Sunday, September 18, 2011

The Sunday at the End of Summer

Don’t you just love this time of the year when the newly laundered earth with its starchy-white clouds come and wake you up in the morning with a warm hug? This morning I woke up and smelled the freshest air in a long time. It seemed that suddenly all the inquinated particles in the atmosphere have undergone an over-season metamorphosis and been transformed into full-bloomed red roses. The sun and its aureate rays cooked medium-rare seemed so good on the skin that I waived the idea of applying sunscreen as I went out for a morning stroll to enjoy this beautiful morning.

October is my favorite month, not because I celebrate my birthday in this month, but because it invokes the season of celebration. And for me the thought of impending joys always rubs-off the delinquent layers of sordid life-dust which gather on me layer after layer after each bad day that I face. This year I experience the pain of getting adjusted to academia, the pain of keeping up with youngsters, and the pain of walking away from writing.

In the last week I was under so much academic stress that the finale of our first minors made me go berserk. The celebration mood, nonetheless, was momentary because once I was done with the tension over the test, there came swooping in the abject tension of my performance in the skill-testing papers. I tell you, I am not good in devouring (academic) stuff created by other people; I prefer to make my own dish. However, devouring and processing stranger crafted academic abracadabra was a thing I had to do in the past week.  In the former week I felt caught up in a hysteresis loop wherein everyday exit lead to a return to the same place, the only place the following day . There were no centers, no real-exits; and I was caught in this snare like a bug unable to escape from under the heavy foot of a giant.

In the hypnopiasis of fatigue, I marched listlessly and continued marching losing all the leftover vibrancy I had in the process. And then came along this beautiful morning where directly I opened my eyes, I felt rejuvenated and refreshed.  It was like magic, a soft feather of miracle, and it made me feel like a phoenix gathering strength from her dead ashes brought to life by the alchemical touch of a bright autumn morning. What is there in Sarat, in this fallean charm of the season that it gets you relinquish all your tribulations? Is it the season of celebration it holds in its gowpen, or plainly that we have always associated this season as dearest one, the king’s favorite daughter?

Whatever it was the Sunday at the end of summer brought me so much calm that I almost rose to idylatry. In order to celebrate the spirituality I played (Mahisasur Mardini). The voice of Birendra Krishna Bhadra communicated with my innate spirituality such that I almost experienced a momentary heirophany, the manifestation of the sacred before my eyes. The universe of reverberating sound waves, the solemn baritone, the chanting elevated me into a reality far above the miseries of mortal life.

Having finished my daily writing exercise, I went out to click some pictures of the beautiful day. Everything looked brighter, happier, and sunnier to my eyes. The hibiscus that blossomed in my garden seemed like a sudden flare of red, dipped in some divine blood-pot it flourished with so much glow that it made me stare at it for a moment in utter appreciation. I later analyzed that the change in perception was the result of the change of my point of view. Under the influence of the bright sunny morning that eradicated the remnant clouds of miserable downpours which harassed us in the past week, I felt new and ready for life once again.

Here are the pictures I took:

Sun and Shade

The flocculent clouds tangled up in the blue