Yesterday is bygone . Yesterday, was, and therefore, is not threatening anymore.
Yesterday and day before that, it rained . Today is brilliant and blindingly sunny. On the surface , the mud puddles are drying up and the slush acquires the dusty sheen of dryness , within hours. When you dig deep , the soil retains the moisture for much longer than it seems . It may be moist weeks hence.
Same with life . As Salman Rushdie says in his Midnight’s Children” yesterday leaks into today and stays there in puddle.”
There is a school of thought that says , you can never get rid of your past. It stays with you , forever. Subconsciously , colouring your thoughts , speech and actions .
I have seen this more of late . When I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I find my parents , a strange juxtaposition of both , rather, staring out at me .
Some times , in a haze of anger , an ancestral expletive slips out of the tongue, where it must have sat patiently , for so many years, unaltered, unfettered. It takes everyone by surprise. Even me . For it has waited so long , that no dictionaries tell its meaning , and no one living does too, even me . I have just parroted , what I had heard , so many years ago, in a haze of some one else’s righteous anger.
Yesterday and day before that, it rained . Today is brilliant and blindingly sunny. On the surface , the mud puddles are drying up and the slush acquires the dusty sheen of dryness , within hours. When you dig deep , the soil retains the moisture for much longer than it seems . It may be moist weeks hence.
Same with life . As Salman Rushdie says in his Midnight’s Children” yesterday leaks into today and stays there in puddle.”
There is a school of thought that says , you can never get rid of your past. It stays with you , forever. Subconsciously , colouring your thoughts , speech and actions .
I have seen this more of late . When I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I find my parents , a strange juxtaposition of both , rather, staring out at me .
Some times , in a haze of anger , an ancestral expletive slips out of the tongue, where it must have sat patiently , for so many years, unaltered, unfettered. It takes everyone by surprise. Even me . For it has waited so long , that no dictionaries tell its meaning , and no one living does too, even me . I have just parroted , what I had heard , so many years ago, in a haze of some one else’s righteous anger.
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