A drenched paper boat came to a stop where the water of the stream had almost dried up and anchored itself to the wet mud. It was made of some daily newspaper, the words from which had already dissolved, but the smell of the ink persisted. After months of uneven showers, the rain had taken a steady pace all day long, making its presence felt by intensifying its pitter patter once in a while. The water-logged roads longed for a fresh beam of sunlight. Ponds overflowed. The fields lay empty with the silent goal posts standing without a complaint. The waterlilies were at their best, mauve and pink and white, standing still in the swamped lowlands where the water hyacinth had created a meshwork, and the algae had spread like an infection. A glimpse of beauty amidst the grey mundane monsoon.
Every evening brought with it the usual smell of the incense sticks from the houses. The paper boat smelled, thinking of the time when it was passing the ruined shrine of an unpopular deity. Someone had lit them in dire hopelessness, the boat saw. There is something about stopping just to look around, to breathe, to think, perhaps to feel an aching toe. It had seen when the infant was still, and the mother was silent as a pebble. It had stopped when the trees were lush and the green in them was studded with pearls of fresh rain water. When the artist started scratching on the blank paper with an unsharpened pencil, it saw hope. Why is it that among so many people watching, only so few decide to scribble it up in a notebook, or maybe turn it into a masterpiece. What drives them? Money? Recognition? But the artist said there is something more to it. That most people feel satisfied, but only few recognize it. You have felt happy, but have you seen yourself while you’re feeling it? You have felt sad, but have you seen yourself while you’re feeling it? When you are too busy to feel what you are feeling, you forget to look at yourself. The boat did not quite understand. Maybe it doesn’t deserve to know, with its skin made of news from around the world, the breathtaking inventions, another new factory, another billionaire, another dream, another murder, another disease, another gadget, another ease in the lifestyle. It felt heavy with the words of lead. When the little kid had smiled and let it go on it’s own, setting it along the small stream of water, it was relieved. It was the beginning of monsoon. And all these days of flowing, and stopping and gazing, it felt that the words on its skin made no sense, the headlines never mattered. It was just an ordinary paper before the machines imprinted ink-works that either shook people, or gave them hope.
Now it settled, anchoring itself to the wet mud. It had seen a lot. The words on its skin were gone, and gradually the smell of the ink was vanishing. The smile of the little boy who let it free was fading. It felt regret for not waiting long enough to see the artist’s work, but an artist never stops being an artist, even if no one cares. It remembered how a nice breeze felt after a storm. It rested. The streets slowly woke up. The rain had stopped. There was sunshine. The daily hubbub started, with buying and selling, with rise in prices, with motion on the flooded roads. With people running to earn. Newspapers being sold. And the paper boat got stepped on with numerous muddy shoes.
wings of the orient 