Monday, November 05, 2007

Purple


He leaned against the wall. All he could see upto the horizon was a dry, empty land, a barrenness rivaled only by the emptiness he felt inside.

It had been twenty two years since he had first stood by this wall. Everyday since then he had been drawn to it to stand in front of it wondering what was on the other side imagining, dreaming until it was no longer just a wall but a doorway to a life, a life he had never lived… if only he could find the key.

For twenty-two years he had been drawn to that wall like a dying man drawn towards God and for twenty two years he had been trying to get to the other side. He couldn’t go around it. He had tried, tried walking along the wall all day and night, hoping and praying that it would end until he couldn’t move another foot, couldn’t take another step, until he collapsed into a heap, crying and laughing hysterically at his failure of such seemingly simple task, his failure to get to the other side.

But that did not deter him. If he couldn’t go around it , he would try going above it but no matter how much he tried, he was always two inches too short. After what seemed like eternity he tried the next possibility, going under it. He began to dig and dig and dig until his hands were so raw, that the dry sand was permanently stained red.

But he could not give up now. Not after all these years, not after all this blood, sweat and tears. He started on his new plan – he would go through the wall. Everyday he would bring a boulder and crash it against the wall again and again until he would break into tiny pebbles; hoping that the wall would break any day, that the wall will crack, that the wall will at least be scarred but nothing happened. All he had was a heap of pebbles which seemed to touch the sky.

Suddenly a thought occurred to him. He moved the pebbles towards the wall and started climbing, clawing his way over the wall until he got to the top and then fell to the ground on the other side. He kept his eyes tightly shut waiting for the perfect moment. It was nearing dusk and the sky was purple with streaks of crimson gold as though the painter had felt that it required something extra to keep it burning. He sat up, slowly opened his eyes. He smiled.

He leaned against the wall. All he could see upto the horizon was a dry empty land, barrenness rivaled only by the emptiness he felt inside.

5 comments:

ShEkHaR said...

Meenakshi 2 sawal,..

*Why is the title name 'Purple'? (Purple Prose?)

*and 22 years,that man is at your age,any connection?

There is a similar kind of story by author called G.A.Kulkarni, but in that story, there is long queue along with the wall,. and when protagonist reached the other side of the wall, all he see is same kind of queue, heading towards opposite direction,...

Kafka style,.

Meenakshi said...

mmm....

purple... because of what the colour means to me...its symbolization in my head... u can suggest a better name...

22 years..yes there is a connection...not completely,of course, but an undeniable connection.


mmm..i dint know of this story by Mr. Kulkarni...u have a copy of it?do bring it wen u get back..

buggy said...

i know i know!!!!!! this story is about a lamp post !!! aint it ??aint it meenakshii??

Meenakshi said...

LAMP POST???

Aiga... m clueless Renju...

Another doubt arose with your question: Why are men mentality and thought-processes almost always revolving round the Lamp posdts...and posts of all kinds...?

lol...

I know mario said...

Hi ms. nair

nice language..
nice perspective..
I really repect people who read a lot..
And then you can see a strong influence..
i cant relate ure style with anybody..not just because i havent actually 'read' anybody..
but i think its very original..

Theres a blog where I brag a bit..
you may ( i dont know) read it..
i dont invite anyone cause i dont know anybody much..

its called 'blameitonmario.blogspot.com'
I one had an infection of meningitis..had a lot of hallucinations..thought of putting those horrible 43 days of my life..

check or dont check..keep writing..
there's something in you..i dont know..
theres something..

adieu
manu