‘Prolyski, they smell the same for last seventy years’. He was loud enough to be heard from the other side of the bank. ‘but time has stolen their colours’. He believes that they were brighter in the past. ‘Yes, they are more pale and weaker, but they smell as they used to be’. He picked one Prolyska, observed it for few seconds and threw it hastily to running water. ‘You are up there in the immense sky, and the earth is dying’. He picked a pile of dead grass and threw up just like a child who does enjoy the boundlessness of freedom and bliss of nature. He talked to the sun and expressed his frustration on it being too harsh on the little plants. The velvet green cover on the bank that he used to spend most of his time laying down reading a book. His smile is broad, and eyes were gleaming as he was joyous. One would easily misread that he was merely an old mad man. Yes, misconceived, one may fail to seize the beauty of the world in which he lives. It is gruelling to explore the vigour of wisdom shrouded by the superficial lunacy. The following moment he is in the waters swimming back. ‘The water is divine’, he says while coming out of the river. He pulls his old leather sack and takes out few apples, cucumbers, tomatoes, pieces of pork fat and an old thick book. He lays down peacefully and starts to read as if he was more mindful to what he reads than heedful to what was happening in the surrounding infested by people who are sunbathing. Before the long tiring journey of summer`s sun, he put up his canvas hut just on the river bank and creeps inside as effortless as an Inuit entering his icehouse. A silence that coaxes an unconscious anticipation devours the surrounding, and it becomes an irresistible obsession to hear or see what this old man would do the following second. Still, the sun has not retired for the day, but the sparrows have winded up their daily part with the newborns, pausing their melodious symphonies till the next morning. Despite sizzling of breathing fish and reverberation of Tek-Tek of a woodcutter in nearby pine-forest only an abrupt jump of a fish out in the air broke the reticence. Though it is most convincible that the old man is sleeping and he may come out the following morning, there is an underlying thought holds the observer that it is better to wait than tending to ill-judge with impatience. The moment the celestial transformation of colours up in the skies with the sun that dismounts behind the high pine tops, a mellifluous melody breaks out from the little canvas hut that stops breath for few seconds. Euphonious, soothing and harmonious it is. He plays his Bayan3 as if it is his companion for the lonely summer night, or probably for his entire old age. Playing stopped for few seconds followed by some clunky sound that one would not mishear. He was trying to locate the keys with his trembling fingers. It is visible through a small canvass window left open in this hut. He looks at his fingers and laughs loud. He keeps looking at his fingers and then at his palm then a smile parts his lips even if a deep sigh blew the piece of old newspaper on his Bayan. ‘You have become tough like the life to me’, says he to his Bayan. At his seventies, he still plays his favourite instrument with the faculties left with him. He takes the Bayan back and starts to play again. His time it is clearly audible that his trembling fingers on the hard metal keys have added an oscillation to his melody as if it was intentional. He went on playing till the moon mounted on obscure skies and fell silent adding his day into becalmed nature till the first Sparrow reacts to the maiden rays of rising sun.
‘but time has stolen their colours’. He believes that they were brighter in the past.
‘Yes, they are more pale and weaker, but they smell as they used to be’. He picked one Prolyska, observed it for few seconds and threw it hastily to running water.
‘You are up there in the immense sky, and the earth is dying’. He picked a pile of dead grass and threw up just like a child who does enjoy the boundlessness of freedom and bliss of nature. He talked to the sun and expressed his frustration on it being too harsh on the little plants. The velvet green cover on the bank that he used to spend most of his time laying down reading a book.
His smile is broad, and eyes were gleaming as he was joyous. One would easily misread that he was merely an old mad man. Yes, misconceived, one may fail to seize the beauty of the world in which he lives. It is gruelling to explore the vigour of wisdom shrouded by the superficial lunacy.
The following moment he is in the waters swimming back.
‘The water is divine’, he says while coming out of the river. He pulls his old leather sack and takes out few apples, cucumbers, tomatoes, pieces of pork fat and an old thick book. He lays down peacefully and starts to read as if he was more mindful to what he reads than heedful to what was happening in the surrounding infested by people who are sunbathing.
Before the long tiring journey of summer`s sun, he put up his canvas hut just on the river bank and creeps inside as effortless as an Inuit entering his icehouse.
A silence that coaxes an unconscious anticipation devours the surrounding, and it becomes an irresistible obsession to hear or see what this old man would do the following second.
Still, the sun has not retired for the day, but the sparrows have winded up their daily part with the newborns, pausing their melodious symphonies till the next morning. Despite sizzling of breathing fish and reverberation of Tek-Tek of a woodcutter in nearby pine-forest only an abrupt jump of a fish out in the air broke the reticence. Though it is most convincible that the old man is sleeping and he may come out the following morning, there is an underlying thought holds the observer that it is better to wait than tending to ill-judge with impatience.
The moment the celestial transformation of colours up in the skies with the sun that dismounts behind the high pine tops, a mellifluous melody breaks out from the little canvas hut that stops breath for few seconds. Euphonious, soothing and harmonious it is. He plays his Bayan3 as if it is his companion for the lonely summer night, or probably for his entire old age.
Playing stopped for few seconds followed by some clunky sound that one would not mishear. He was trying to locate the keys with his trembling fingers. It is visible through a small canvass window left open in this hut. He looks at his fingers and laughs loud. He keeps looking at his fingers and then at his palm then a smile parts his lips even if a deep sigh blew the piece of old newspaper on his Bayan.
‘You have become tough like the life to me’, says he to his Bayan.
At his seventies, he still plays his favourite instrument with the faculties left with him. He takes the Bayan back and starts to play again. His time it is clearly audible that his trembling fingers on the hard metal keys have added an oscillation to his melody as if it was intentional. He went on playing till the moon mounted on obscure skies and fell silent adding his day into becalmed nature till the first Sparrow reacts to the maiden rays of rising sun.