The limbo betwixt love and lust

The old folk know of 12 ways of counting stars. Not one of them works though. She wasn’t one to be deterred by such facts. She had to know just how many there were. So much depended on it…

SyncMaster’s druidic dodecahedron glowed impatiently for the star count before opening the portal. The warmth of the glow lit up the cavern and made the symbols shimmer on the scrolls. The cavern blurred as the tears welled up in her eyes. Anguish wept in her soul filled with bitterness. Her love ached in search for her imprisoned Chullain and cowered away from the out stretched tendrils of Samildanach’s lust.

Tears dried as her heart hardened with resolve tougher than the dodecahedron’s diamond. Summoning the wisdom of her race across the expanse of several time planes had morphed her into the cavern. The scrolls of Medb would show her the path to her beloved held in limbo.

The incessant urging of the dodecahedron coaxed the portal withholding the scrolls’ knowledge. It smiled and asked of her a simple poser. How many stars twinkle in the sky? The old folks counted the finiteness imposed by their finite life spans. Their count and the ways were in vain. The skies of infinity twinkled with stars of souls churned by the gales of the many time planes flowing like gales through eternity.

SyncMaster’s sacrifice to rescue her ardour was fresh in her mind. His reduction to oblivion should not be pointless, she thought. Before oblivion consumed him forever, the gift of summoning the collective consciousness had passed to her soul, repealing her mortality. In his passage to oblivion, SyncMaster had achieved through her, what he could never accomplish. The transformation to a god allowed her to cross the threshold between the worlds of the living and the dead. Her love had fuelled and ignited her resolve to move the collective consciousness and morph her into the cavern of Medb. She knew the answer now.

Samildanach hadn’t learnt of defeat till now. He yearned for her to be at his side and watched her with interest through the vision before him. Not too many things were going his way. The object of his lust loved his son from a forgotten dalliance. Imprisoning him had not diminished her love. His compatriot SyncMaster had chosen oblivion and her over continued prosperity. She yearned to release Chullain from his clutches and now was almost a worthy adversary as a god.

He sighed realizing that she would soon find her way and free Chullian imprisoned in limbo between all time and the netherworld. All this just made her more desirable. The destiny of all eternity rattled in the rocks in his palm. He pondered and chose one of the rocks. His loins still yearned for her amidst imminent defeat of his intentions.

He had done his best. But a man must know when to move on. He blew softly on the little rock and everything changed forever.

The first rains of monsoon...

For the last three years I’ve been party to a ritual.

It begins like another day, trapped in a ‘air-conditioned’ box moving through the day like zombies. A shiver of excitement runs through the people and many get drawn to the windows. Gasps of excitement and dilated pupils indicate of the general adrenalin rush.
A gush of people run out and most run up to greet the torrents. The thunder crashes and the gusts of wind threaten to blow people off the terrace. People rush to the nearest shaded area and get drenched anyways since the strong gusts of wind don’t really care about the people (who it must think are idiots) not getting wet.
The plate glass windows frost up and the rivulets start dripping inside our hastily and badly made office. The chai-wala does fabulous business for the day, pouring out endless cups of hot tea to drenched revelers who would not normally even contemplate a sweetened quaff.

It happens on the first day of every monsoon I have spent in Maximize Learning (still cannot reconcile to calling it Aptara). It still arouses a special feeling of excitement every time it happens. A predictable magic that never has lost its charm.

After this one moment of magic it is all about trudging through a wet rainy three months. About braving the slush. About wet clothes. About the front brake constantly caked and clogged with mud on the Royal Enfield. About the longings in the heart to not go to office when I wake up and stare wistfully at skies which prompted Meghadutam. About all such things which one can crib about monsoon.

But the first rains are ALWAYS magic undiluted.