Leaves

In the shade of one September afternoon, they fly to me. Crumbled hearts, wrinkled faces, withered souls, they appear. How can they still have the zest to fly, I wonder. So many summers, they awaited for the sun to dry the life out of them. So many winters, they stood at the corner making way for the glaring light to fall on the earth. So many monsoons passed by, so many clouds they opened their arms to, drench me with your sorrows, they whispered. Sometimes, the pain was so deep that for many twilights they wailed, not once did the leaves complain. Sometimes, the sky sobbed softly, sometimes the water flowed ravenously like a sea merging into an ocean, without questions, without doubts.

Some days, the drops fell down in melancholy. Some days, the clouds felt at ease too soon to realise that the bodies of the leaves were still dusted with scars from the past. Even when the leaves were soiled with tears of resentment, the skin aged before time, they didn’t complain.

Doesn’t she get tired in this argument between seasons? Has she lost her desire to be taken care of? As if her only role was to witness this game. Was she given birth to just accept everything thrown at her? Has the leaf lost the ‘I’ or did it never exist for her, I wonder. Is the leaf showing the world what surrender means? Is she even aware of what she has been portraying for so many lives? 

The leaf does not even have an appetite for recognition. She does her work silently, away from gaze of the world. She is born timeless, without age or name; different shades, different hues, varied compositions, very rarely does she become a part of our lives.

May be her moment of admiration comes once when silently walking, the breeze makes a frail beauty fall, may be the little life in her dances when a soul finally stares into her eye, marking the rims of a beloved book with her name.