The Moor's Last Sigh

In another rotation of the earth, I should be gone.

From this part of the world :-)

I am reminded of just one phrase 'The Moor's Last Sigh' which found its way into the lexicon from the story of the fall of Granada, and its king Boabdil who, after the surrender, standing on a high mound, looked back and heaved his last sigh.

The city where I have lived in for over 3 years now is a magnificent city. Serious. Just that I did not fit in. So I have myself to blame. In my judgement of the scheme of life which this city offers, it is a superb place for anyone who is young or rich or married or happy. Adjectives used here progress from the simple to the complicated.

I am none of the four. That for me, indeed, would be The Moor's Last Sigh

19th October 2007

So its that seminal day, I dont know what tommorow shall bring. My life might change tommorow. I know you will read this post. Let this be a testament .. a footprint left on the heart of my most trusted and beloved friend in this world - my blog.

May god blesss you in whatever tommorow beholds.

PS: Would not a speck of dust so close to the eye, blot out the entire glory of the world. I am prepared to splash my eyes tonight

Jonathan Hargreaves

It was not expected. Mid summer days and humid nights there. But still the rain fell.

He parked his Merc on the highway and started walking, an occasional vehicle passed in vain attempt to bless his solitude. He wore his suit. It was only after he had crossed Penkets' Inn that he left the highway and headed towards the valley. The Valley of the Dead.

It had always been called the Valley of the Dead but no one knew why. In fact it was not a valley, it was a dense Aspen grove, and as with all aspens the trees were young but the root systems were thousands of years old. The local folklore said the aspen had grown with a purpose, a sentinel to uphold those who lay buried underneath it. People avoided the Valley.

He loosened his tie and let it limp around his neck. The rain had drenched him to his bones, the Armani suit only a soggy vestige of its dry elegant glory. The trousers stuck to his skin. He treaded slowly, dragging his feet on the sloshed grounds. The distant glare of headlights on the highway behind now comfortably escaped his ken. He fished around in his pockets and took out a grey metallic device. 12 missed calls. He looked up in the contacts and called. As it rang he smiled and tossed the device in the air with an air of nonchalance which would humble even the most pampered Persian cat. It fell behind without a thud, the earth was wet. Next, the wallet came out and landed in a bush. A silver card was dislodged from its pocket due to the impact. It read “Jonathan Hargreaves”. He plugged the earphones, flipped through the play list in his Ipod and played “A Tout le Monde”. The leitmotif was perfect, next came out the bunch of keys. The Merc, the front door, the locker… all bunched together in solidarity towards their owner. The bunch was not tossed, nor flipped, nor thrown.. just slipped away from his fingers effortlessly. He was now in the Valley.

The moon peeped behind the nimbus clouds, in a vain attempt to throw some light on that lonesome wretch below. It couldn’t. The rain continued. He was now barefoot. It didn’t matter. 4:31 mins of “A Tout le Monde” were over and the pod was soon discarded from body. Next the Armani, then the tie, and finally the shirt. He now searched around for it. He looked in front, to his right, to his left, bent his frame but still couldn’t see it anywhere. The Aspens left no space for such a thing. Still he searched. The rain made the search difficult.

Soon he found it. A dried bush with thistles dearly holding on that pearl of rain. The scratching of the thistles against his well sculpted torso was pleasant. Pain and Rain to cleanse his soul. And finally he lay snug in this small uncomfortable place called home for the rest of the night, weeping.

It was only morning when the last of his possessions was towed away. The Merc.

Revelation #1: Chap 13, Verse 18

It descended on me again. It sweeps down, embracing ever so tightly to squeeze out all life in me, kissing me ever so strongly to suck out all vitality in me. The loneliness of a long distance runner. In urgent need of oxy-haemoglobin for my gasping cells, I decide to raise the hood of the kettle ever so lightly to let the steam pass. Fizzzzzz….

Obligatory Foreword: I wrote whatever follows almost a year ago, but never published it. A true life incident which happened when I was all of 22, one of the umpteen events which shook the very foundations of my existence on earth. Forever.

(whirring noise of mechanical links as the camera rewinds to circa 2004..)

~~~~

The boys called me ‘Tere Naam’, my falling tufts of hair responsible for this agnomen, much to the giggling amusement of young women. The boys were in the age group 7-14. They all ‘lived’ in a remand home in Shivajinagar, Pune. I think I miss them.

On a lazy Sunday afternoon one came crying miserably to me. He wanted to go home. The last time I had met him, he had given me the contact number of his ‘parents’. Today he had run up to me with expectations but I hadn’t called. It rarely worked. Nevertheless, I decided to call.

The number was correct. After some introduction I managed to speak to the boy’s ‘father’. I was elated at my premature success. I earnestly explained to his ‘father’ to please come and take his son home. The little boy hasn’t slept properly, hasn’t eaten anything. I felt pleased with myself. Then the world crashed. The ‘father’ spewed some third degree expletives for his ‘son’ and wished he rots and dies in the remand home. At that instant I had two options with me; blast him left, right, centre or keep silent. Will never know what I did was right or wrong. Silence .. and I hung up.

As I walked up to the little boy the song ‘The World I Know’ by Collective Soul hummed in my head. I remember it was drizzling ..the irritable Pune rain. His face lighted up when he saw me.

Boy: “…………………………………………”
Me: Silence. A silence of the deepest ocean. A silence of the darkest forest.
Boy(in tears): “…………………………………………”
Me: Look up at the skies for help. Only the irritable Pune rain on my face.
Boy(weeping miserably)
Me: “Mein bowling karta hu, tum batting karoge?”

Before I left the place I looked back at him. He was vehemently arguing over a run out with his friends. I smiled and looked up at the skies. It had stopped raining.

~~~~~~~

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