Moments and Romanticism

The greatest mystery of life might be the fact that you don’t know what is awaiting you at the next moment , at the next step, at the next turn of the road. Whenever we come across some quote pervading a similar idea our conscious mind by induced reflex perceives it in a negative sense, associating the uncertainty with that posed by death or danger. However, rarely do we chance upon such unexpected moments that percolates through the maze of reality our mind is lost in, and nudges at our unexplored senses, stirring up the potpourri to exude fragrance from the dried and parched. Thereby we are blessed by Wordsworth with his “host of golden daffodils” or “yon solitary highland lass” , as Frost stays transfixed “to watch the woods fill up with snow”  with Housman cherishing the cherry tree “hung with bloom along the bough” …
The unkempt staleness of our existence thus gets a gust of the first monsoon wind opening the minds to the galleries where imagination is assisted by words from another soul.
We decide to convince ourselves that these persons are rare visionaries “born” with some superior insight, and continue wading through the murky waters of real life without sparing a glance at the subtle grace of the hyacinth flower beside us. From the very first tottering step we take, we are fed with presumptions of “normalcy” and hence begins the lifelong strive to proving oneself a part of the flock. In this pursuit , slowly the part of us that startles like a child at a simple grass-flower or grins like a toothless old man at the sound of a rosy memory, rusts out . We forget to look around us, blindfold ourselves to the delicate and beautiful, and hanker for the “fancy” and “glamorous”.
We walk along a road, look at the rush of life along us, the blood boils to be a part of this race without a finish line, and we walk fast, faster, run and try to fly, leaving the smaller things behind in the ever-overflowing box marked “overlooked”. The train that never returns to the same station flashes past it all.
What if one day we halt to take a breath, even as the fellow marathoners outrun us, as we can heave no further, and suddenly the sprouting of two warm cotyledons at some crevice unfolds before us a glimpse of the great mystery the world is , and we can no more ever resist the lure of sneaking into the unseen, unknown, unperturbed virginities of life.
I precisely cannot pinpoint the moment the world chose to wink at me for the first time hinting at the insignificance of the worn out blindfold whose infallibility has been exaggerated to the point of Godliness.
Was it the lime-green reflection of the child’s face in the still water of an infinite well adorned by interweaving Allamanda and Bougainvillaea? Or was it when I saw sunset beyond a field a jute plants at their curious infancy?
Or was it the stroll with myself in the pine forest incensed with seduction of last night’s shower in the mountain waking up next to the morning rays?
I know not. But, there has been numerous moments, unexpected and untouched that imbibed my veins and suffused the essence over all of my existence to sustain for days through the neck-deep murky water.
Today, was one such.
The mind, lost in the debate of wandering about in alleys of eighteenth century London or to cook up the not-so-prominent anxiety at the eleventh hour before the exam ensues, felt tired, oblivious to the light breeze that came from the unending stretch of fallow on both sides and flirted with the eucalyptus leaves.
A turn of the road, and a sudden purposeless glance burdened with a heavy mind, and a spectacle unfolded from behind the revelry of Canna shrubs.
I have never seen a lotus pond before, barring the imagination painted by the “fancy” stories heavily drunk on Autumn and inevitability of Lotus in Durga Puja or the crayon drawings we were forced to throw up on blank paper whenever Autumn clouds started filling in the sky (clichéd again with mindless emphasis on “Pujo Asche” )
So, there it was, my Daffodils and Snowing woods moment, I could not even stop like the Romantics did because the clock was ticking on, all I could manage to quench the longing was to keep turning back while maintaining the “blindfold” pace until it went out of sight.
I was reminded of Boticelli’s The Birth of Venus . The painting has appealed to me so much ever since I came across it, but has never connected so much to something I am witnessing with my own very senses. The wholesomeness, the earthliness, the profuse extravagance yet the subtlety of colours , like
the delicate vintage wine that lingers only in your memories to keep you intoxicated for days.
Now, after coming so far, anyone would now be impatient for a poem, may be? At most a few words creating a wildfire of imaginations around my Lotus Pond. To be honest, I myself had thought of trying the same when I sat down to write. But, on the course of this piece of “introspection” , I realized the limitations of my vocabulary and shortcomings of my imaginative competence, so decided it best to put the idea to rest. A few google peeks at “fancier” synonyms of my glib lackluster expressions would probably have gone unnoticed in the flow of the moment, but that would be “poetic injustice” to the infinity of the Lotus Pond. Hence I refrain.
On the way to my return, I had to pass by the Lotus Pond once again. Now, I could have easily lied and upheld the endlessness of the charm of it, and ended this blabber on a Romantic note. But, sadly, I would say the truth.
Upon returning, I had the knowledge of the existence of the Lotus Pond already, so the extra flavour of serendipity was lost. Also, deliberation of expectation, corroborated with brute eagerness to get another look at my beauty, took a toll at the delicacy of its sensual attraction. And there it was, cold, plain and simple, like the husband whose face you forget to remember in a long-term agreement satired as marriage.
I sighed.

It is just that there are moments for everything in life, make sure you take in all the perfection that is being offered to you at one such .



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