Sometimes the mind works as though it's on a blind date with a library shelf long forgotten to the dusty annals of the wheels of the rickety chariot of Time.
In the darkness of its blindfold, it retrieves images and shadows of images and tugs hard at the open ends of the Present to knot it with the smoky silhouette of a memory, as though that alone could call back to life moments mired in mud.
A slipped swara, the jarring off pitch note, coming out of the wispy vapours as abroken quaver whose hanging tail is tied to the trembling voice of the singer on stage, as though the throats were the same, separated merely by the illusion of space and time.
In the resuscitation of the memory, the broken note walks on the stave, although with a limp, carrying with it a newly formed thread, the sutra that binds pages of the Book of Life, hidden somewhere in the dusty shelves of the darkened library of human existence, that continues its search with the gnarled fingertips and blindfolded eyes.
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