My Rainbow

by Manohar Kumar

There is a weathered rainbow right across the horizon where the vision fades every day. It hangs along the mountains collecting fragments of colours and yet always remaining incomplete in itself. Rainbow always reminds me of train journeys which always failed to complete, the destination arrived before it was supposed to and yet one fails to get down. The journey, I forget to ask all the time—who started it and who was it travelling across the panorama of the mountains, blank fields, bridges, the steel frames. Like unwritten memories they just space out themselves in unknown corners of the body—each vision an awe, each sight a recollection, each bridge a surprise, each sound a melancholy of lost colours.

The destination never arrives in the sight; it’s just the feel and the sound which warns us of the arrival, reminds us of the collectibles left scattered on the seats, left behind on the way in the weariness of the journey. It is these fragments which build the rainbow I see everyday before the moon peeps out, knowing or feigning its own loneliness in the journey where the stars seems all so close yet moving farther away, some already dead before any eyes could touch them. Like my half formed, half dying rainbow most of these stars are already dead and yet we never feel the strangeness of being surrounded every night by the dead. It only enchants us and wants to embrace us and we struggle with the ever growing mystery of this dying beauty. Are we also not the same? Dying all the time, in time, across time, burning bridges in memory, turning away from the past just to be us or be the normal person on the street. We escape the reality that we are one of them, just buying ourselves more time to be ‘someone’, that somebody we don’t know yet and maybe will never be able to know. Was it always a false start to begin with or are we all creatures of false starts, every start a wrong one, every start taking us away from where we want to reach or think we can reach. The destination is covered in mud and forgotten moss like a stone flirting with the coming waves, yet left thirsty to the next wave which touches it but never satiates it. The stone erodes away leaving some unknown being of itself as if living its time, living its own ‘shelf life’, obscuring its own being, not asking questions why it is there. Do destinations ask questions why they are pinned to the place? Why they ever engrave themselves on a map, be it the mind or an empty space on this earth?

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