Beauty Beckons

The sun remembers it’s beauty of the dawn at dusk and promises more, for every dark night ends with dawn’s beauty to the fore.

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The sun was about to rise, as her eyes opened. Waking up early was not a habit, but was her trait. She stretched and tried to make her asleep body awake, as the first rays of light penetrated the sky.

She watched as the sun rays pierced the night, slowly changing into hues of mild yellow, orange and red along with reflecting the natural blue. The cloud boundaries seemed to block the sea of red, orange and blue and looked like masses of puffy islands. Her fellows woke up sensing the dawn. She had taken to waking up a little early to witness the dawn of the dawn, for the most beautiful aspect of the beginning of the day was the first stroke of colour on the dark sky.

There’s so much beauty, she pondered. Beauty within the sky, beneath the waters, above the land and within the being. Beauty spread around the world; in the oceans and plateaus, deserts and tundras, forests and fauna, and in the hills and mountains. Beauty, enough for everyone, but not entirely available to a single one. There’s so much beauty that transcends past us, when we are either ignoring it or enjoying some other variant of it. And then there is so much beauty we’re never destined to see, simply because it just isn’t our share of the pie. Yet, like how between finite there’s always a possibility of the infinite, there’s always a chance of surreal beauty underneath the mundane.

She spread her wings, and took flight. The cool morning air breezed around her as she cut through the wind, and she took in the view. The concrete jungle, they call this. Tall buildings, shallow people. Huge homes, small hearts. Million ways of transport, yet disconnected. She turned towards a small hut on the outskirts, beside a little brook that rims up with water when it rains. The hut was almost in it’s own sweet world, adrift from the chaotic inferno that was the city; and vested into peace, tranquility and it’s own beauty.

She perched on the windowsill, where as usual there were grains laid out – rice, wheat, and so on. As she pecked and ate at peace, she gazed inside.

The old lady sat in her rocking chair, her head bowed, dozing. Despite her age, she never forgot to put out the grains for the little bird, and she was her companion in the mornings. Her face was lined and wrinkled extensively with a wet trail disappearing onto her cheeks. Her skin had loosened and hung over her bony body. Her long hair, grey with a few strands of black in colour, was tied into a long plait which ran down just below her shoulders. She wore a white dress, with her reading glasses tied around her neck by a black thread. She seemed to be holding a photo frame in her hands, with the photo on the up, wet with a few drops of tears on it. The photo showed a young, spectacularly beautiful lady, holding a baby and kissing it on it’s forehead. Her son, who went out to serve his country in war, went missing, and never returned home. She remembered her son, his beauty, the beauty of motherly love and the beauty of the memories that were etched into the photo.

She watched the lady, and ventured towards the brook, hoping to find some water. Unfortunately it hadn’t rained for days, and the brook had naught to offer but a glimpse at it’s bottom. The sun rays falling on the mud mildly cracked open the soil, but it still remained cool and moist and soft. Step on it, and you feel that the brook remembers it’s gushy past, it remembers quenching the thirst of many. It remembers the colours it spread when it’s droplets touched the sun rays, it remembers the green it helped spread on the plains. The brook remembers it’s ¬†beauty.

She saw a man approach the hut. He was the first visitor she had seen arrive at the hut, yet he seemed to walk towards the place with a strut and familiarity that intrigued her. He glanced by the windowsill, and knocked on the door.

The knock on the door almost jerked the old lady up. Probably the mailman, or the young boy who lived nearby and aided her with the groceries and the bills. She set the photo on the table beside her chair, got up and slowly walked to open the door. As she did, a man stood in front of her, tall and strong.
‘Yes?’
The man didn’t answer, instead he gaped hungrily at the old lady. His eyes took his fill of the old lady’s face. Her voice ringed around his mind and brought out the scattered remains of his childhood memories. His face was a concoction of emotions – relief, happiness, tears and love. He couldn’t stand anymore, and his mouth throatily blurt out,
‘Ma!?’
The old lady was startled. She put on her glasses, and there he was. The son who had left for the motherland had returned to his mother. The son whom she had cradled and cared for, strived and caressed for had finally returned to her lap. The same hungry eyes, the crooked nose, the broad shoulders and the greasy voice. Tears began flowing down her cheeks, more freely than they ever did. She pulled him in, and hugged him tightly, just to make sure he was real and wasn’t going anywhere. No words escaped her lips, yet the welps of joy and happiness along with the simultaneously flowing tears were a sight of beauty only the viewer can grasp, not express.¬†

The weather seemed to feel the beauty, and decided to grant it’s own touch. The clouds darkened for the first time in days and a drizzle started to fall. The brook rejoiced and as she took shelter under the window parapet. Soon, the brook began to fill up, and within no time it was brimming with water. The rain gradually stopped, the skies cleared, and the sun rays hit the brook and split into colours on the edges of it’s banks. The brook recalled it’s glory, a glory which satisfied the thirsts of many and eyes of a few.

The mother and son sat, with the old lady on her rocking chair and the son at her feet. He had her hands in his, his head in her lap and his ears to her song. Once in a while he would recollect a memory, and her mother would smile and laugh with a twinkle in her eyes. She looked as if she had gotten younger. And when she smiled, the entire surroundings stopped and stared for a while, because there was the beauty the world was once mad for, but now that beauty belonged only to her two children, her son and the little bird.

It was time to go back. As always, one has to return home. She took flight again and flew into the setting sun, which knew it’s ablaze beauty, and beckoned for more. The sun remembers it’s beauty of the dawn at dusk and promises more, for every dark night ends with dawn’s beauty to the fore.

Author: Vishvaraj Chauhan

I read, I write. I slip and I slide. I live and I laugh. I love to listen to music, think about every thing that my brain thinks worthy of mentioning and take up a little too much load. But hey, that's why I'm here! The sage in a cage.

3 thoughts on “Beauty Beckons”

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