Tuesday, 10 December 2013

Divine bliss

… thousands of people are left without power and struggle due to a bone-chilling minus 42 degrees. An ice storm wallops the state. There are reports on cars skidded off icy roads. All put the blame on sleet, snow and freezing rain, when the country is in the grip of chaos. The Pink House, albeit being blanketed with snow, welcomes you for a banquet.

Priomh Mhinistear Tom C. Owen is sitting at his desk, flicking through the pages of a photo album. If anybody gets a quick glance close by, would not have missed the opportunity to see the pictures of Gypsies.

Chelsea, put it over there, the PM, hands me the album.

Much obliged, I say. I feel a tremor in my body after catching a glimpse of my photo in the family album.

How does my photo come inside? I wonder. A call from the office brings me back from my wandering thoughts. I am ready to take down notes on my paper pad.

A glint of surprise, I see, on him.

From where should I start, he asks? Is it biography? I question him.

No, will you do the translation? He asks me expecting a reply.

… a cloudy noon. There are buses and trishaws on the street. A Merlion statue is indeed a cynosure of our eyes. I go on a ride and my body is fully exposed to air outside. I watch the passers-by and the shops on the way. A loud noise attracts my attention to turn back.

Oh, shit, there is an accident. A woman and a man fly in the air and thrown on the floor in a jiffy.

O God, whose fault is that? A few inquire.

They were on a two-wheeler, the other says.

I see myself being sit in a trishaw. I have neither a purse nor a bag. A burglar has snatched them away in the journey.

How could I hire a trishaw?  I doubt. I thought I could reach the destination on foot. But they say that it takes quite a few hours ride.

I seek the help of a pedestrian to recheck whether they are right.

Ma’m, could you please guide me to this place? I show an address to a woman.

Will you come with me? She asks.

Both of us reach a small village Carncastle which is nearby. Many new faces fast approaching towards us with a surprise in their look. They ask her,

Aislinn, who is she? She exchanges a meaningful glance at them. In a hushed-tone, she asks them to be silent.

What is their intention? I doubt. Do they want to trap me? Why do they use a 'sign' language?

Chelsea, come with me. Let me take you to the bus stop, she says.

Certainly, I’ll. I accompany her. Still there is a fear inside, but I struggle to hide it from her.

The road sign informs me that I am on Ranelagh Road.

I often come here to worship Lord Nataraj, Aislinn says.

…. Stupefied at the way I am being led to a divine path.

While savouring the bliss, the temple bells chime and I wake up.

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