There was a time he believed that when clouds were hurled against each other, they got hurt, and rains were teardrops of contused clouds. He watched rains puffed up with emotions and felt happy at watching the rainbow, lining the misty horizon.

 

He also thought birds can talk amongst themselves. Whenever he saw a chirpy sparrow come up to the cage of his pet finches, he imagined they discussed their daily miseries like midwives in sultry afternoons. He watched from behind the half closed door of his terrace, almost feeling guilty at eavesdropping someone’s cherished secrets.

 

Fairies used to come in dreams, and unicorns and mermaids. War meant only those against dragons and evil princes, and love meant hazel-eyed maidens and arrogant stallions. The world was not round then; it was helical, ineluctably taking you down the looking glass.

 

He believed that angular blue mountains, hallowed by a blood red sun, existed somewhere. He believed that lively brooks flowed from them, meandering around a lone thatched hut amidst the greenness. He believed that kites could be flown without the wind on your side.

 

Violet was the crayon that left stretch marks, indigo meant jeans that were a craze in the class two pujas. Blue was sitting alone at the windows and watching the sky, green was taste of ripe stolen mangoes, and nothing tasted better then. Yellow was sunflowers and orange, the four o’clock ice-cream-walla. Red had nothing to do with politics then: it was the muffler in Darjeeling.

 

Now that it’s unwoven, how ephemeral is the rainbow!

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