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Poring over a yellow carton, you entered into my stream of consciousness like a ray. Your eyes were fixed upon your fingers trying to open that carton. But somehow I felt that you had included me in the array of your sight. As if to confirm my view, a smile played on your lips like a flute. It seemed to play a song, the words of which could have been: Hey, do not hide there, for I know you are here...
We never met, we never spoke, but we acted as confession boxes for each other. I could share those really lunatic thoughts with you. So could you and I nearly transformed into a father, a friendly one, while seeking answers to questions you almost asked.
I discovered very early, within you, the same wheel of restlesness which I had driven with the wooden stick of my being when I was of your age and younger. Half hidden behind the red, yellow and blue fibres of Dharamshala blankets, you asked me riddles the answers to which I sought in your eyes and ultimately found them in your smile. How I wish we could lay together, our heads supported by our elbows and, while you shared the secrets of your friends with me, I would remove your yellow hair band and play with it!
We could also wear those masks - I choose the red one with demon's face - and dance stupidly in the wilderness, pretending to frighten each other. We could also talk endlessly with that old Tibetan woman. I could also tell you that the paper machie boxes made in Kashmir are the best.
I am a dreamer, excuse me, and I dream about the most stupid and flimsy and childish dreams ever known to mankind. Consider this - You have put my picture up on your blog and then your statement has changed to this: All photographs published on this website and the man featuring in the topmost photograph are the property of PPK.
And yes, PPK, if I were to turn blind tonight, you would remain dear to me.
(Pic by PPK, taken at Dharamshala)
