An earlier post was deleted in order to make way for this one. Somehow the earlier one did not do justice to my evolving thoughts. Or did it ?
Snatches of memories pin me down to my internal solitude. A banyan tree seen long ago in childhood within the precincts of my school, a bridge linking two sections of an old house we used to live in many years ago, a beloved study table that my father used to use, the school hall and stage where many plays were rehearsed and enacted, an old city rumbling with street cars and colonial buildings, all this and many more. The images come in batches, Sometimes on pale winter mornings and at other times in the dead of the night. They keep me a prisoner within their translucent dungeons. I am left amidst them and words and broken pieces of sentences heard long ago in another time and space. And then when I am left alone in this whirlpool of sights and sounds and memories, they slowly tiptoe towards me; the characters of my book, yet to be fleshed out and tailor made to suit my whims and fancies. The first one approaches and then the second and then the third, and then the multitudes that are destined to follow them throughout the length and breadth of my novel. They come in waves and wash over me and my solitude becomes ignited like an autumn tree on fire. In the midst of winter. White winter ignited by a warm saffron fire.
I burn, I wither, I am bewitched by them…the words, the sentences, the characters. And all that is left at then end of a rather lonesome day is a handful of saffron colored autumn leaves being blown away by the tempestuous winter breeze.
Au revoir…A demain ! (Alas ! This English keyboard lacks the French accented letters)