...another paradise

there, there he was standing again. i could see only the silhoutte, a figure standing in the alley, his back towards me. not running any more, no words spoken, silent, like the silence after a big explosion but no signs of ruin, not wanting to paint anything else, but, but still carrying a bucket of paint in his one hand, hanging loosely by one side and another hand holding the brush, brush which looked dipped in fresh paint and blank, empty walls, standing tall beside him. a light from the front, which he was blocking. this made anything else not visible. he has walked this long alley, alley of life perhaps. painted many colors on the wall beside him. sometimes whispering to himself, as if he had found some companion and didnt want to loose her, always consoling himself that he got responses. probably another whisper or a brush stroke on the same wall that he had painted. it made him happy. it made him sad. it took him long, long time to realise that he was walking alone, everyone was walking alone, muttering to themselves, keeping themselves talking to the phantom they had imagined, or by now, real perhaps. but he wanted an answer now and all he could get was empty walls ahead. same long and tall standing walls, not listening, not replying, staying dumb, filled with nothing else but his own whispers and, and patches of colors, which sometimes looked lively with bright colors for good times that he had spent with them and darker, darker still for the times he feared that something called truth lies ahead, no one was listening to him, it was all his own whispers. sometimes he looked at the walls with a look which said that some one had just smeared the wall with paint, all patch works, ugly, loathesome. he wanted to rub it all. he wanted to start afresh. this time painting the walls with bright colors only, but he was afraid that he could not do it walking alone in that alley. but he was afraid to listen to his own whispers again, for he will be again standing there as he is standing now, a dark silhoutte, his back towards me, not running any more, no words spoken, silent....empty walls....mocking at himself.

...an old memory

wind was pushing his face, hairs all flying back, he was trying hard to see the road ahead with his half open eyes, trees on the sides were fast vanishing behind, and they were leaving behind one after another milestones, however clouds were still fixated to the same position in the sky, and there he was sitting on the horizontal rod of papa's bycycle, legs crossed, holding the front tightly with his little hands and shouting, "faster papa, faster!".
it takes almost a quarter and an half of an hour to cross village to village and reach, where papa teaches kids like him. it was his special day. he was taking him to the place he works. mom had prepared parathas that morning and wrapped them in old newspaper and then put them in plastic bag, so that oil do not drip out and stain the bag. it was there lying fresh in papa's bag, swinging loosely by the handle, his eyes swinging along with that while he watched it.
he had woken up early for this day. took shower and wore clothes which mom keeps safe only for special occasions. he waited for papa to get ready and asking him all this time to hurry up while he got ready. he had made this an special day for everyone in the hut. to his relief they were ready to depart. he took out the bicycle from the verandah, where it is kept in the night. he dusted it with a rag, then sat himself on the seat and lifted him up to sit in the front. his first reaction was to press that round shaped 'ghanti' fixed on the handle. it gave a sound, trin! trin! and he imitated that with another trin! trin! mom kissed him on his forhead and bid them farewell. she was standing there waving her hand till they disappeared on the next corner. he kept saying something all the way. sometimes asking something. sometimes singing song. and all the while his voice sounded like ba ba ba ba when the bicycle went over from one puddle to another in the village road.
sun had kept himself off for the day, for him to enjoy the day under a cloudy sky. they stopped for tea on the way. more because he was crying that his legs have started paining. they took tea and biscuits, stood on the either side of the bicycle's carrier and he asked many questions while papa finished tea. it was difficult for him to keep up with his questions. they started off again. he remained silent this time. less because papa was not answering him, more because he was tired and feeling sleepy. it was more than half an hour now, they were close to their destination. he could see more vehicles passing them as they reached the town's outskirts, but nothing interested him by now, while he folded his hands and rested them on the handle. and he was lost in some other world of his. where there were no vehicles, no trees, no schools, no puddles on the road, no wind, however there were fruits and chocolates there, which he had seen on the way, and parathas too, wrapped in that newspaper, now unbundling before his eyes. the bicycle stopped and papa said, "we have reached, chimpu.", while he rested his left foot on the ground. he lifted his head up and saw a board which read, "barbigha uchh vidyala".