Myriad Reflections. Shastri Akella

Afternoon

Strange images of distant afternoons haunt me – the unsaid crimes of languid hours emerging from random images that are in utter defiance of destiny’s patterns. An accusing gaze delivered from behind drawn curtains, a single tearstain over a sienna tee-shirt that embarrassed fingers try to efface, the rosewood tabletop of a detachable teapoy flying wildly in sultry air like a sorceress gone awry, and dust motes entrapped in flickering rays of sunlight, settling over the charred remains of dragon flies. Yes, these are results of crimes that I am guilty of. The fingers of my mind work with an air of importance similar to a dignitary who draws that important name which shall be graced with the windfall of the lottery gift. Memories pertaining to different epochs of my life are written on little square sheets of reminiscence. The bundle of carefully folded and concealed recollections wildly juggled, shuffled and juxtaposed, before a prized piece of paper is unfolded, revealing an odd icon here or a strange occurrence there for my keen study. I notice, as the images unfold one after the other, that these otherwise disparate ideas are interlinked by one common thread: searing heat of afternoons. The languorous moments, that in summer lay thick with the smell of summer fruits and in winters settle over cold-clogged noses like the touch of a physician, hold a special meaning for me, and are silent witnesses to my foibles. I sometimes wish I can collect a handful of summer noon every year and stash it away in my personal diary, for ready reference on winter nights – the stark contrast of the perilous hot spanks of the past and insidious cold fingers of the present embedding the lessons thereof in the realm of permanency. As my mind becomes a ready pale screen to hoist these images, I study them with grave, beady eyes, and realize that most of my follies have unfolded in these hours, my weakest moments of the day. I then wonder if it is at all possible to classify our weakest moments of the day, and then be vigilant in those hours and gift ourselves the luxury of a life sans mistakes. But then, lives are not a series of hours lived successively, they are complex conundrum of multi-hued moments cramped randomly into different parts of days, stringing together a gossamer life that offers little scope for study and rectification.
But perhaps I have found an incipient point: afternoon, the chatelaine of my vanguard of foibles. But does the eternal vigil over an afternoon that religiously pays its daily visit – like an ardent relative, or like an avid pilgrim, translate itself into a worthy result – tangible or otherwise? I am not sure. But perhaps, if I crumble this building, like a mongrel, like a waging crusader, I may walk along the paths of life amidst the resulting debris of incidents and phantoms, to emerge as an ultimate victor who finally seizes the possession of his passport from the tyrannical hands of destiny. Oh, I notice waves of vigilance fluttering before this little candle of hope that I have managed to illuminate. The grandfather clock in my room with a heavy tick and a loud peal announces the arrival of another afternoon.