Sands of time
The shaman passes the mug to the monk. A graceful gesture indicates he doesn’t need it. They wait. Observing the swirling energies, they smile. They peek. Gazing at the rolling white peaks, they ponder.
Somewhere dusk was creeping in. He wasn’t sure where he was. But he was happy. He looks at her. She smiles. There were no words. But they understand. He runs and so does she. They laugh. A laugh that drowns the ominous sound of world itself.
A hand stretches out. She feels it against her palm. They look at each other again. They smile. He tries looking around. There was so much but all he feels is her presence. His world was complete. Light was going out but he felt it wasn’t dark. Wasn’t dark at all!
The shaman takes another swig. The monk breathes out.
They lay on their backs and watch the twilight sky turn different shades of blue and red and orange and grey and black. Her unfocussed eyes fall on his eyes. She felt so secure, so not alone. She watches him drift away, his eyes closed. She is taken out of there, for a moment. For just one moment. She doesn’t understand. She chides herself. She brushes away the fog, gathers herself up and steps away.
He stretches his hands out. There was no palm. He shouts out to her. There were no echoes. He beats frantically. There was no movement. He runs. There was no way forward. He bends down, looks into the abyss. It was a drop. A drop that trickles down his cheek. He watches it as it flows and leaves him. Leaves him to eternity.
The monk smiles. Life- its uncertainties always quizzed him.
He sits there by the edge all by himself. He keeps staring at the peak. There was no light there but he could still feel its radiance past the black and white. There were no answers there, but he could still feel the questions painted in. There were many “What ifs”. There were many “Whys”. He breaks down. “No”, he cries, “No. Why?!” It was just another question he didn’t have the answer to. His feet, they were numb. He stands up. The wind still blew. The world around looked so green, yet so grey. That droplet trickles down again. “Sorry I was late”. The words drift into perpetuity as he flies down the bottom.
The shaman and the monk close their eyes. The wheel stops.
“Your absence has gone through me like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with its color.”
― W.S. Merwin