There is something about late afternoons, as the sun prepares to settle down; the intensity of the long day dissolves into a warm breeze. It's almost as if a blanket of blissful laze descends upon us and the mundane becomes magical. With each moment, the comfortable weight of life casually passing by, slowly yet surely, settles. And in this moment, in the shade of the old tree, I look at the vast stretch of green; the soft blades of grass sparkle under the rays of the sun. For a second, I become aware of the existence of conversation hushed in the distance. Then I see a dainty little flower try to flirt with the wind as it falls down to kiss the earth, gracefully and quietly. Just as another gentle gust begins to go by, I quickly move to pick up the little flower. Pink and delicate. It is so pretty. The reason why this flower has suddenly become the centre of my universe remains a mystery to me, but I feel a compelling, inexplicable urge to hold onto it some more. And as I try to relish and memorize this moment, I feel an unexpected sting of grief.
What if I don’t remember to live moments in the future? What if I just forget? What if I allow life to just pass by in a blur? And what about all those infinite moments in my past that I forgot to see? And what about the ones that I won’t even have a chance to? This is terrible. I close my eyes for a second. I don’t know what to do with this. I don’t know what to do with myself. I take a deep breath to calm myself down, to perhaps, console myself. I try to quench my agony. What’s gone is gone, I tell myself. What’s gone is gone, and as for the things that don’t happen in the field of my life, maybe they are not mine to fall in love with. I repeat this to myself again. Then, I surrender the future to the light of hope, as this is all I can do about it. I remind myself that I shouldn’t let this moment go. I want to live this moment. I need to live this moment. This is all I have right now. I force myself to focus on another cycle of breath. I look at the bright blue sky; it has pillowy white clouds, a couple of birds flying somewhere. I return to my little flower.
By -
Malika Gupta
B.MMC
Third Year
[Edited by Risti and Shreya Jathavedan
Art Curated by Naina Sarma and Mehak Aggarwal]
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