Not all instructions are to be followed till the end and not all have to be what they thought they will be. Piu Mahapatra writes to herself.
“First you fold it in half. Then, pressing a bit with your fingernail, iron along the fold. Any paper would do!”
The rain when carried by certain wind with a specific place of birth, becomes monsoon. Otherwise, rain is just water falling from the cloud!
In my city, we have this dilemma when the summer decides to leave. We call it initially rain and then if it persists, the cause found is that of depression. Depression, I heard from some of my moody friends, is constant. But when it rains continuously and with unfiltered consistency, the news papers proclaim – ‘Finally the monsoon is here!’
“Yes! You can tear the paper from your notebook. Now fold the sheet of paper in half from top to bottom. A straight horizontal crease in the middle. Fold the top corners in the middle to meet and Voila!! A triangle is formed. Almost like a mountain.”
The city floats like an island, the murky water rippling and splashing with the moving yellow taxi making slow steady breast strokes through the dense fluid. Silverstein did rhyme about a place ‘where the sidewalk Ends’, but I have seen them vanishing more than once. Those who lived on the ground, were grounded and those who were blessed with higher elevations looked down from top with an indifference befitting God. The only problem is, even God gets hungry and hence small jute bags were hung down from the verandah for bits of leafy greens or dark muddy potatoes.
The bags went up and down and I wondered, whoever is in between, never indulged in making use of a scissor!! Snap!!
“The good thing is you don’t need a scissor here. Justttt fold the flaps, yes there you go, gently but precise, on both the sides. And pop out that shape. You can stop here if you want!! A hat instead for a boat. Would you?”
I looked down at the city. It didn’t look like Venice at all!! The plastic bags, not a frequent sight at that time, old newspapers, leftovers dumped by us only the last on the side of the road, surface up and float around the little figures who tread in the water in a slow steady ‘summer holiday’ pace. The radio plays at the background.
আকাশে আজ রঙের খেলা
মনে মেঘের মেলা
হারালো সুর, হারালো গান
ফুরালো যে বেলা
আমার মনে মেঘের মেলা
আকাশে আজ রঙের খেলা
মনে মেঘের মেলা
I looked at the paper hat which decided not to be a boat. Not all instructions are to be followed till the end and not all have to be what they thought they will be.
“You didn’t even speak once! Did you like it?”
I was always a quiet one, a trait which age will bring back again.
(Artwork: Piu Mahapatra)
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