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When the Clouds Taste Like Cotton Candy (Previously Silence of the Cursed)
What happens when a six-year-old’s questions are too profound for anyone to answer, and his only hope of understanding is to meet God face-to-face?
A devastating narrative set in a small Swiss village about Åsa, a six-year-old boy cursed with extraordinary intelligence and synesthesia - he can see music as dancing colors and taste the hues of the sky. Unable to find answers to his profound existential questions and misunderstood by everyone around him, Åsa’s desperate quest to speak directly with God leads him down a tragic path.
Åsa was only six years old but very different from his age mates. He preferred his own company over that of his friends’. A conflict raged like a storm within him. Outside, he was all sunshine and flowers and butterflies, and inside, he was as dark as the heavy rain clouds.
Åsa was also highly intelligent but depressed. The bright flashes of intelligence lit the heavy clouds of depression at frequent intervals.
Åsa’s high intelligence led to an increased curiosity. He questioned everything and everybody and felt a unique and desperate need to understand the world surrounding him. The depression was the result of his inability to mix up and play with his age mates.
The depression also came in the form of frustration when his queries weren’t answered. Though his intelligence was welcomed by the adults around, his depression was not something they understood or accepted.
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There was yet another reason behind Åsa’s dark, grey depression, which he had never shared with anyone except his parents. The first time he mentioned it to Sara, his mother, it was a Sunday night.
‘Mother, do you know when Uncle Luca plays the great pipe organ, I can see the music?’ Åsa said to his mother, his voice barely above a whisper.
‘What nonsense, Åsa?’ Sara stopped brushing her hair and looked at her son in the mirror. ‘What do you mean, you can see the music?’
‘It is not nonsense. I can really see music.’ He tried to explain. ‘The notes all become colorful and vibrating shapeless blobs, and start dancing around my head.’
‘It is just your imagination, Åsa.’ Sara shrugged and started brushing her hair again.
‘No. It is not my imagination.’ The little boy tried to convince his mother. ‘I can really see music. What does it mean?’
‘How do I know? Only God knows what this means, Åsa!’ She patted his shoulder and went to the kitchen.
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Åsa went outside looking for his father. He found Gittan in the shed, milking the cows.
‘Father, I can see music.’ He hesitatingly announced to Gittan.
‘Huh?’ Gittan was startled. ‘What do you mean, you can see music?’
‘I mean, when I hear music, on the radio or in the church, I can see it.’ The boy tried to explain. ‘The sounds become colorful shapes, which dance around my head.’
‘Music is sound, my boy. You can hear the sound but cannot see it.’ Gittan chuckled. ‘I am sure someday, you are going to come up to me and tell me that you can hear sunlight.’
‘It is not funny, Father. I can really see music.’ Åsa’s eyes were glistening with a teary frustration. ‘Just tell me what it means.’
‘Only God knows what this means, Åsa. Only He, in his infinite wisdom, knows.’ He scooped up the little boy, wiped his tears with his thumbs, and sat him on his sturdy shoulders. ‘Let’s go inside. The dinner should be almost ready.’
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Gittan and Sara lived in a small village in Switzerland. Gittan ran a small dairy farm. The couple had three kids, two girls and a boy, and Åsa was the oldest.
They lived in a village called Brindelwald, which was located right next to a glacial gorge. It was a place straight out of fairy tales. Small cottages with coloured rooftops dotted the green slopes in summer. And in winters, a glimmering white blanket of snow covered everything. The snow cover got so deep that it became almost impossible to see the village from a distance. Only the grey-white smoke rising from the chimneys denied its existence to the weary travellers.
Åsa had always been a sweet child, full of curiosity and wonder. Where the two girls constantly fought and badgered their parents over dolls and toys, Åsa remained quiet and did not ask for anything. He just wanted answers to his seemingly simple questions.
‘Why is the sky blue? What lies beyond the mountains? Where do the butterflies go in winter? What is God, and how big is He? What is heaven, and what is hell? Why do little children die? Why do people fight wars?’ And the list went on and on.
Åsa asked his parents these questions, but they were unable to satisfy him.
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‘Åsa is not very normal, you know?’ The old doctor Gösta removed his thick glasses. He rubbed at them with his white handkerchief, examined them for spots, and looked up. He was a small and portly man who looked more like a friendly baker than a psychiatrist.
His sudden diagnosis made Gittan and Sara look at each other, confused.
‘Not normal? Not normal how?’ Gittan asked the old doctor with all the anxiousness of an overprotective father.
‘Yeah! Not normal how?’ Sara held Gittan’s hand for added strength, her anxious brow all pinched and creased.
Doctor Gösta pushed his chair back and got up. He walked to the open window of his small office. It was a dry winter morning, and the snow-covered Alps were sparkling in full glory. ‘What a wonderful day. I should be out walking. I shouldn’t be discussing complex psychological problems with worried parents.’ He thought tiredly and then turned to face the couple.
‘Please don’t take me wrong.’ Doctor Gösta scratched his nose, searching for appropriate words, ‘Åsa is a fine boy and he is growing up fine. But there is something wrong here.’ The old doctor tapped his temple with his right index finger.
‘Something wrong with his head?’ Sara’s crystal blue pupils dilated in alarm. ‘But he is just having bad dreams. More than other children of his age, but still….it is just nightmares. Surely, that doesn’t mean he is mad?’
Gittan did not say anything. He had the patience of an old tree, and he really wanted to understand what the old man was trying to say.
‘No! No! Not at all.’ Gösta smiled at Sara reassuringly, ‘Please do not think like that. Åsa is not mad, for sure. He is just confused.’
Gittan and Sara kept on watching the old Doctor silently.
‘You must understand, Åsa was not having nightmares. He just told you that because you both refused to understand or listen to him.’
‘Refused to listen to what?’ Gittan looked at Sara questioningly, but she was equally confused.
‘Did he tell you he was feeling cold inside?’ Doctor Gösta asked Sara. ‘Did he tell you he was feeling all empty inside?’
‘Yes, but…’ Sara was still confused. ‘It is cold. Winters are here. Everybody feels cold all the time, and emptiness? I fed him hot soup. He was alright.’
Gösta smiled at her kindly.
‘No! Åsa is experiencing a different kind of cold and emptiness. His cold originates from his head and seeps into his heart. Summers or winters do not matter at all. Similarly, there is a void inside him, which can’t be filled with food or love.’
‘Doctor Gösta, please! What is really wrong with our son?’ All this talk of inner cold and emptiness was beyond Gittan’s comprehension. He was a simple dairy farmer.
‘What is really wrong with Åsa is that he is depressed.’ The old doctor stated, while sighing with exasperation.
‘Nonsense!’ Sara suddenly stood up. ‘Little boys have no business getting depressed. Depression is for old people who have got nothing to look forward to.’ She looked fiercely at Gösta, ‘I am telling you, doctor, my son is not depressed.’
‘Sara, please!’ Gittan got hold of his wife’s wrist and pulled her down gently. ‘Let the good doctor explain what he is saying.’
‘Thank you Gittan!’ The old doctor looked at him with grateful eyes, ‘You both must understand that Åsa is a gifted child. He is highly intelligent, but his intelligence exceeds his limited understanding of things. This frustrates him, and the frustration manifests in headaches and depression.’
‘What should we do then?’ Gittan asked him desperately.
‘Just listen to what he says. Try to understand what he tells you. And also, try to answer his questions.’ Gösta sat down again behind his Oakwood desk. ‘It would be better if you take him to a good psychiatrist in Bern. I know one such person, an old colleague of mine and an expert at working with gifted children.’
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When his parents failed to satisfy his curiosity, Åsa started visiting the small library of the village school. In the beginning, it was fine. There were books filled with the most wonderful pictures and words. There were stories of dragons and fairies and giants. There were stories of the old gods and their terrible might. There were stories of the new God and his everlasting light. The books fascinated him and enriched his imagination.
Old Lena watched Åsa with wonder, love, and an ever-growing sadness. Round and stout, she was the old widow who looked after the village school. Always dressed in a light, cream-coloured and heavily knitted woollen shawl and a brown, gnarled walking stick in hand, she looked exactly like the fairy godmother. Her silver, white hair was always tied neatly in a bun, and her translucent blue eyes kept on smiling behind thick pebbled glasses.
Her husband had died a long time ago during the Great War, and she had no children of her own. But instead of bitterness, her heart was filled with love and affection. She loved all her students and protected them like a mother hen. She sought happiness within their eyes, sparkling with mischief. Their tinkling laughter filled the lonely halls of her life.
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Sara and Gittan left the Doctor’s office and started walking home. For some distance, neither of them spoke. Suddenly, Gittan felt something and looked sideways at Sara. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.
‘Hey! What’s the matter?’ Gittan asked her concernedly.
‘He is our only son, Gittan…..our only son!’ She looked at him pleadingly. ‘And he is going mad.’
‘Come on! He is not going mad. He is just too inquisitive.’ Gittan tried to brush aside her fears.
‘No! There is something seriously wrong with Åsa and I know it.’ She grasped his hand. ‘It is not only the questions and depression. Did he tell you he could see music?’
‘Yes, he told me that.’ He said thoughtfully. ‘Most probably, it is just his imagination.’
‘It is not his imagination, Gittan.’ Sara insisted. ‘I believe he is cursed.’
‘Cursed?’ Gittan nervously laughed. ‘For God’s sake, woman! He is not cursed. He just asks difficult questions and has a rich imagination.’
‘The devil puts those questions in his mouth, Gittan. It is the Devil. Åsa is cursed.’ Sara started weeping uncontrollably.
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Lina had a special place in her heart for Åsa. She appreciated his curiosity and understood his dilemma. She knew that he suffered greatly and chose to suffer along with him. To extend all possible help, she selected appropriate books for Åsa and marked the pages where she thought he could find the answers. She told him stories. She sang him songs. Her knowledge was quite limited - only mythology and religion. But still she did her best. She tried to answer all his questions.
‘I wish my husband were alive. He knew a lot of things.’ She used to tell Åsa.
‘Did he ask a lot of questions? Just like me?’ The little boy asked with wonder.
‘Yes, he did, at least when he was a child. But when he grew up, he used to provide answers to those who needed them.’ Lina smiled at some faraway and long-forgotten memory. ‘He used to tell your grandfather, the best way to get most of the milk was to be kind to the cows. He told the old baker the right temperature to bake the most delicious bread. He told Andre the ironsmith about the right tools to mould the metal.’
‘Did he know the answers to all the questions?’ Åsa asked.
‘No, he certainly did not. But I guess, now he has all the answers.’ Lina smiled at Åsa and ran her arthritic fingers through his blond hair.
‘How come he has all the answers now? Isn’t he dead?’ The boy wasn’t satisfied with the old woman’s answer.
‘He has all the answers because he is with God now.’ The old woman stared at her dead husband’s smiling photograph.
‘Does God have answers to all the questions?’ Åsa asked excitedly.
‘Yes, I guess He does.’ Lina looked up at the blue sky, and Åsa’s eyes followed her gaze.
‘Where does He live?’ He asked the old woman.
‘The God you mean?’ She looked at him and when he eagerly nodded, said, ‘He lives up in the sky, dear boy. Where else?’
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The next Sunday afternoon, Åsa packed some sandwiches and climbed the Faulhorn, the high mountain peak near his village. He climbed for hours and ultimately reached a large platform near the top. He looked down and saw his village, looking tiny and far off. He ate his sandwiches, drank a little cider, and tried to identify his home and that of Lina’s.
He looked around. The blue sky and the billowing white clouds seemed so near. Suddenly, he laughed. He laughed because he could taste the blue sky and the white clouds. Both tasted like cotton candy. Yes, he could taste colours - yet another one of his odd traits, he hadn’t told anyone about.
He got up and climbed some more. The sweat running down his back in torrents, and the soreness in his limbs, told him it was enough. He looked up and screamed at the top of his voice.
‘God!……Goooooooooooooood!!!!!’ But nobody answered.
‘Maybe God is asleep.’ Åsa thought.
‘God! Are you there, God?’ Still, no godly voice boomed from behind the clouds in reply.
After many more fruitless tries, Åsa got tired and went back home. He repeated his visits to the top of Faulhorn a few more times, but God never answered.
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When Åsa failed to talk to God on top of the Faulhorn, he went back to Lina. She was dusting the old books lining the shelves in the school library.
‘I think you are mistaken.’ He confidently informed the old woman.
‘Oh? Mistaken about what, child?’ She looked sweetly at the little boy’s innocent face.
‘God doesn’t live in the heavens. I climbed up the Faulhorn. I called Him, but He didn’t answer.’ Åsa sounded heartbroken.
‘We cannot talk to God that way.’ Lina said with a chuckle. ‘It is only when we die that we meet Him and His son. Only then, we can talk to Him all we want, and certainly not before that.’
‘But I want to talk to Him now. I want to ask Him many things.’ Åsa insisted.
‘I know that. But death is the barrier that separates Him from us.’ Lina understood his anguish.
‘There must be some other way. I really, really, need to meet Him.’ He was adamant.
‘I am sorry, Åsa. There is no way. God doesn’t speak to little boys or even old women, for that matter.’ She ruffled his hair lovingly. ‘But you may go down to the Church and ask Father Matteo. He is a man of God. If there is a way, I am sure he knows it.’
So Åsa ran down to the Church.
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Old Father Matteo was tending to the rose bushes in the churchyard.
‘Good morning, Father Matteo.’ Åsa greeted him breathlessly.
‘Good morning, Åsa.’ The priest shaded his eyes from the bright sun and peered at him. ‘I do hope everything is well with Gittan and Sara?’
‘Oh yes, Father, they are perfectly fine. I just came to ask you something very important.’ The boy asked him shyly.
‘Oh?’ Father Matteo smiled at him kindly. ‘Yes, please, what is it?’
‘How can you talk to God?’ Åsa chose his words carefully. After all, he was talking to a representative of God. ‘I mean, I need to ask God some important things. So how do I talk to Him?’
‘It is actually very easy. You just need to pray.’ The priest answered while wiping his sweaty forehead. ‘But what do you want to ask Him?’
‘Many things. Like, for example, why does He allow people to kill each other?’ The little boy started counting his questions on his fingers. ‘Why does He make some people very poor and the others very rich? Where do we come from when we are born? Where do we go when we die? What is heaven like?’
‘Hmm! These are very difficult questions, indeed.’ Father Matteo scratched his head. ‘Why don’t you read the Bible? It is through His book that he talks to us. Read His book and maybe you will find answers to your questions.’
‘But I want to talk to Him directly. His son talked to Him. Why can’t I?’ Åsa shifted on his feet impatiently.
‘I don’t know, Åsa.’ Matteo said sadly. ‘I only know that we cannot talk to Him directly and ask Him things. If we could, it would have made our lives a lot easier.’
‘Will I be able to talk to Him, once I die?’ Åsa asked him, thoughtfully.
‘Oh yes! You will be able to ask Him. But you are still young, my boy. You have a long life ahead of you. Don’t talk about dying. Dying is for old men like me.’ Father Matteo patted his shoulder and sent him on his way.
‘I must talk to Gittan and Sara about Åsa.’ The Priest thought as he saw Åsa vanishing in the distance.
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A full week later, Lina went to visit the Gittan family after school hours.
‘Where is Åsa today? Is he sick?’ She asked Sara after exchanging pleasantries.
‘What do you mean, Lina?’ Sara asked her alarmingly. ‘He was fine when I sent him to school this morning. A little bit quieter than usual but very much fine.’
‘He didn’t come to school today.’ Lina was alarmed, too.
The two women stood looking at each other for some time, and then Sara ran to the shed, shouting her husband’s name.
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Åsa stood at the edge of the gorge. He peered into its white, fathomless depths. He knew that only death awaited him at the bottom. But he was also convinced that with death would come all the answers. He looked at the vast blue sky and the white billowing clouds for the very last time, tasted their sugary texture, and then jumped.
All questions had fallen silent. Åsa was no more. The curse had lifted.
A Lullaby for the Bullied (previously, the Mockers and the Mocked)
A poem for every gentle soul learning to stand against cruelty.
______________________________
Don’t you cry, little girl,
please don’t cry, you pretty doll
The world is so cruel,
and you have to bear it all
______________________________
People are harsh and unkind,
and their hearts do not feel
People are cold as fuck,
and want us all to kneel
______________________________
You are testing your wings;
you are a little bird in the nest
You are safe in your trust’s warmth,
and doing your very best
______________________________
Looking down, you can see,
and looking down, you can hear
People and their clownish smiles,
even those you choose to hold dear
______________________________
But what you cannot see,
and what you must not hear
Are the hardened hearts of stone,
and acidic insults that sear
______________________________
But people are really broken,
and have hearts blinded by hatred
People are actually merciless,
to them, their words are so sacred
______________________________
You are a marvelous butterfly,
but a butterfly, still in its cocoon
You are fluttering delicate wings,
and trying to break out too soon
______________________________
Outside, it feels so lonely,
and the night is so damn dark
The grey wolves keep on howling,
and the wild dogs frequently bark
______________________________
You must be strong, my little friend,
and you must not pay any heed
You must not lose spirit, my dear,
it is only a strong heart that you need
______________________________
The river flows and heals everything,
as the wave of time passes
And one day you will come to know,
how stupid were the masses
______________________________
Pray, hold your head high and proud,
and shrug away the dark worries
It will always be a new day tomorrow,
as life always beckons and hurries
______________________________
And you there, you hideous monsters,
the cruel bullies and the harsh mockers!
And you there, your repulsive ghouls,
hiding in the darkness, you cowardly stalkers
______________________________
‘We are weak,’ as you choose to allege?
Yes, true, but united we will always stand
‘We are meek,’ as you choose to point out?
Yes, true, but our resolve will always be grand
______________________________
Go on and mock us more if you dare,
we will survive, and we will fight
Go on and bully us more if you care,
we will sustain as stronger grows our might
The Last Farewell
He’s buried with his father and son, but the author refuses to visit the grave—because accepting his friend is dead means losing him twice, and once was already unbearable.
This is something I once wrote about one of my dearest friends, whom I lost. It is a deeply moving personal narrative about an extraordinary friendship between a young man and an older mentor separated by three decades, but connected by warmth, wisdom, and unconditional acceptance.
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The last time we met, he told me that it was our last meeting. No words were spoken. No gestures were made. It was just a silent communication, initiated by him and acknowledged by me.
‘But why leave now?’ I silently pleaded.
‘I am tired. My frail heart cannot keep up with my spirit. The spirit needs to be free. I need to be free. He explained with a kind and sad smile.
‘But what about your friends? What about those who love you? What about me?’ I asked him with a strange desperation.
‘Oh, but I will always be there in your heart. Each time you need the advice of an old man. Each time you need a blessing. And each time you need a friend.’ His eyes were two grey, misty pools. ‘Remember, son, memory is what keeps us alive.’
‘I am going to miss you so much. I will miss the warm aroma of your pipe tobacco. I am going to miss your throaty chuckles. And I am going to miss your kindness.’ My heart was heavy with the sorrow of farewell.
‘Yes, I know that.’ He bowed his head silently. ‘But you have to let me go.’
‘Farewell, old friend.’ I whispered in silence.
‘Farewell, son.’ His eyes smiled back at me, kindly.
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It was the last time I saw him alive. He was already buried the next time I visited his place. The city was sad as if it knew a part of its fond memories had left. His house was filled with people, yet empty. The halls were alive with muted conversations, yet silent. His room still smelt of him, yet bland.
It has been incredibly difficult to let him go, and I have tried my best. But as time passes, the realization of loss grows stronger.
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He was a human magnet who attracted everybody. First, I thought it was his charisma and style. But later I realized, it was his warmth and his utter refusal to judge anybody, which made him the favorite of all.
He always had a warm smile and kind words for everybody. No one felt small or neglected in his presence. In fact, he always reminded me of an old, shady Banyan tree. There was ample space under its shade for everyone.
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There was a gap of three odd decades between us. But he constructed a bridge of kindness, affection, and warmth, and I willingly crossed over. He was a tower of strength and charisma, and I was just a boy, still trying to come to terms with the harshness of life. He opened the doors of understanding, and I willingly entered.
We had been familiar with each other for a long time. I was often playing in the street when he used to pass by in his military jeep, dressed in uniform. I always waved at him, and he always waved back. The smiling but silent exchange of greetings continued for some more time. Time passed, and I joined the military service too. Then my brother married his daughter, and fate and my good fortune brought us closer.
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He was a busy man. His job with a multinational kept him busy. But he always had time for me. I always called in advance seeking permission to go over, and he always said, ‘You don’t need permission. Just come over.’
With the passage of time, our long discussions over a few cups of tea and biscuits became a ritual. I have never been fond of rituals, but I got addicted to this one. He shifted from one topic to another, and I just listened - charmed, intrigued, and fascinated. History, politics, religion, economics, and sociology - nothing was left out. He had an anecdote for everything we discussed, and it was always a funny one.
Reflecting on those wonderful evening discussions, I now identify them as therapy sessions. He cleansed my soul and broadened my horizon. He taught me how to enjoy life and how to love unconditionally. He also taught me how not to despise and judge others. I always left his company not only more knowledgeable but also as a better person.
Sometimes, his wife joined us too for a few moments, mainly to ensure that I was doing justice to the tea trolley. She used to sit there smiling, while silently enjoying the exchange between two generations, and also, most probably, trying to understand that strange bond of friendship. She was not alone. My wife and mother were also confused, at least initially. But time passed, the friendship grew stronger and deeper, and everyone understood.
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When I think of our countless meetings, I always find smiles and love. There never was a single bitter moment despite my many stupidities and naivetés. And like all old men, he had his share of idiosyncrasies. Refusing to put on a hearing aid was one of these. A time came when I literally had to shout to make him understand what I was saying. But he never agreed to use a hearing aid. It irritated me a little in the beginning, but then I adjusted. I was always hoarse after a meeting with him, but who cared as long as I was happy.
There were other oddities, too. He had a bad knee due to an old injury, but refused to get the knee replaced. He had a bad heart condition, but he refused to admit there was anything wrong. This surprised me at first, as he always loved life. But then I understood.
He was in love with life but wanted to live life on his own terms. I learnt to respect that. This was typical of him. He never gave any logical reason for his actions. It was up to those who loved him to make an effort to understand the reasons behind his actions.
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He was the best of my friends, and he is no more. He is buried in an old graveyard along with his father and son. But I have neither visited his grave nor do I ever plan to. I cannot imagine him being dead. I would always like to imagine him sitting in his room, smoking his pipe and waiting for a lively evening session. This way, he remains alive. He wanted me to let him go, but I cannot. This is one farewell I am not ready to accept.
Tales of the Ancient Turtle: Who is God?
I was once friends with a very ancient turtle. I was very young, probably four or five and he lived in our backyard. The turtle talked to me. He told me many stories of times past and people long dead. He was wise, very wise and the mind of a four-year-old kid was no match to his wisdom. But he talked to me because he loved me. And he loved me because I could listen to him for long with my pupils enlarged in astonishment and my brow knitted in curiosity.
Read more: Tales of the Ancient Turtle: Who is God?
It was a quiet summer afternoon when we first met. My mother was fast asleep and I slipped out of her arms very quietly. I missed her warm sweet smell but outside, the adventures were waiting for me. Adventures have always waited for me.
It must have been a large house. But to me, it looked enormous. There were rain-forests hidden deep within the rose bushes and anacondas wriggled freely in the moist soil. My mother called them earthworms but I knew they were anacondas. There was a desert in one corner of the backyard – my very own Sahara. My mother thought it was just construction sand, which was left behind by the workers. Adults can be so wrong sometimes. To me, it was a desert, complete with dunes and when I planted some saplings, there was an oasis too.
I looked up and peeked at the golden sun from under the shadow of my palm. He was furious with the world but was smiling down at me. His golden rays kissed my cheeks and whispered in my ears:
‘Go ahead son. The adventure is waiting for you.’
‘But it is so hot and you are ferocious today.’ I replied while readjusting my palm.
‘Not for you. You are a dreamer. For you, I will always be kind.’ The sun crackled a deep-throated laughter.
Reassured, I started looking around for adventure.
Suddenly, a squirrel hiding in the mango tree caught my attention.
‘Come down little one. I want to play with your soft bushy tail.’ I called her down kindly.
‘Always be kind. Kindness goes a long way.’ My grandfather said to me often.
The squirrel came down. I called her Sweetie and we had always been on friendly terms. She shared her nuts with me and in return, I brushed her soft tail. It was softer than my father’s shaving brush and was of the most marvelous silver-grey color.
‘Hey, have you heard the news? The turtle has woken up.’ She sat on my shoulder and squeaked in my ear.
‘Huh? Turtle? Which turtle?’ I was surprised.
‘The turtle in the backyard silly’. Sweetie informed me while breaking a nut and offering one half to me.
‘There is a turtle in our backyard? Wow!’ It was marvelous news to me.
‘There has always been a turtle in the backyard. But he had been asleep for the last hundred years or so.’ She chattered on.
‘Go meet him. Pay your respects. He would certainly like that.’
So I ran to the backyard. There was no turtle anywhere.
‘Mr Turtle! Mr Turtle! Where are you?’ I hesitatingly called.
I could hear nothing in reply. All was silent and the brick floor was shimmering in bright sunlight.
‘Look closely son. He is having his siesta under the rose bushes.’ The sun whispered.
‘Where? I cannot see him.’ I desperately searched under the bushes.
The sun laughed quietly and shifted a little. The shadows changed and I started to see something which was never there before. There was a mottled hard and curved shell – dark green and grey. I poked at it with a small stick and it moved.
‘Who disturbs me?’ A strange low voice murmured.
‘I am sorry sir. I just wanted to meet you and say hi!’ I said very very respectfully. Turtles were serious business and I knew my manners.
‘Hmm! Once you grow old, you will realize something very important. Nothing in this life is more delicious than a siesta in summer.’ The turtle said in a tired voice, gradually opening up his small deep eyes and looking at me.
‘Ok. I am really sorry. You can go back to sleep. We will chat some other time.’ I tried to withdraw.
‘There is something else you will realize once you grow old. No time is better than now.’ He smiled at me kindly.
‘Sit down and let me have a close look at you.’
So I sat down under the rose bushes. It was pleasant there. The dark soil was wet and the anacondas were squirming happily. I prodded one with my finger. It was all moist and soft.
‘Now don’t do that. He doesn’t like that.’ The turtle admonished me silently. I withdrew my finger. But the turtle was wrong. The anaconda didn’t care.
‘What are you doing outside at this hour?’ The turtle asked me gently.
‘What is wrong with this hour? This is the hour of adventure.’ I was confused.
‘You should get out at another time. It is hot.’ He looked up at the bright sun.
‘No time is better than now.’ I repeated his words and the turtle laughed. It was a deep rattling sound, pleasant to hear. It was a warm laughter coming straight from his belly.
‘My mother is asleep and I am free. There are lions to hunt and desert gypsies to dance with.’ I said after politely waiting for his laughter to die down.
‘Aha!’ he grinned. ‘We have a dreamer here.’
‘Is it bad being a dreamer?’ I asked him. My grandfather always said it was better to act than dream.
‘Bad? Absolutely not. Being a dreamer is rather marvelous.’ The turtle winked at me: ‘It is the dreamers who change the world.’
‘Change the world? But how?’ I found his comment very strange.
‘Dreamers can see things that others can’t.
Dreamers can sense things that others can’t.
Dreamers can hear things that others can’t;
and dreamers can do things that others can’t.’
It was more of a song than a statement. I loved the songs. They were simple, yet meaningful.
‘Can dreamers see God?’ I asked him. It was a very important question as my father always said that God was invisible.
‘Oh yes! They can. You can.’ The turtle raised an eyebrow.
‘Nopes. I cannot see Him. Nobody can.’ I pursed my lips determinedly.
‘Hmm! What do you think God looks like?’ He asked a question I could answer easily.
‘He is big – bigger than everything. He must be a giant because He is all mighty and powerful. He moves His finger and the earth moves and the mountains crumble.’ I could go on and on but the strange expression in the turtle’s eyes halted me.
‘Now who told you that?’ He asked concernedly.
‘My teacher has told me that.’ I said while visualizing my teacher’s green eyes and golden hair which made a halo around her lovely oval face. She was probably my very first crush.
‘But she didn’t say what God looked like. I added the giant part myself.’I said proudly.
‘Of course you did because you are a dreamer.’ The turtle laughed again.
‘Can I feel your belly when you laugh?’ I asked the turtle hesitatingly. Touching somebody’s belly was not something I normally did. But I wanted to feel the warm vibrations.
‘Oh yes, you can my boy. You can do anything that makes you happy.’ He answered with a jolly laugh and I gently placed my palm against his belly. Those were good vibrations. They traveled up my arm and reached my heart. They tickled my heart and I laughed too.
‘God is somebody you can easily see and feel.’ The turtle finally said after finishing his long vibrating laughter.
‘How come?’ I was all ears.
‘How do you feel your mother? I mean what if she gets up when your eyes are closed? Can you feel her leaving?’
The turtle had asked a very strange question. I had never thought about it. So I closed my eyes and imagined myself lying in my mother’s embrace. And then the answer came to me, as clear as sunlight kissing a brilliant red rose.
‘I know. I know.’ I answered excitedly. ‘When she gets up and leaves, her warmth and fragrance leaves too.’
‘Exactly!’ The turtle nodded with satisfaction. ‘Now tell me, what makes your mother, your mother?’
He saw the confusion dancing in my eyes and so repeated his question.
‘What special quality makes her your mother?’
‘She gave birth to me. I came out of her tummy.’ I was wise way beyond my years.
‘Yes, true. That is basic. But what quality makes her your mother?’ He asked again. And I thought really hard this time.
‘I guess that would be her love. She loves me no matter what. She loves me even when I break a glass. Of course, she is unhappy for a while and frowns but she still loves me.’
‘Yes!’ the turtle sounded jubilant. ‘Her love makes her your mother. You see the love in her and sense it.’
‘So? What that’s got to do with God?’ I was a bit perplexed.
‘That’s got to do everything with God.’ He said in a matter-of-fact way.
‘He created you, me, your mother, and everything that exists around us. And He loves us all unconditionally.’
‘So my mother is God too?’ I thought I was finally drawing a connection.
‘Hmm! Let’s just say that God is greater than her and different from her.’ The turtle was alert now. He was very alert and was looking at me with eyes sparkling with ancient wisdom.
‘Different how?’ I was mentally ready to start a comparison.
‘Different because unlike your mother and mine, He runs through us and through everything around us. He makes you sense your mother’s warmth and He makes you smell her warm fragrance. He makes you move and He makes you stop. We are alive when He breathes inside us and we fall dead when He leaves us. He is the sun, the moon, and the stars and He is the rain forest, the desert, and the earthworms.’
‘Not earthworms. They are anacondas.’ I rudely interrupted him.
‘Yes, I am sorry. He is the Anacondas and not the earthworms.’ The turtle corrected himself with a kind and affectionate smile.
‘And most importantly, God makes you dream. He makes you dream so that you can see Him and sense Him in all His glory and warmth.’
‘Tipu? Tipu? Where are you?’ My mother’s voice echoed in the distance.
‘Oh shit! She is awake.’ I cursed and then suddenly stopped. Cursing was bad and it was especially bad in front of a grownup. You could get spanked for that.
‘No problem. You can always curse in front of me.’ The turtle winked at me knowingly.
‘Will I see you again?’ I asked while brushing off the seat of my shorts.
‘Oh yes. I will always be here. We will talk more and then some more. We will keep on talking till it is your time to move on.’ The turtle said while settling back down comfortably in the moist soil.
‘Hey there you are. How many times I have told you not to play outside at this hour?’ My mother asked with a frown.
I ran to her and hugged her legs. She smiled and hugged me back. We started walking towards the cool shade under the verandah. I looked back and waved at the turtle. I could not see him because the sun had shifted again. But I was sure he could see me.
‘Whom are you waving at?’ My mother looked back but couldn’t see anybody.
‘I made a new friend today. I was waving at him.’ I smiled at her.
‘A new friend? Who is he?’ She sounded a bit worried.
‘A turtle!’ I happily informed her.
‘A turtle?’ She looked surprised for a moment. But then she bent down and kissed my sweaty forehead. ‘You are a dreamer my son. You will always be a dreamer.’
She had seen the happiness in my eyes and she was happy that I was happy. I was happy because I was a dreamer and I could see God.
#English #fiction #story #turtle #dreaming #dreamer #world #adventure #God #mother #summers #imagination #philosophy #love #kindness
Shehryar khawar 