Saturday, January 7, 2012
Red Ballons, the Wind, and I
She loves red.
Her childhood recollections are full of
the differently coloured balloons
she saw at the fairs and received as gifts.
The blue, little, wooden chairs in the nursery classes,
the building- blocks in all shades,
and the small, wooden rocking horse
painted in blue and majenta
contribute to her early world of colours.
Children in the kindergarten vied with each other
to rock on the horse but she dreamed
of having one such horse all for herself.
The blue tricycle was also a coveted item.
The ice- candy man, announcing himself
with the clacking of a metal piece tied to his cycle,
brought various colours of the delicacy
children were prohibited to buy,
may be due to the chemical colours.
Balloons were part of festivals.
The air- filled globes of fanciful hues,
with strings or slender sticks attached to hold them by,
gave the proud little owners a reason to feel regal.
The accidental bursting of them made these little monarchs
fall abruptly down from their momentary throne,
transmitting the pain of losing even to onlookers.
The modern day balloons don’t burst.
They escape into thin air and linger there, in view ,
reminding how once set free it is impossible to stop flight.
The losers don’t lose heart as the new spectacle of
the helium-filled balloons drifting and rising in the air
hardly let them brood and feel the loss.
It is wonderful to be atop the hill with
a bunch of balloons.
Like kites they struggle to break free
tugging at the strings as wind summons them.
It is a tremendous experience, unique and transforming,
to feel the power of the wind
through the stretching lines,
fighting hard against it and finally letting go
before the line cuts itself or the fingers that hold it.