Day 413,
It is sometime in February. Precisely, 8th February is the date. The winter in Kolkata is slowly receding, and I am always fascinated to witness seasons exchanging. The tree opposite my window, which shed its leaves with the departure of Autumn, is reclaiming the new ones with glory. Living in a city, and witnessing the changes of weather has always been like looking in between the concrete bars of a cage. We don’t get to witness lush fields of green, or even a narrow stream and serenity strewn all across the landscape that was never meant to notice individually, but collectively getting soaked into the ambience that nature gives us, or we take from their own personal lives. This reminds me of the movie, The lives of others, but more in a metaphorical way.
As I have said before, art emerges from the tiniest fissures that let us witness or make us feel we are a part of something, of rivers of blood, where humanity shies away to make an opinion, of the scarcity that cannot be satisfied anymore or fulfilled by any physical things, or maybe all those subtle, trivial aspects of everyday we don’t usually witness or repetition on a day to day basis made us far less appreciating about them. And just like that, from the nature in city, there is a separate inspiration that has helped art sprout in this constant competition of rising smoke and preserving the greenery. May this art, in all those various form of expression wins the battle against time to preserve this nature, that has always been the brainfood for us humans.
The sole tree, which stands amidst the high-rises, amidst those metal bars comply by the rules of nature completely as it follows its own pace, its own way to brush off the ashes on its precious home, to recover from all those emotions trampled by the filthy fingers, of all those wounds imparted by a group called as civic body, as this city with closed eyes and bend down shoulders speed by at a breakneck speed, at a speed where adults don’t walk or run but tumble and tumble into an infinite comedy of errors. And yet, there will be someone, someday who will witness this slow and steady transition, this accurate indication of passing time, and try to bruise herself/himself to resist this aimless speed, sometimes loosing footing sometimes holding firmly, creating art, creating serenity, creating home out of this strangeness, an identity out of a set of IP addresses.
Photograph by Swastik Paul.
Copyright Jumbled Letters.
Jumbled Letters 