The Dawn Of Reality – (Blog-a-ton 6)
This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 6; the fifth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.
“Home Away from Home”
Looking up, I saw the purple of the morning twilight losing a battle to a sheath of advancing orange. A silken glide of gentle sunlight was gradually overpowering the retreating darkness. Fresh green canopy of trees cleansed by the nightly downpour put up the last semblance of resistance, but in vain. Tender first rays of sun seeped through their openings anyway.
Slowly, as if unfurling a stage, the street in front of me was progressively being swathed in a mild tender glow, one tender ray at a time. Lalbagh, Bangalore’s prime botanical garden was awash in nature’s impromptu play of light.
Buoyed by the initial success and intending to reclaim it’s lost territory, more rays dared further.Hesitantly. Stealthily a ball of orange had ascended behind the trees and now thrust shafts of golden yellow beams in all directions. Unlike the hesitant first rays, these
Lalbagh Sunrise..
beams bore through the openings with impunity. They penetrated the thick foliage and cut through the mist at will. When stopped, they reflected from shiny surfaces or refracted into a sparkle, thus getting away. They were, unstoppable..
Having banished the darkness and subdued the dews, sun, was back in control.
Again.
Sepia tones made way for vibrant colors and the sun magically infused life into whatever he touched. Dried carpet of leaves rustled under my feet and a whiff of crisp morning air brushed my face. Tender morning rays invaded the dew soaked grass with the deftness of a cavalry lancer striking with angular precision. In a matter of minutes, time unfurled dimensions that were tucked away by darkness : Post card perfect beds of flowers; rich green grass ; towering trees that pre-dated the park ; picture perfect dews that shone like pearls and lazy lamp posts whose time to glow was over.
The air was rich with the fragrances of nature’s bounty accentuated by the aroma of the post rain earth. As the air infused my body, a lung full at a time, a serene, calming though reverberated silently, accompanied by a warm smile :
“I am home..”
******
Dear Mr.Sanjay Kulkarni,
We are pleased to announce that your essay “Home Away from Home” has been chosen as the winner of our ‘Discover Bangalore’ essay competition. It will be published in Deccan Herald………
******
“This is very good..” my father said as he took off his black rimmed reading glasses still holding the letter of my winning essay. There was a hint of a pride in his smile as he said “Keep writing..”
“Do you see why I want to pursue writing and not engineering ? ” I tried again in the hopes of capitalizing on his praise. But…
“Sanju, not again !” he said, exasperated. “It is not easy and there is a different between a career and a hobby son…”
I had heard that enough times and started to leave.
” You can write on the side, b-buut….” he tried to reason. But I lost it, thanks to the injured ego..
“Just because you did not have the guts to pursue your dreams, is it right of you to stop me ? ” I glared “My life, but your decisions huhn ? ..” I trailed off with a tinge of dampness in the eye.
He stood there transfixed at my rudeness. Even stunned. I myself was stunned. After what seemed like an eternity, he looked up
” We are getting ahead of ourselves” he stated calmly. “You have your campus recruitment next week and your final semester exams in a few months. Now is not the time…”
“I promise..” he said calmly “..you will get a shot at pursuing your dream. But not just yet”
******
“Dream with your eyes open young man.. ” said a voice half-waking me up from a blissful sleep.
“Last of my exams were a week ago dad, now what !” I grumbled and wrapped the blanket tighter pretending to ignore him.
” It is no vacation for me.. ” he joked pointing to his ITI uniform “..joys of the bimarupublic sector beckon me..” he said squeezing a tube of fevicol liberally onto a piece of paper and plastering it onto the sepia face of Madhubala. “Hey !..” I sat up ” W-Whhat are you doing ? ” I yelled.
I was a minute too late.
“What do you see Sanju ?” my father asked me ignoring my anger.
“An ugly picture that just ruined my poster. What else ?” I bristled. “What’s with that..”
“Don’t you see yourself ?” he continued.
“N-No. The writer in the poster is still pursuing his dream ; not his his crazy father’s ” I retorted, now fully awake, hair shaggy, blanket at my waist and seething.
“I want you to give your dream a shot. Hence this exercise..”
“W-what ?” I stammered. “You do ?”
“Life does not accord second chances and I did not want you to falter a few months back. Not without a safety harness..” he smiled perching himself on the footboard of my bed.
“What safety harness ?”
“You are done with your exams and have a good offer via the campus placement. That is your safety harness. Now you can hazard to chase your dream…”
“You have 2 months till your results and 3-4 months thereafter to join the company. So, you have 6 months to get a dream job. A job that trumps this software developer offer that you do not hate, but is not your first choice…… Mr.writer..”
“Let’s see what you can come up with..” he smiled genuinely
“Wow ! ” I said, wide eyed and bushy-tailed, and on my feet. “But, what’s with this ugly thing on my poster for then ? ”
“Let’s just say, behind your decision of today lies the woman of your dreams..” he teased “.. I better make my way to the bus stop..” as he started to leave..
” Whoa ! decision, view of reality, woman of my dreams ? Stop going Kaifi Azmi on me ! ” I smiled as I pulled him back. He smiled too. ”..too early in morningu ; no filasafy saar ; Inglisss please ?” I humored with the worst bumpkin accent I knew.
He gladly stopped, as if he was waiting for me to ask him to..
“That’s you on the chair writing lucid prose ; like that winning essay of Lalbagh : the inherent beauty of sunrise, the perfect bed of flowers, the scent of the earth, the play of lights and all things rosy. Rosy, just like the pink you see on the top of this ugly picture – everything is baby pink, …innocent, …pure and sweet.”
“But..” he trailed off
“Beneath the surface ; beneath the platform that supports your writing, is a crimson red — red that depicts all things non rosy..” he paused. Then looked at me.
I sat down …….slowly..
“Parents, the platforms, block the crimson and strive hard to ensure their kids see just the pastel beauty of pink. But the platform ends — parents die, retire ; and there comes a point in their life when they need to introduce the villain – the red, to their kids ”
“..the red worries of ‘food, clothing and shelter’, jobs, careers, the loans, the making ends meet, the illnesses, the disappointments …” he continued. ” It’s the red you will now face young man, for you are not a boy anymore.. ”
“Life’s rules son, not mine.” he shrugged his shoulders and raised a brow.
“Life is a prolific story teller too. Just like you ” he reasoned “The stylus of life, the pencil all the way at the right of that ugly image is writing your story as well as mine. It does not pause, it does not tire and it is relentless. It’s thrillers have surprises at every turn and is mysteries galore….”
“..dream with your eyes closed and you land in red ; dream with your eyes open and prepared, you stave off the red and dwell in pink…” he stated flatly.
“You are a man now and you need to make your decisions. My life, my decision you said ? “ he smiled ”Your decision indeed..”
The words landed like a ton of bricks. A lump hurt my throat and contorted my face as I mentally panicked. I felt heavy and the walls seem to cave in.
“You are now tasked with providing the platform that keeps the red from leeching into the pink ; not just for yourself, but for your loved ones — your future family that’s yet to start and is a mere dream today. Behind your today’s decision lies your entire life..”
Landing a caring hand on my shoulder, he continued “Behind this ugly decision, this silly picture, there is a woman of your dreams; beyond her is the pillar of your home ; beyond that, the world…… ”
“..this ugly image is your life at cross-roads — life in pink and red with a thin line separating the two…” he smiled .
“Choose wisely..”
******
“Thank you” I mumbled softly as I stared at a picture of my parents in my cubicle. Two little brats and a loving wife on an adjacent picture seem to agree with me via their heart felt smiles. My father was never my best friend.”You can go out and make friends son. I am busy being your parent..” he would joke. I’m glad he wasn’t another friend ; I needed him to be a parent.
Parent he was, a fine one at that..
******
.
Photographs : Anita Bora. Anita is an amazing photographer and a nature enthusiast. Her ‘Lalbagh’ set from which the photos here are reproduced (with permission) can be found on her Flickr profile attached. Also attached below is a link to her very interesting website that among other things chronicles her trips from Madikere to Nilgiris to Sri Lanka, some on biking expeditions.
Flickr : http://www.flickr.com/photos/anita/sets/1634273/
Blog : http://www.anitabora.com/blog
The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.
If I Were A Baby Again
My Indian Dream – 1 thru 10 for India
The Morning Prayer
Through Her Window…
