlight touches his face. The acres of land stretched wide; the far side entangled in the afternoon fog. His father owned a small farm, where they lived in Amritsar, lines of barley and maize caressing Vivek as he walked. His father was a well-built man, his hands perpetually browned and the tips of his fingers worn. A thick mustache, curled at the end was perched above his lips. A seed itself sprouted in his eyes - brimmed in happiness while on his mouth there remained a faint smile.
Vivek and his father, together they dug into the hard mud; their shovels penetrating it. Vivek’s father stooped down and placed a seed into it.
“You see,” Vivek’s father smiled,”by next month it would sprout. Just a tiny bit..”
“Can we come see it again, ba?”
“Of course.”
Another image I beheld of Vivek in the living form - although this time Amritsar shone in the twilight. Mist encircled them until the farm and the ardent lines of shops became a mere spectre in the distance. One had to squint to see Vivek’s father labouring away against the cold, the shopkeepers clandestinely hoped no one would arrive this early. Vivek and his mother trotted down the eastbound lane, shivering in the cold in the arms of the tangible silence.
Narrow gullies arched here and there; men travelling on bicycles, bags slung across their shoulders.
And then men on horses. Loud trots wafted through the air, Vivek remembered marvelling at them. The metal on their auburn suits clung at their shoulders; black mustaches and black boots, blanched skin. They talked ostentatiously; regarding each other with an air of importance.
“Maa!” Vivek exclaimed, tugging at her, ”look!”
Maa nodded, but did not look. Unspoken words flitted across her lips before pursing them together. Vivek felt like he had sinned, and he was left with his mind tossing over this unfathomable apathy.
Now we turn into the night, the smell of ash greeting us over and over.
A premonitory wind whistled somewhere to remind us of the nocturnal cold. Remnants of the sun intermingled in the cracks; the last of it used to create hand puppets as children trailed their fingers over blankets of shadows. The Jallianwala Bagh acquired a mellowness under this gentle glint of sunlight as it stood in the mist. Amritsar would soon descend into bleakness.
Vivek trailed his bony finger along the auburn bricks; each worn with rust and dross, reeking of the reticent tragedy. His grim countenance lit up as he looked up to his left and attained childlike innocence. His mother was perched beside him; the braid of hair dangling over...
Here is the gaudy image of Vivek - a boy of eleven, the radiance of youth seated within the periphery of his face. Furtively a glint of sunlight touches his face. The acres of land stretched wide; the far side entangled in the afternoon fog. His father owned a small farm, where they lived in Amritsar, lines of barley and maize caressing Vivek as he walked. His father was a well-built man, his hands perpetually browned and the tips of his fingers worn. A thick mustache, curled at the end was perched above his lips. A seed itself sprouted in his eyes - brimmed in happiness while on his mouth there remained a faint smile.
Vivek and his father, together they dug into the hard mud; their shovels penetrating it. Vivek’s father stooped down and placed a seed into it.
“You see,” Vivek’s father smiled,”by next month it would sprout. Just a tiny bit..”
“Can we come see it again, ba?”
“Of course.”
Another image I beheld of Vivek in the living form - although this time Amritsar shone in the twilight. Mist encircled them until the farm and the ardent lines of shops became a mere spectre in the distance. One had to squint to see Vivek’s father labouring away against the cold, the shopkeepers clandestinely hoped no one would arrive this early. Vivek and his mother trotted down the eastbound lane, shivering in the cold in the arms of the tangible silence.
Narrow gullies arched here and there; men travelling on bicycles, bags slung across their shoulders.
And then men on horses. Loud trots wafted through the air, Vivek remembered marvelling at them. The metal on their auburn suits clung at their shoulders; black mustaches and black boots, blanched skin. They talked ostentatiously; regarding each other with an air of importance.
“Maa!” Vivek exclaimed, tugging at her, ”look!”
Maa nodded, but did not look. Unspoken words flitted across her lips before pursing them together. Vivek felt like he had sinned, and he was left with his mind tossing over this unfathomable apathy.
Now we turn into the night, the smell of ash greeting us over and over.
A premonitory wind whistled somewhere to remind us of the nocturnal cold. Remnants of the sun intermingled in the cracks; the last of it used to create hand puppets as children trailed their fingers over blankets of shadows. The Jallianwala Bagh acquired a mellowness under this gentle glint of sunlight as it stood in the mist. Amritsar would soon descend into bleakness.
Vivek trailed his bony finger along the auburn bricks; each worn with rust and dross, reeking of the reticent tragedy. His grim countenance lit up as he looked up to his left and attained childlike innocence. His mother was perched beside him; the braid of hair dangling over...
