hints, allegations and things left unsaid...
Vacation Log #1
These days, my vacation is my sole vocation. These logs will hopefully serve to remind me that I should embrace this edifying vocation next year too!
One of the many things that I attempt on a lazy day such as one today is to visit places that I otherwise rush past in passing. The very lanes and roads that you normally cross burdened with a humdrum, regimental, daily routine, when revisited, are source of profoundest of revelations. The crossing where Kasturaba road begins (behind St. Marks Church), is one such area that I don’t ever remember having “observed”. This time as I stood on the footpath, rich in the currency of spare time, my skyward gaze met this beautiful little tree planted near the inner circumference of the small Mahatma Gandhi Park. Its branches bore no leaves; just countless globular clusters of pink flowers. Occasionally, even without assistance from breeze, a flower or two would randomly begin their downward descent to the concrete below, swirling as they fell down. For moments together I was oblivious of not just the hubbub of traffic, but of my very own existence. A tiny cache of those delicate pink flowers collected at my feet. Then someone honked, the enchantment wore off, I shook the flowers off, stomped on them, and walked on – becoming one with the crowd once again.
One of the many things that I attempt on a lazy day such as one today is to visit places that I otherwise rush past in passing. The very lanes and roads that you normally cross burdened with a humdrum, regimental, daily routine, when revisited, are source of profoundest of revelations. The crossing where Kasturaba road begins (behind St. Marks Church), is one such area that I don’t ever remember having “observed”. This time as I stood on the footpath, rich in the currency of spare time, my skyward gaze met this beautiful little tree planted near the inner circumference of the small Mahatma Gandhi Park. Its branches bore no leaves; just countless globular clusters of pink flowers. Occasionally, even without assistance from breeze, a flower or two would randomly begin their downward descent to the concrete below, swirling as they fell down. For moments together I was oblivious of not just the hubbub of traffic, but of my very own existence. A tiny cache of those delicate pink flowers collected at my feet. Then someone honked, the enchantment wore off, I shook the flowers off, stomped on them, and walked on – becoming one with the crowd once again.
5 Comments
Looks very similiar to human neuro system :-) Very good angle.
By Sudhakar, at 29.12.04
Reminds me of the cotton trees that were planted along our street in Bbay - they would shed cotton balls at our feet giving the street a very surreal Xmasy look in like mid-August!
By G Shrivastava, at 29.12.04
You're quite the poet, Deepak: "... rich in the currency of spare time..." is exactly how a good vacation feels. I hope you enjoy it.
And just while writing this I was wondering about the similarities between poetry and photography - maybe photos are the visual equivalent of a poem? They distil experience into a single frame, or in another sense, they put a frame around the world so we can concentrate on just one thing.
By D, at 29.12.04
Thanks Sudhakar!
Wow that must've felt so surreal Geets!
Thanks Deirdre! Interesting - now that you mention it I think they are similar is many ways indeed, though poetry sometimes can also encompass entire Weltanschauung with just few words (something not as easily possible in one frame - a frame typically represents just an emotion a perspective)
By Deepak, at 29.12.04
Thanks Amy!
By Deepak, at 31.12.04
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