The ghost knocks again. Even before I could get up from my bed, he is in. Once again, after six long months. Six long months. Though he refuses to accept he has ever been out. I wonder…

 

He tells me the same stories. The bright ones, with stars shimmering at dusk, with haloed chimneys. The ribbon of smoke hardly betrays the passion within: those chimneys. And then he rambles on about the fluorescent landscapes, of golden haystacks and pellucid ambitions. Of roads not taken and ones hard done by. Of unsung brooks and dulcet hummocks. He rambles on…

 

He talks of sunflowers and portraits, of unknown emotions. He talks about calendar artists, eulogises mediocrity; but the word has a different meaning for him. It is about chasing an unrequited love, about struggling to make yourself heard, about living a life that is rife with meaning but without an end. He talks about fear and hatred. He talks about music in men, and men lost in chores. He speaks about the ghost in books and serendipitous reveries. The ghost speaks…

He ruminates on colour, on how life is parched deep blue, dappled with red, yellow and green. How there is no rainbow but pain, no joy as wings. How well orange mixes with sparrows, and dusks with green. How sunsets are yellow and how harbours are turquoise. He laments on strokes, on dabs and how the hand shivers with a lust for life. How the colours of soul eludes the words of the mind. The ghost speaks…

He makes me soft and strong. He makes me get up and look out of my window. The light beyond the darkness. And as I learn to see, he is gone.

Advertisements