The Fated Twilight: The First Encounter Ever

A Diary Extract

The fluffy flimsy air simmers wilder to the convulsing validity of life-breath roughly distorted amid acute days long hunger unfelt, the bedridden asthmatic, a log like pulsating and wilting aggregated entity—the fading twilight forces me to face it but wonder if I have been taught a lesson so far. The precise timing leaves me flustered, when the hobbling wind-horse of the parting but attached life ushers into the inception of the fleeting moment, so ephemeral, of Last Breath, seemingly hapless… One’s integrity is put to test here, how one challenges or optimizes the sacred moment beginning from the abrupt twist in normal breathing rhythm to the process leading up to the Clear Light state, where one experienced is known as rewarded to seize the so rare opportunity to come into direct contact with the Ultimate Reality the state exudes lavishly, which, so fleetingly a glance for an inexperienced commoner, is followed by the explosion of the genetic seed-code of white and red substances, the red coming atop of white—when the wind-horse collapses utterly releasing ‘life’ away from the object body or corpse.

Yet another aged one of those a few left, the forerunners and rehabilitators of this fated learning center in exile, leaving this world in transition to another face. The aged ones’ home, the new building on the outskirts of the community, with those now living four scattered amid empty living quarters in plenty; only those disorderly growing flower-bearing bushes in its vast front yard exude a sort of consoling cheer in their multi-colours bearing, the only medium of entertainment here amid mute vibe deepening with groans as night advances. Who cares?

In the seeming utter alien realm the only remaining proof of past hardships in the initial stage of seeking asylum first at Buxa, Western India, remains rather aloof filled with rain-water rimmed with greenish coat and dirt. It lies there in the yard slightly in lopsided position as of its crude hemisphere shape, the so useful then to feed them. Lo, the rusted eroding big metal bowl like a giant helmet. It manifests its solidarity with those left despite where it is. It consoles them saying it’s with them ever and so departing with them. It narrates a story of hardships and toils taken, the only true friend of them. But, as I doubt, do they really have the same respite taken out of it, when they cast an accidental glance at it? It sings a melody that can be taken as a metaphorical dirge. Even here it stands amid sheer redundancy appraised of it, must be an exemplary manifestation of love and patience.