The train has just stopped near the fields. I can see the bright red and tiny white flowers swaying against the background of a cloudy sky. There are two trees at the far end. The big tree seems to nestle the small one to its bosom. I know you won’t like me going anthropomorphic about it. You may even prefer that I use a less complicated word here. Well, if you don’t really get it, I would ask you to look it up in the dictionary or Google it. Are you surprised that I read your mind? I can very well imagine what kind of a young man you are now.
You may ask why I write about you, when I am sure that you are never going to read these lines. It’s the vagary of a writer. She has to go on writing, even when there is no assurance that her words are going to be savoured, the way they must be, by someone whom she would like to savour them. Words just guide her, when a sight prompts her to search her inner recesses. Sometimes they flow out in comfortable clichés, sometimes in unique metaphors.
There was a time when we – your Dad and me – used to take a long train trip to the city. There were never-ending maze fields, and beyond them the cloudy sky, which travelled backwards to the place which we needed to run away from. But we knew we had to go back to them, after all that mindless frolicking in the crowded city. The city that helped us move around in anonymity. The crowds that rubbed its senseless pleasure-seeking on us. The scents that suffocated us at first, and then became a part of us. The colours that blinded us. The noises that drove us to empty corners.
But I like it better now, travelling alone in this train. It’s going to move again. The flowers and the mother-son trees run backwards now. They are a blur, and will be lost forever now. Just like the way I got rid of everything that I once considered precious. You too.
Image courtesy: http://creativewriting.ie/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/flowers-field.jpg