October 03, 2002


Time is often like old newspapers, they pile up in your backyard -- in all odd figures, shapes and sizes. For a while you can recollect a few of the noteworthy editions. The really good ones find a home in the scrapbook of memories. The same goes for the bad ones too. The rest you sell off to make space for the new. The transaction almost never justifies the expenditure involved in their procurement.

Put together the fading prints, the bloated ink and a random set of tattered moth-eaten sheets, then you get quite a story to read. Some of them make sense, perfect grammar, structure in idea and construction; others simply miss the bus, they remain as broken and unfinished sentences, tales that have no beginning or no end, text that overlap, plots that intertwine and the odd bright exploding spark in an otherwise dying bonfire. Incomplete and inconsequential, dump it.

Yet another rickety boat sets sail towards the unseen land of bliss beyond the distant horizon. The eyes struggle to play catch up; till they become specks and soon invisible specks on the speck like boat; till they can stop seeing the fake smile that you push along with the receding waves that take the boat further and further away from you towards the destination. Another set of pages are consigned to the pile.

We are the children of a lesser God. We are never the ones to leave by the light of the day. We always see people off. We walk away only under the cover of the dark. We are never destined for good byes.

We are the children of a lesser God. A God who is seen only in the darkness of a twinkling eye.