I look at these old dug out photo albums & picture frames, either empty or with photos in it of the ones still alive & the ones gone dead. 'आता था जिस को देख के तस्वीर का ख़याल, अब तो वो कील भी मेरी दीवार में नहीं - ग़ुलाम मुर्तज़ा राही'
Looking at the nail, that often reminded me of a photograph, no longer existed on my wall. - Ghulam Murtaza Rahi
The colorful and the black and white of everything lifeless & still alive pops-up & then fades into a realm of nothingness. I am so caught up, stuck & glued & exhausted in vicious circles, trying to mend memories of present that might live to see future. Even when, these memories of the past hit me, stay with me for a while & then disappear, it seems like, they would haunt me even after I am away from them, not looking at them anymore or thinking about them anymore.
The picture frames want me to stand next to them & have a good look, while they stare back. I would for a while look at them or often pass by. Even the album pages those I flip, seem to be telling me to sit beside and have a word or two. They seem to be talking to me & I would often feel like, as if everything & everyone in the picture wanted to step out of the photo frames & albums to become a part of my existence this very moment & feel alive. I always wondered if I had to walk down a memory lane with them forever, like almost every day, there were chances of pictures disappearing from these photo frames & albums completely.
They were here to stay - they existed, even if they did not existed anymore - they had everything to do with my existence, and no matter how short or long were we to live, we had them always clinging on to us as much we were willing to remember & not let them go off our fond memories. Memories lived for eternal, while photo frames & albums didn't.
I avoid keeping pictures of the loved ones, as they only bring pain of me having to witness there not being anymore. I believe when you have them in your heart and you still feel there existence around you even after they are no more, you don’t need picture frames or photo albums to remind you of there existence. What good it be having interpretations of people & things (moments) captured & framed so static behind these mirror like or cellophane transparent glossy sheets. The dust would still settle on them and no matter how often you tried making it a point to clean it, the settling and unsettling was an ironical metaphor that was just a realization of things that ought to be, like they were supposedly to be & by no means you could change nothing.
I am against those artificial supposedly flower condolences, that are meant to be an obituary to the souls that by now must have already been resting in peace or would often pay visits. Why do we even want to remind us that they were dead? Still you would make it a point to scrub & wash them artificial ones or get a new one. I wish I could have a new flower everyday - a real one, but I was too lazy to get the needful done, like everyone else, I was caught in my world of nuances. I wish I had plenty of flowers blooming all seasons.
I still have few of them kept or hanging in there, There is something about them, which makes me feel safeguarded but looking at them seldom makes me happy & sad. This flood from nowhere gushes out & I softly rub my fingers and palm against thy eyes and face but it eventually makes me wet & then gets all dried up. There would be times, I would be saying sorry to these pictures of loved ones. I would be smiling looking at them, asking for forgiveness, hugging & kissing them. I know, I could hug them anytime I want, & they would go nowhere - they were much closer to me now in spirit if not in person, though I wish they were.
Something is killing you inside & constantly reminding you about the connection you ever had or still have with the people in the photographs, as you dwell deeper, making you pour & roar with an outburst all of a sudden. The eyelids close into this blindfolded darkness & a pin drop silence & you see nothing but the imagery that your heart wants to remember. It seemed to have brain washed everything else in this stillness, I can only hear my inner voice talking to me & ungeared are those noises that obstruct my hearing no more. I see all that I want to see & hear all that I want to listen to. The world has become so quiet in fractions of time. The life goes on, and I get back to mine.
“Miss Collins: That's the picture, the one in the silver frame up there on the mantle. We cooled the watermelon in the springs and afterwards played games. She hid somewhere and he took ages to find her. It got to be dark and he hadn't found her yet and everyone whispered and giggled about it and finally they came back together - her hanging' on to his arm like a common little strumpet - and Daisy Belle Huston shrieked out, "Look, everybody, the seat of Evelyn's skirt!" It was-covered with-grass stains! Did you ever hear of anything outrageous?” - Tennessee Williams, Portrait of a Madonna
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