Freshly cut, nearly ripe watermelon has a pinkish-red coloured core. This watermelon’s pinkish red was visible behind the grey and white masses of clouds seen over the black silhouette of the trees at the end of dawn. The sky, at places, was blue and greenish blue of different hues in the east. Yellow scars shining like one huge electric bulbs stretched from the earth to the sky on the southern sky, among the clouds as white as freshly pulled cotton.
Now the sun has gone down the horizon. Only the vermillion is sprinkled over the western sky. One bright star, yellow and shining can be seen overhead. The hills that were greenish black have now become blue and greyish black. The same sun must set a bit later behind my house too. Behind the mosque that once had a palm tree – that isn’t any more – will set the sun. And the sky will become orange-red; as I remember it always used to be when I used to be there to look at the setting sun: the same setting sun that used to leave the stone of the ghatscape only with diffused light, or diffused darkness, and Gangaji from turquoise to blue-black.
From early dusk, to sunset to early evening – I used to sit either on the stone steps or on the railing around the steps leading to Gangaji in Kasi. I used to sit and think about the world, about myself, about myself and the world, and of my future. In the hindsight, how surprising it seems now that I had never ever dreamt of the quick succession of the events leading to the present time.
Water bodies, I have read somewhere, have high concentration of negatively charged ions around them that give peace to the mind. The validity of this claim remains unchecked, scientifically speaking, but I must admit that I did feel free to think in peace by Gangaji. I used to think there. I used to think of the state of Godlessness, of the ambition of unambitiousness, of the fear of poverty and an inevitable death, of the hope of immortality (literal at first, then figurative).
I used to be young then: young and with a feeling of invincibility, of indestructibility and of absolute and unquestionable superiority over all. The feeling has remained like the marks of a rivulet’s bed in a dry summer, waiting for the next monsoon. Hope, like the pole star, shines constantly even if faintly. Hope of reaching the place that’s there, made and kept only for me, by me, in my mind’s world.
Descriptive writing, I’m not good at. It’s the introspective or logical kind that I do. I don’t know whether it’s normal or idiosyncratically abnormal: never have thought of the other kinds of life. I had always been and remain absorbed in myself, my past, my future, and, occasionally in my present, that I never thought of the life of those I came across in my non-solitary state. They came and went, without producing any effect on my mind that was absorbed in the world of abstractions: read and self-made. All the events of my past that I remember are oriented towards my own self; seen entirely from my perspective, with my own eyes only.
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