The spirited flautist & broken dreams

I am a bubble, frail and diaphanous;

I am a rock, solid and opaque.

I am tiny grains of sand completely formed,

yet ready to scatter when airborne.

I am the Sun, burning bright;

I am the Sun turning cold at my own plight.

I am water flowing freely,

or caught in the endless wait

to convert myself so others,

can see or feel me once again.

I am so many things yet none,

I am a king at one moment or just

dust, ready to merge with the scum.

I am who I am, so let me be,

I am who I am, I am me…

He stood precariously balancing himself at the edge of the wall, teetering almost ready to fall off. What others couldn’t tell and least of all see, was the steely resolve in his eyes as he poised himself. Everything around him had been tumultuous from the very beginning; at first he hadn’t noticed that it was on the inside, he always felt he was queer, perhaps different.

  

He levitated toward the sound as it came closer he felt a sudden sense of calm wash over him. Transfixed and lost in thought he let out a sigh, more a groan of sudden pain, crouching down as if afflicted by a sharp spasm, his face contorted he remained. “What’s wrong dear,  step into the light; please come toward me so I can see you, as I can’t walk,” said the softest voice; a voice laced with honey and pepper as it were, silky smooth and bass at one level and hoarsely granular on the other hand.
He took a grip on himself as he realized the music had suddenly ceased and as he focused in the dim light he caught a glimpse of a man, frail and wasted, with barely any legs to call his own. Emaciated and drooping he sat, huddled in a corner. But his hands were a contrast to the rest of his body, almost as if they were a different age.

Loosely dangling from one hand was a flute, that’s when the boy, all of ten then, had been lured by the lilting music, tugging at his heartstrings. He sat down in front of the gaunt old man and said, “Could you play the same tune for me again?” The old man just smiled and relented. The little boy felt a wave of calm wash over him again:  he stretched out languidly, urging the man to continue with his mellifluous rendering and before he knew it he had drifted off into a dreamless slumber.

Today, as a young man, once again at the brink, at the edge of himself, at the edge of a promised tomorrow that refused to materialize, he decided enough was enough. From the time that he was ten, the several evenings that he had spent listening to the old man’s music sprinkled by tales of yore and yonder, some coherent  and some as gnarled as him, with wisps of the ethereal woven in, he had decided deep down to never succumb to defeat.

He had a wonderful family with all the support that one could ever ask for; loved and pampered, he had also been given a taste of the real world. But yet there was a missing link, there was a void, an emptiness that refused to go. Every time he met the old man with the golden flute over the next few years he committed to never let the outside world affect him so bad.

He was shaken and broken when he heard of the sad and sudden demise of the old man when he had returned one day from work, now much older and perhaps more stable.

The old man though, had already gifted him his flute and a new one a few days ago saying, “Learn to play it if you can, or keep it with you, to remind you of the fact that life is beautiful and worth celebrating. It is up to you how you treat it. I could have kept complaining about my wasted legs and would have lost my voice in such a futile endeavour;  instead I looked inward and discovered another strength. I didn’t give in and here I am, stronger and resolute, I lived on my terms, ”his baritone had suddenly sounded like a whimper on a faded trail.

It all came rushing back every now and then, sometimes like a tide and oftentimes like a trace, a shadow,  a faint hue on an already faded palette. Every time he would overcome, every time he would emerge yet again, bruised and affected perhaps, but never down and out.

He stood precariously balancing himself yet again, at the edge of the wall, teetering almost ready to fall off. What others couldn’t tell and least of all see was the steely resolve in his eyes as he poised himself, refreshed and complete. Everything around him was still tumultuous, but he noticed a unique quietude within, an energy that seemed to suffuse him with vigor. The flute hung on a string around his neck, he had always felt he was queer, perhaps different, he looked Heavenward, smiling almost slyly, the tune seemed to be playing in his head, or was it real it was hard to tell. It reverberated as he tottered and wobbled, fumbled and internally squabbled. Rocking back and forth on just the soles of his feet at the edge of the wall, he finally felt complete.

© Copyright Suverchala Kashyap