of pleasure groves and railroads

Something is changing.

There is a void somewhere, and there is a gushing new stream somewhere else. Birds chirp in the mornings. Nights are deathly. Everyday is a new day and there is a feverish train of thoughts smashing against each other all over the place. Only, no one around hears any noise, sees any hiccups in daily functioning, or notices the growing dark circles under my eyes.

Imagine a grove: a pleasure grove; the kind that existed in ancient India and Greece; the kind with fountains, trees heavy with flowers and fruits, with marble benches and Persian rugs for the most exquisite ladies. Imagine men and women lounging about: some for days on end; some for a few hours in the day: talking with each other, drinking wine, sharing philosophy, common stories, affection and making love.

Imagine the construction of a railroad. The first railroad. Imagine the noise, the tools, the trembling of the earth whenever bored into, dug up, made level, graveled and finally riled into becoming railed.
Imagine a series of railroads spread everywhere…spread like butter on a soft, fresh loaf of bread with a hard acerbic knife.

Some things change. The pleasure groves disappeared. In their place came railroads, pubs and malls. Groves lost their magic, serenity and charm. Pubs and discos took over, newer generations much happier now. Humans experiment. It’s in their blood. Things change. Historically, it’s called progress.

***

Something is changing.

There is a desolate silence between two chirping streams. There is the cheerful chattering bliss of two pigeons cleaning each other’s feathers and digging into each other’s beaks.

The pigeons are settled on the wall of a dam eighty meters high. The air is crisp, water peaceful and the sky a clear blue. The height is refreshing and deep down somewhere there is a thick patch of green both can see now. The two streams have been draining into a dam; flowing at a point where they stop pouring into each other and start becoming stagnant. In distinguishable from each other now, but neither is singing anymore. The dam is strong and encompassing.

Elsewhere is the daily business of living going on just as usual. Fierce, frightening and tiring – switch on at morning, switch off at midnight. Humans are restless. They fret. It’s in their blood. Switch on; switch off – tick tick tick. Individually, it’s called growth.

***

Something has changed.

The two gray pigeons flew back in time. That stagnant lake transformed into one of the pleasure groves of ancient India and Greece. Water gushed wine from the merging streams, grass grew out of the still damp silt, fish turned into men and women. The walls of the dam broke into all the noise of constructing the first railroad. Again, there will be a beginning. The pigeons, aware and endangered, continued playing with each other’s feathers and beaks. The two streams raged, surged, drew apart and fused yet again.

Inexplicably, the pleasure grove is becoming a reality with railroads beside it, in it, all around it. Will any remain? Humans experiment. They are restless. Destruction in their blood. Wisely, it's called annihilation.

Will any at all remain?