We saw it coming easy: the stage set, chairs laid out for millions of audience, and our fingers equipped to give us thousand shapes in seconds. There are thousand doors too, which would readily open for us, because it is no age of Aladdin’s cave of wonder; nor have we waited for our husbands to return from voyages, or for our wives to make us a meal after long lonesome years.
My grandmother still spends her evenings on the veranda; her ears intent on the music drifting from the nearby monastery; her eyes closed in awe of the approaching dusk. Perhaps she knows the pleasure and pain in building a stage; in seeking an audience; in knowing but only one door, and in waiting.
We are so overspent; like molten wax filling out the space only to freeze and be burnt again.
Image courtesy : a friend