She's Like the Rainbow.

It has been my experience that folks who have no vices have very few virtues.
- Abraham Lincoln

For some time now, I have been convinced that early morning (that's between day break and 7 AM) is definately the most beautiful part of the day. It is true of every season. I am fully awake, courtesy the nature of my work, and never rushed. In winter when the fog is lifting, the dark melts in with the day. And while the fog doesn't ever go away, at least when I am leaving the house, it hangs about like pristine white drops of steam, forming dew drops on my sleeve. In spring, well, need I say anything at all. The tree whose branches appear out of nowhere and alomst reach inside my room, whose boughs are laden with the yellow-red blossom, occassionally dropping a few inside, make up for a beautiful way to start the day. In summer, early morning is easily the best part of the day- the heat is not yet set, and while on my way to work, I take an occassional sling at the mangoes ripening on the trees, which line my row. The rains- actually, I have no single favorite part of the day in the rains, and so I guess early morning is as good as any. The sea is beautiful, as I go past Marine Drive, some times tranquil, some times fiesty. And autumn- there is hardly any such thing here, but whatever is exists, is quite quite nice- for, well some reason or the other.

The best thing about the morning is that the lights and sounds of a beautiful world, appear amplified, like never after. The waves at Marine Drive crashing against the dykes (not the ones which occupy them at nights), or the the colours of the pretty bough at my window, petals fallen on the road from the night before and not yet turned into a gooey black pigment by wheels of a world, in a mad rush to get God knows where. Whether I am on my way to work, or just returning from a night's debauchery, whether I am adequately rested, or struggling for sleep, early morning remains, my high point of the day. From there it is all downhill.

Of late, it has suddenly gotten sunny, for all the right reasons, and very soon, I believe Monsoon will be over. And I will have to move to another page- with a new name, a new address. That, later.

Now I shall attempt to complete the narrative. One of the problems associated with opening things up too early is that, you tend to get influenced by what others have to say (yes, Anonym). And when "Others" is a collective used for only one person, it is rude not to respond in kind. It no longer remains some thing of your own, but evolves slowly and belongs as much to the Others involved in the process. It is almost like a baby, forming inside you, but influenced by some one else, in a most significant manner. To say the least, like any one would, I am flattered by your fascination with me. Oh ho... now don't get all carried away. I don't think I mean every thing I write (No, I don't take myself too seriously...)

(contd.)

...

Narcissus will never forget the day Echo was returned (of course he didn't know it then). It was a Sunday, and he had been feeling so so lazy. The sun was out early. The bell rang- and an army walked in- of men armed with paint brushes and cans of distemper. Smelling of turpentine and sweat- remotely heady. Narcissus not quite, recovered from his previous night's debauchery balked at anything remotely intoxicating. He remembered, the appointment had been fixed weeks ago. Turning them away would mean a wait of another few weeks. And he had to get the job done before his parents came in. The house hadn't been painted in nearly 6 years. Of course, he had to send them away for a while, to be able to get his maid to set things up, so that they could work.

First, the house needed to be reorganized- furniture covered up, clothes bundled and since it was a good opportunity, he decided to get rid of some of the papers he seemed to accumulate around himslef- old magazines, newspapers with an interesting column or two. Bits and pieces of stuff written. Print outs of presentations (Pitchbooks- to use the right term). Railway and air plane tickets. Old business cards, collected over drinks at parties and which never found their way to the rolodesk at work. Client entertainment bills, never submitted for reimbursement. Basically, the debris of life. And then were were some other things- letters, scribbled notes, every thing else at once. An old scrabble set, gifted by Echo, its corners frayed, its twine now bare threads, appeared out of nowehere. While almost everything else ended up in a heap in an old Brittania carton, procured by the maid from the nearest grocers, these were filed away. Not given to sentiment under normal circumstances, Narcissus filed these away separately. He had read written somewhere, in a handwriting which remotely resembled his own (then an elegant slant, presently it was barely a scrawny scribble) which read:

In winter, when the fields are white,
I sing this song for your delight -

In spring, when woods are getting green,
I'll try and tell you what I mean.

In summer, when the days are long,
Perhaps you'll understand the song:

In autumn, when the leaves are brown,
Take pen and ink, and write it down.

He recognized it as a prelude to some thing he had written to Echo, so so long back. He paused, briefly, thought about the times they had, and got along with the task at hand. When most of the sorting, filing, bundling and dumping was done, he was still left with a sizeable bulk of things that, in spite of himself, he had no heart to throw away. These he set aside and sat down- at the bar, to read while the army of painters trooped in and went about their job like an army of ants. While sifting through notes and letters and scribblings of things that she loved so much, Narcissus could almost feel smell her, feel her, touch her. More than anything else, he was aware of his age. He found little curios- among them his proposal (written in jest and inspiration) which read-

Narcissus, the Prospector, inspired by:
Echo, the Prospect, has chosen
The following facts, for his vitae, such that
He may vie for the (much sought) maiden

Born `76, under the Archer’s sign
If it matters, the hospital clock chimed nine
Was heard to hum (Ta... Da...) the first tune at four
Yet wrote his first acrostic - ho, hum- only post 24

A Bachelor of machines, a master at heart(s)
Keeps a sound mind, wallet and scruples; Is smart
Employee of a bank; loves numbers, books, hills
Currently, his tastes reside in Seth and Wills

Looking for a lady similarly inclined
But will it suffice for this Real Find?

Although moved, he could not help noticing the almost trite and juvenile attempts at rhyming (aa-bb-cc). Among other things he noted a date and time which appeared on the corner of the note, 22nd December 2002, 8.15AM. It had been sent by internal post. How it had found its way back to him, he didn't remember. However, what he did remember was that Echo had not bothered to reply. It was time for breakfast.

Over eggs (fried in the lard from over cooked bacon), and cold cuts, and Darjeeling tea, a regulation Sunday breakfast, which often served as lunch, Narcissus toyed with the curios, and for the first time in a few years, sat down to play scrabble with himself. The board (now devoid of the cob like webs) had been a constant feature through their relationship, over which many fights had been won , and lost; over which many questions had been asked, and then sometimes, answered. For instance- "Will you marry me?" - answered - "In your dreams" or "I am considering it" and elsewhere "So, be nice to me, Mister" formed arduously, almost miraculously, with amazing dexterity, they both possed at the game once and with absolute disrespect for any rule ever written. Today as he tried to find his way about the cells, and sifted through the probablities of finding the right alphabets, as old ways found their way back, hope hung around thick like a poor boy outside a Christmas sale.

( to be continued...)

Anonym- I guess I have handled our protagonist with care- haven't I? Incidentally, since if I have often noted - you are quite wordly wise, what is the feminine for protagonist?