I was about to say something when my eyes saw it. A crescent moon with a star in its stomach shining to its brightest. My pupils dilated....
STORY
““Apa, look!” I heard the exciting shout of my five-year-old nephew. I turned around and looked at him. My eyes followed his fingers pointing towards the sky. “Look, the star and the moon are clashing!” I was about to say something when my eyes saw it. A crescent moon with a star in its stomach shining to its brightest. My pupils dilated.
The orange sun was setting at the other corner and its colors had spread layer by layer, darkening. It was so beautiful! I looked towards my right, at the golden ripe wheat standing till the very edge of the field. The last rays of the orange-yellow sun shone onto each stem filled with grains to its fullest.
I was awestruck and realized I had never seen this color before. It suddenly felt like I was in a dream.
I couldn’t tell if I was getting in the moment or out of it. I looked around, the hens looking at their steps and walking towards the darba (henhouse). I was appreciating the scenery when somebody pushed me. I barely held on to myself. It was my nephew again running after a calf, clearing his way as if I were a hurdle.
A smile crept across my face unknowingly as I saw him chase the calf. Weird, I thought to myself. I am a very ‘don’t disturb me’ person, so I do not like kids that much, let alone smiling at one pushing me. Lol!
I was pondering on this when I heard my name. My thoughts broke as I walked past my nani adding dry wood to fuel the stove where a freshly slaughtered goat was being cooked, towards the room.
We came to the village to meet my nana and nani on the morning of the second day of Eid. I entered the room where all my cousins were gathered. “Cheese,“ I heard while making space for myself in the picture, and soon I was busy again on my gadget. Posting stories, I came out of the room with a phone in my hand intending to take a picture of the dazzling sky. I set the phone on portrait mode and turned the flash off, all set for an amiable photograph on my Instagram.
To my disbelief, the pictures were atrocious! I was very disappointed, yet adamant about taking one. So, I borrowed my cousin’s camera and positioned it, trying to capture it from every possible angle. I took a few but still was dissatisfied because they weren’t doing justice to the view. Every time I took a picture and saw how it turned out would leave me vexed. The colors, the shape, the size … nothing was as perfect as it looked.
Seeing me and my camera struggling, my grandfather - along with his stick - walked towards me. “Is it not working?” he asked politely. “It’s fine; it’s just not as nice as it looks,” I said with a scowl on my face.
“You can’t cage this all into a box, dear,” he said pointing towards the sky with his stick.” “They are memories, Nana,“ I argued. He smiled, the vertical lines on his cheeks deepened, “The ones you haven’t even lived?” He asked sceptically. I put the camera down.
“Every time you open this, you stop living in the actual time,“ he remarked. I could tell he was getting tired, so we began walking towards the nearest charpai.
“I am 80 years old, and I’ve lived all eighty years of my life. Maybe I’m not completely happy with how, but I have lived them.” The fiber ropes of the charpai started to irritate my skin.
“I wake up to the chirping of birds, the clucking of hens, and the rustling of leaves in the trees … all sound unique.”
The sweet aroma of halwa reached our noses. My hunger increased. “I wake up early in the morning and see all sorts of colors, ones which don’t even have names as well. He paused, “Iss dibby choon nai nazar aandy (you can’t see them from this box of yours),“ he shook his head.
My nani called me. It was getting darker and we had to leave soon, so I got up and started walking towards the chitai. My hand subconsciously double-tapped my phone. I looked up and saw my grandfather was still watching me from a distance, smiling. I felt guilty and powered my phone off. I would live, at least until I was here, I thought to myself, sitting down on the chitai with my legs crossed, and began eating. Everything suddenly had a distinct taste, every ingredient the curry was made of, even water.
We are losing our five senses because of “the box”. We eat without tasting and hear without listening, to the point where we prefer our camera lenses instead of enjoying the comely scenes with our eyes.
Rayon Holiday says in his book: “There may be a beautiful sunset, but instead of taking it in, we’re taking pictures of it”. I was doing that, you were doing that - we all are doing that.
