white…steely silver…salt and pepper they say or maybe even the twisted shades of grey..at fifty….really….food for thought or is it thought for food? Life smiled…that signature smile, the benign twist of those lips which refused to part..touche..silence of the being, stillness of the soul, nothingness of the heart that reverberates to the beats of those “jibon” songs on loop, life albeit…passes slowly hovering admist the nicotine stained strands of grey…all in her mind…and the world still remembers the tales of happily ever after…#Grey #LifeStory
Colors came in pretty early in her life, in those shapeless masses of plastacine, now known as the more stylish “play doh” – red, blue, green, the basic colors of the spectrum given to capture the restless minds of the children on those lazy summer afternoons at the play school. Some rolled em into round balls, some into elongated stick figures, others created flowers, faces, make believe logenzes while all she did was mix those shapeless masses trying to create new colours, failing miserably each time. Her young impressionable thoughts thereafter left wondering, “where are the other colors?”
The thoughts turned to reality, she soon found her “other colors” on her mother’s wrist, admist the tinkling sounds of those tinted, glass bangles. A plethora there was of reds, greens, yellows, pinks, white, coral and even some which did not have names or hues assigned to them. They were just colors – shining and swinging in the sunlight and the rain as her mother rushed about finishing the daily chores of the household. They were not just colors – the sound of these bangles woke her at night reassuring her mother’s presence next to her in the darkness.
That the colors came in boxes and in sequenced number of the twelves awoke her imagination to not only conquer those blank sheets of her drawing book but also to build her belief that “you could own the colours” and use them to your fancies. That box of crayons she proudly carried wherever she went, plastering her drawing book with an orange hued sun, dark green palm trees, birds in short strokes of black, the blue seas and bluer mountains, sometimes a cherry red post box with a brown stick figured postman upto date with white envelopes and a satchel that changed colours depending on her moods. The box of crayons gave her the freedom to dream, to create but with a limitation of twelve colours, she still envys the children of today who own and possess crayon boxes with multiples of twelve colours – she’s seen forty two till now!
Life passed on…pink became candyfloss, yellow – the sunflowers, Monet’ s and the ones that grew in her back yard, white was her grandma’s saree, royal blue – the chelpark ink in her grandpa’s inkpot, silver remained those sparking cultlery that lay on the dining table where the family broke bread every evening in togetherness and red was the revolt of the Che Guevara kinds. Revolution had a colour assigned to its name and she hoped one day that the world would embrace this tinge of the color red to dream for that one world for every man where equality reigned and rejoiced with the “red abirs” as the forests blazed with krishachura blooms welcoming the new dawn, the spring of life. Hope was all that she had..and hope was of course just hope – and she thought aloud as always, “did hope have a colour?”
Hope sadly did not have a color, all it carried was a timeline that never ended and as she trudged along this endless timeline the colours of life beyond her dreams, her imaginations soared across her eyelids. As she bowed her head to the complexities of living and existence the first experience of those grey asphalt pathways, strewn with droplets of cream coloured perspiration paved a thought process in her head for rearrangement of the colour scheme of her life. White could even be the different shades of cream, and a simple grounded brown could be the sun burnt brown of those dry leaves that fluttered aimlessly in the autumn of their lives, green could easily depict money than the fresh leaves of those evergreen trees that grew in her back yard, yellow of course was jaundice and the bananas prescibed for its cure – and as always she thought aloud, ” yellowness of the evenings…where have all the evenings gone?”
A voice broke her rainbow reverie, ” why don’t you colour your white hair?” Shaken she brushed aside her nicotine stained greys while as always thinking aloud, ” you call it white, I prefer grey and I wanna let it be cause the greys of my many years of living has to merge and match with the stoic greys of the tombstones wherein I shall lay with these words engraved for remembrance…and probably she lived happily ever after…”