I
There’s a stream that flows through my parents’ farm, a good
distance away from the farmhouse. It is of the classic fairy tale variety, with
sparkling bright water that gurgles over smooth pebbles and myriad jagged
stones as it rushes on merrily. The banks of the stream are no less picturesque
with wild flowers blooming in abandon amidst lush green grass. My parents don’t
go there often, encumbered as they are with the chores around the farm and the
house. The fact that they aren’t growing any younger probably adds to their
reluctance in straying from the routine and giving in to idle whims. That
stream caught my fancy the first time I saw it, on a visit to their newly
purchased farm a decade ago. I was mesmerised by the beauty in and around the
stream, and I felt cheated at not having been privy to this bounty when I was
still a child.
Each time I sat on its banks, I would pour a bit of myself
into the stream. One time, it was the agony of a breakup with my then partner.
On another occasion, it was the joy of becoming a parent. I have lost count of
the umpteen times when I vented my anger on the various people in my life, into
the stream. Each string of abusive words hurled into nothingness would bounce
off the jagged ends of the stones in the stream. Each stray tear that fell off
my cheeks and into its gurgling waters, blended my angst into its sublime
beauty.
II
My parents are long gone, and the farm house looks old and
tattered. The people in my life have receded to its periphery and I find myself
quite alone as I steal my way to the banks of the beloved stream. My fifty eight
year old eyes and their twenty year old twin companions must be playing tricks
with me, I decide; for the water seems lacklustre and there is no enthusiasm in
its journey over the pebbles and the stones as of yore. I miss the sound of the
gurgle, and the glint of the sun as it hit the jagged edge of the stones in the
stream. The edges have all smoothened, and the water seems older and wiser as
it proceeds carefully and listlessly down the beaten path.
I cannot help but wonder whether the years of listening to
my diatribes and woes have taken its toll on the stream. Beauty, like
everything else in life, needs nurturing, I surmise, as I walk slowly back the
pathway to the farmhouse.
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