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My Converse gave into the pressure of my feet and never-tiring walk on the twisted roads of Kathmandu. They symbolized my initiation into a different world—a world promising love and happiness. And yet a world that I knew, somewhere in the back of my mind, I didn’t belong to. They have given into the woes of this newfound world. But I cannot wither down. I cannot detach from the tree of life, like a mature leaf dries and drops down from its tissue, in the fall.
Humans and animals are so much occupied in their own agonies and happiness. There have been so many autumns and falls before this, and there will be so many in the years here after, but this, I feel, is my autumn—for that it will remain with me forever, here after.
New leaf buds are seeding deep down in the womb of the tree to which I am so glued. One of them is destined to sprout in my place. I have to drop down into the abyss. I have to sacrifice my belonging to the origin of my being. I have to give up the sense of being to this tip of this isolated branch. Despite having so much of space through out the breadth and length of this wide tree, and though it has not ever guarded this area of belonging from wind, rain or heat, the tree is reluctant to own and to allow me to have this space of my origin.
She wants the dead leaf gone — so that some one like it can witness life’s circus and eventually grow into maturity and succumb to another season of fall like me- a hero whose love, and desires never made into the annals of history. An unknown hero. An unacknowledged hero. A hero who will be a no-one in the pages of history or most importantly, who will be never recorded in her personal history that is so full of buds, leaves and twigs that she has nourished near the core of her heart.
“On a bare branch
A crow is perched
My being is a product of my and your short-lived desire. It did materliaze into a being, but since either of us deny owning it, it remains a bastard. Since we denied it a name, it remains nameless. Since we denied it blessings of spring and rain, it yearns for them and still remains youthful – as if it was born yesterday. And thus it remains reluctant to succumb to the withering of fall.
I heard somewhere that one leaves for another world, when its task in this world is completed. Its not about how many years you live in this world, it does not matters how you live in this world, but it does matters how much of the task assigned to you is completed. In my case, I have lived the childhood. I have been through the spring. I have bathed in the rain twice. But still I don’t know the objective of my coming into this world.
I have been through the spring but I have never lived it. I have been a autumn leaf, even while it was still raining and nourishing green pigments in other fellow leafs. Now, as each of those leafs prepare to fall in the fall, I am stuck in the autumn.
Though your season changes, as do your sandal’s hills, I remain the setting sun on the horizon of an artist’s panoramic painting– that is never going to sink behind the mountains. As you dazzle away towards the glory of morning minion king, I find myself stuck like the sand in the hour-glass — that slides down as the past to the passing present moment, but can never even shrink into future.
I remain forever autumn.
I remain forever autumn.
Lets be friends