A desolate path. A path that glowed with hopes. A path that you chose and we looked at you with pride. A path that is waiting.
A vista that made our summers blissful but you found wider ones, away from us, from the hills that raised you. How easily do we forget the fun of growing up!
You said you would come back. I know you never lie. Each day we sit here and rush back to our cottage to hear some news about you but the only connection we have with you sits mute.
You said you would keep in touch. I know you never forget your promises. Your dad disagrees. He says, “I don’t care.” But I can see his wet eyes; a lump in his throat is also visible.
I don’t believe what he says. I tell him I care; the umbilical cord is throbbing within me. I know the call would reach you.
The path gapes at me. The flowers don’t bloom any more. Birds look at my face and wonder whether they should sing a happy song. Only wind witches around me.
The candle is burning, its flame may be threatened by the wind but it refuses to die down. I have many more to brighten my evenings. The flickering flame exudes a thousand messages. I can discern them.
Dark, rumbling clouds stirred him out. He stretched and looked around. Some of his friends were flying high but he couldn’t miss the sound – muffled yet clear.
“What are you digging?” Vendatta stood at the edge of the valley.
“To lend… to exchange.”
“Really? But souls are said to be free. They soar higher than clouds.”
“Beliefs don’t misguide me. I know my passion.”
“Where do you find them?”
“Some are buried and some fly high. Some I capture and bury.”
“Can you lend me one?”
“Sure,” said the Digger.
“Can I keep it forever?”
“Depends! If you have the inclination and the strength.”
All his depression melted.
Vendatta was a changed man now. He knew his destination.