Nagging to get things done, poking with a long worn-out walking stick; I imagine the bald-ish old man giving a 'nudge'. In childhood, this old man walks slow. Probably because we are too young and frolic around speedily. However, as we grow older, the old man seems to catch up. He walks fast with us too. Travels with us in bus and train, scales hills and runs down the valleys much as we do. And in the night, when we lay on the bed to peer at the night sky, he rests too... Only to roll into speedy mornings with us - year after year.
In the company of this old man, what we fail to notice are the blooms on the tree, water that has flown down the bridge and to count the stars that have looked at us and set. The pile of papers on the desk seem to define our time. The digital footprints mark our presence... while the old man plods by.
The reason that I recall some of my childhood memories as if they took place just yesterday, is because the old man was resting somewhere, and I had the privilege to immerse completely in the living moment. Probably, as I child I cared less for this aging man, and did not see the fine lines on his cheeks or growing furrow on his forehead. I was not concerned of his presence or his stride length. I worry all too much about that today.
I often want him to stop, but he walks on with me. His graying hair remind me of my to-do lists and things I need to get done before I rest. In the colors on my palette I see the reflection of a 'speed sketch' instead of a painting which I would adorn with meticulous strokes and different hues. With my work, I see word-count and number of pages, but not the essence. Frankly, the old man is not asking me to move now. But his movement terrifies me.
B. R. Chopra's 'Mahabharat' envisioned a personified time, who popped out of the television set and made his home with me. Some say he moved in circles... but for me he seems to walk an uphill road, waiting to descend with me sometime. The clothing of 'Yuga' that he bears are just cloaks hanging in his closet. They son't seem to change his nature or pace, or even the inevitable end.
Einstein added the attribute of space to this old man as we know it. It merely showed the magnanimity of this man, further belittling what we are or what we claim to be. Measured with moving needles, or digits, he puts a face of illusion. 0700 hours here just shows sunrise where I am sitting, while it means dusk where my home is. 60 minutes cloaked as 'hour' act as stop-watch for tasks to be done, without revealing his true nature. What then, really shows this old man in a guise?
To me, this old man shows himself through collective wisdom. Through our graying hair, wrinkled bodies, and bonded minds. Through our leap into the space, dive into the oceans and walk on this earth. This old man, I affectionately call "Ajoba", sees through our eyes, listens through our ears but does not speak through our mouths. He likes to communicate with actions. With displacement, breaking and mending, rising and falling and finally, a long slumber.
Ajoba affectionately looked upon me as I played in the sun. And in my youth, he held my hand to take me to the right path after I had chosen the wrong ones, fallen and bruised myself a couple of times. In my adulthood, he watches by as I run... and sometimes speeds alongside, reminding me to halt. With a quarter century of aged body, having seen some seasons of sun and rain, I affectionately stand by him. As he stands by me.
In the company of this old man, what we fail to notice are the blooms on the tree, water that has flown down the bridge and to count the stars that have looked at us and set. The pile of papers on the desk seem to define our time. The digital footprints mark our presence... while the old man plods by.
The reason that I recall some of my childhood memories as if they took place just yesterday, is because the old man was resting somewhere, and I had the privilege to immerse completely in the living moment. Probably, as I child I cared less for this aging man, and did not see the fine lines on his cheeks or growing furrow on his forehead. I was not concerned of his presence or his stride length. I worry all too much about that today.
I often want him to stop, but he walks on with me. His graying hair remind me of my to-do lists and things I need to get done before I rest. In the colors on my palette I see the reflection of a 'speed sketch' instead of a painting which I would adorn with meticulous strokes and different hues. With my work, I see word-count and number of pages, but not the essence. Frankly, the old man is not asking me to move now. But his movement terrifies me.
B. R. Chopra's 'Mahabharat' envisioned a personified time, who popped out of the television set and made his home with me. Some say he moved in circles... but for me he seems to walk an uphill road, waiting to descend with me sometime. The clothing of 'Yuga' that he bears are just cloaks hanging in his closet. They son't seem to change his nature or pace, or even the inevitable end.
Einstein added the attribute of space to this old man as we know it. It merely showed the magnanimity of this man, further belittling what we are or what we claim to be. Measured with moving needles, or digits, he puts a face of illusion. 0700 hours here just shows sunrise where I am sitting, while it means dusk where my home is. 60 minutes cloaked as 'hour' act as stop-watch for tasks to be done, without revealing his true nature. What then, really shows this old man in a guise?
To me, this old man shows himself through collective wisdom. Through our graying hair, wrinkled bodies, and bonded minds. Through our leap into the space, dive into the oceans and walk on this earth. This old man, I affectionately call "Ajoba", sees through our eyes, listens through our ears but does not speak through our mouths. He likes to communicate with actions. With displacement, breaking and mending, rising and falling and finally, a long slumber.
Ajoba affectionately looked upon me as I played in the sun. And in my youth, he held my hand to take me to the right path after I had chosen the wrong ones, fallen and bruised myself a couple of times. In my adulthood, he watches by as I run... and sometimes speeds alongside, reminding me to halt. With a quarter century of aged body, having seen some seasons of sun and rain, I affectionately stand by him. As he stands by me.
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