A poetic whisper in prose

 

Carried by our savage, irrepressible optimism, and the gutsy tradition to progress at any cost, our footprints now crisscross every inch of earth. Our penetrating feudalism now lords over the entire planet, forcing down the rest of the species into subjugation and slavery. With shrinking hearts and broadening brains, we are evolving grotesquely with our supra-physical desires and experimental mysticism. Stuffed into a definitive mindset, we sing the eulogies of human spirit in a monochromatic tone.

Open spaces are losing their relevance. The riveting drama is making us more and more insecure. There are lavish designs and props for the interiors. We feel uncomfortable with open skies and untamed wilderness. The gardens and yards are vanishing and so are the flowers. I’m but happy that my humble house is primarily decorated with the little garden and the unkempt yard. It’s a little world but sufficient to host a love-struck purple sunbird couple. They flit around spurred by their exulting, soaring emotions. After taking nectar from the flowers, they let out a full-throated musical ecstasy comprising duets, chorus or even an orchestra. I see them daily as they fly around in their little world. Their joy pervades the air with incorruptible lucidity.

A big party of brown house sparrows goes darting across the smog-blotted sky. It’s an assurance that, despite all the telltale signs of natural imbalance, there is still hope because the birds still fly and sing their songs amidst the taunting and tantalizing smog. We have hope till there are free birds singing joyfully.

There is an old dog in the locality. She has all the age-related issues including itching that hasn’t left a single hair on her body. We gave an injection. It helped her and she lumbered back from the door of death or deliverance. The fur is coming back. But maybe she has terrible pain somewhere and piteously whines at regular intervals. A puppy gives her ample company and howls to the histrionic capacity of his little lungs. He is learning the art of howling pretty nicely. When he lets loose his symphony, you get anxious as if the doomsday is coming. In any case, he seems a nice companion to the old dog in pain.

The kittens are handsome cats now. They spend most of the time in hunting for rats and female affection. They aren’t interested in purring around legs for measly human dole-outs. They carry a selecting and scrutinizing air around them. But they still remember the milk bowl as I find them sitting near it as I step out of the room in the morning. That’s my first sight of the day. They mew loudly as if blaming me for getting up late. They vanish for the day after taking their little share of milk. It’s a big world to explore, after all.

As I have said, there has been a proletarian revolution in the simian society. The band of lithe, cunning young monkeys has taken away the prettiest females from the ex-king’s harem, including the handsome most, curvy-limbed gal, his favorite. He has now the tail-less old crone to lick his scars. As a bruised scholar and beaten strategist, he is learning good manners now. I saw him taking lice off the funny coat of his tail-less old queen. He has to pamper her now; otherwise, she will also ditch him. Now I can understand how it must feel to lose one’s kingdom. His attitudinizing airs are gone. It’s a pretty methodical development as he doesn’t growl and threaten like earlier. Buckling under the episodic treatment of ill-favoring times, he just walks away sadly. Acceptance of the inevitable change is a good thing. But there are too many male monkeys, many of them sired by him only, and one of them will surely take away his old queen as well. It’s a narrative of love, lust, cruelty and revenge. Not willing to court any controversy, and far away from the burst of defiance and exuberant idiosyncrasies, his male callousness severally blunted, he seems sexually handicapped, all sedate and subdued. Life is all about farcical reversals. Now the elegant social capital—with its balls, music, gambling and reception—lies in the coffers of the younger generation.