A Date with the Stars

A morning walk along the coastal line of Kerala, on a breezy day, turned out to be an exceptional day for me. I was expecting to be greeted by the roaring waves pulling me towards them and effusing their loud secrets. However, the waves were extremely cordial towards this unexpected guest. They bowed their heads in unison and played good hosts.

Was there a specific reason for this gentle demeanour? A closer look at the shores helped me to see through the facade. The shore was all set for a ‘starlit’ day! It was decorated with diamonds and crystals. No, not to receive me! The waves put on its best behaviour for their date with the stars. I was just an intruder, and had to be tolerated!

I decided to be a passive observer, idling my time by taking a closer look at the decorations, not listening into their amourous conversations. Light feet. Tiptoeing along the shore, not to crush these decorative pieces, led me towards the discovery of their identity; a rather saddening discovery. These display pieces were the shattered pieces of shells and conches, the waves aggressively carried forth to set the stage for the date! The broken pieces of the fragile shells! The shells that concealed their secret stories in layers. Each layer rich with its own story. The things they carried so far-the sounds of the waves, the songs of the mermaids, the sighs of the sea- were hidden in each fold. And they were destined to sacrifice these memories by shattering themselves on the sand. Scattered around the shore, each glittered piece seemed to delicately implore the waves, “Please, please don’t forget our stories…. please don’t forget us!”

“Please, please don’t forget our stories…. please don’t forget us!”

Whose house is this, I think I know..

The camera is an instrument that teaches people how to see without a camera.” Dorothea Lange’s quote is truly relatable to many of us. Don’t we tend to imagine things beyond what we see through the lens? Many a times, a scenic vision tickles your imagination to let it run riot and you start weaving stories around it which may, occasionally,  die within you. At times, it remains in you, nourishes your soul like a soft breeze that kisses your face to make you feel refreshed.

This green dale with a solitary house near Chatsworth House is one such picture which has bewtiched me immensely. It has spun webs of tales with its finest threads of silk .. The house stood in a wide span of greenery with a line of trees holding it as a treasure not to be encroached upon. There is definitely something dreamy about it, my imagination has whispered to me.

Isn’t it the abode of a Medieval Knight who is polishing his armour and sword to set out for another battle? (My imagination knows how to deliberately ignore things-  the four-wheeler, in this case!) Didn’t I visualise the teary-eyed Lady in the room heaving a heavy sigh and looking out through the windows, thinking about the young man and the warfare?

Or…….

Is this the abode of an elderly couple who, having spent their entire youth in this rural setting, is deliberately wiling away the hours, finding solace in each other’s company? Will they be waiting to hear the tiny footsteps and the laughter of their grandchildren to sweep off the monotony and boredom of their lonely old age? Will there be a corner in the house yearning to be adorned by a Christmas tree?

Each time I come across the picture, it still puzzles me , making me wonder about the inhabitants.. Sitting in this country far, far away from Derbyshire, sometimes I regret at my own cowardice (or was it my utilitarian mind?) which stopped me from going there and knocking at the door to find out who resides there.. The next minute, I feel happy about not doing it. Had I done that, I wouldn’t have been looking at the picture, still wondering and thinking about its enigmatic charm and mysterious inhabitants. I don’t regret…

The dale is lovely, green and deep

And it still quaintly amuses me….

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