Threads
Threads, they were, from a distance. When I got close to the gates, they turned out to be ropes connecting two poles.
He was right there standing on the threshold of his imagination. What does one do when you on threshold. He felt like a bureaucrat/politician/celebrity/social activist dying to cut the ribbons. But hell no! They are merely ropes … red ropes.
I crossed the threshold, untangled the ropes bound to the poles that resembled a noose, now tightened to form a knot. When I first saw the gate, from a far, I was convinced that they were a bunch of red threads, which probably formed the red rope.
You told me that ropes are made of threads, and threads are made of smaller strands – and strands are made of fibres. I do remember we simply spoke about our lives. Disintegrating every aspect, dismantling our thoughts to reach a simple truth – unbiased, uncoloured like plain white tees.
But you said you need colours. You needed those threads to weave my dreams. Didn’t you?
So I returned with those ropes, red ropes. Red ropes to weave our dreams. Red ropes for his red robes, or for someone’s shirt or my old shorts. But these were mere threads that bind them all.
When I went to get the ropes, they were shouting at me, so I entered the big edifice. I confronted with its corporeal self. The descending hubris cascading from the heavenly lit chambers of the guardians of justice, truth and all other such big things.
I went to ask: Should I bow down before you – the assembly of wise men or on second thoughts, the parliament of owls. I have no intention of bombing this edifice. Please do not see me as a threat. I just wanted the red ropes to make red thread so that my wife could weave her dreams and mine.
Upon asking, you may make a stone talk to you – or assume that it would communicate its silence by not responding. But O Denizens of this great edifice, in this confrontation you almost revealed your real self, in an instant. You told me to go and that I do not have any place in this garden of truths. But rules, that you make and clothes, she weaves still are true to me.
*******
You broke the first rule: you blinked at me recognising my presence. The stone would not have broken the first rule, it would remain inexpressible, silent and not recognising anyone’s presence.
The stone is an ancient reminder of silence that surrounds you. The quiet, heavy and unresponsive stone, but performing the functions of a witness. Nobody venerates it, unless someone decides to adorn it with metaphors. Metaphors for the stone’s material cause. Perhaps, that’s why I never thought of going to any stone for solace – adorned or unadorned. I was just looking for threads, so that she can weave.
She told me last night that with the red threads made from the rope that I brought for her, she would adorn the stones. To my surprise, she also told me that she was weaving a red ribbon, so that the keepers of the truth-garden could inaugurate their latest chambers of secrets. Then she said, Oh! I forgot to keep a secret. I told you the truth. The red ribbon is mine.
She weaved the ribbon. She had her set skills. Her eyes were so fierce that could tear apart that ribbon to shreds – but she was working so that could weave my dreams. Her ribbon had an extra-embossed lining running across the sheer length of it. Let them know that it is not so easy to cut the ribbon, she said. She was happy.
Isn’t it strange that with rest of the red rope, she would weave our dreams and a little hand towel for my mother and me?
