Moulded out of mud, an ideal idol is made. One to be worshipped. One who never gets scared. Vibrant and heavenly, decorated with stones. Adorned by floral garlands, earthen flesh and bones. The diety stood tall over the high wooden plank. Worshippers thronged the place- folded hands & eyes blank. The festivities came to an end. The crowd dispersed gradually. The idol stood still and quiet, then it is brought down eventually. The garland flowers have dried now. Fake ornaments have been taken off. The earthen idol is woefully abandoned by the roadside, after a few hours. There.. on the earth the earthen idol stands, looking lonely and pale. Staring at apathetic passersby… silently telling its sad tale.
We hate dust… don’t we?
Those little specs making us sneeze
as we inhale the regularity of mundane life.
And exhale the day that ended-
another one will follow in hours and minutes.
Wiping them off the study table
and the LED lamp dim with age.
Dust filling the gaps on the shelf
where books lay silently buried.
The creased bedsheet- a scene of chaos.
making the single child culprit,
as he jumped and played all evening
with imaginary friends and mute toys.
There’s dust on the windowsill
and the grill that barricades it.
The pool below glimmers in silence-
carrying dropped feathers and dead leaves.
The road outside is dusty too
treaded upon by countless people
Known or unknown faces- expressionless.
Always in a rush…like a routine or habit.
And then there’s dust that falls on memory
making moments hard to remember
Just hazy remnants to recall
Distant voices, dreams, smells or feelings.
Sometimes cringing at the familiarity
or craving the warmth of welcome arms.
When death erases every existence
what remains is only dust of memories.