Gadiara is a village in the Howrah District of West Bengal, India. It is distinguished for being the point of confluence of the three rivers (Damodar, Rupnarayan, and Hooghly). Aught, it was a deserted noontide in the village of Gadiara, under the blistering sun of May. The sun was incandescent overhead. The field and meadow are searing every nook and cranny in the scorching sun. The sigh of the parched earth rises from the chest of the centuries-old soil. People have taken refuge in their abodes to eschew the torrid heat.

Natch. I too have taken safeguard in my boudoir. My body is half-lying on the bed. The window louvers are ajar in front of my eyes. Through that aperture, the gargantuan village, field, and riverbank are captured in a discernible image, no less than the camera is peeping through a gap. There are eerily unpeopled thoroughfares. The desiccated wasteland is strewn with weeds. Everything in sight, including the trees, seemed to stand still, as it were undergoing the ordeal of penance, with agony all over their bodies. The chirping of birds is not even audible. They are either sheltering in the shade of the leaves or sitting in their nests, counting each instant as they wait for the civil twilight. The unaccompanied bird, with its aching throat, is flying in vain under the adust sky, yearning for droplets of water.

Somewhere, sitting on a tree branch, a dove is calling in such a weary voice that the mere sound of its call makes the heart tremble with gratuitous suffering. The river, conspicuous from afar, appears as a thick line. Its sandy shore lies with its back to the sun. There is no trace of anyone who crossed the ferry terminal, broke through the sandbank, over and above headed back to the countryside along the field road. Meanwhile, withered leaves are blowing from the edge of the field. The grass and dust swirl around in whirlwinds, tearing up the field. Albeit it’s not a red wind, there are intermittent heat waves coming from the western plains.

As I gazed out at the idyllic landscape in the tropical heat plus relished the sun-drenched afternoon, my mind took flight on the wings of will-o’-the-wisp to a secondary world. That’s the world of fairy tales I listened to in raptures as a tot, sitting on my granny’s lap. The vast expanse of land, like widely extended plain, stretches before my eyes, ceaseless, disappearing into the boundless horizon. The prince, who rode across acres of land on horseback, was accompanied by his companions. How much heebie-jeebies, how much encumbrances inclusive of menaces are there on the way to the other side. Nothing could thwart the prince with his comrades. What was the lure of an uncharted land that was dragging the prince along on a valiant quest at breakneck speed? There, his sweetheart is waiting for his arrival. The image of the charming princess that has emerged in the prince’s cloud-cuckoo-land is set forth below in verse form……………………………………………………………

Oh! On the shore of the desert, in the bosom of nature, who are you, gorgeous?

Looking into the divine eyes, I can see the beauty of thy face;

Your unkempt hair on the banks of the rushing river.

The fire is burning in the reflection of the seven-color rainbow.

In the midst of day & night; the sound of thy footsteps makes my heart palpitate!

O distant islander! the sandstorm has been calmed by thy guile.

With that symphonious heartbeat; she is like a dreamy blue earth among the planets.

In that boozy sweet tone of yours, in serene-green grace;

The waves tremble at the touch of newly blooming flowers.

Under that beauty of yours, in the bosom of the thundercloud…the flame is ignited in mind.

The thunder roared! lightning struck in the evening, the sound of bells swayed in the pitter-patter of raindrops.

Where did the girl of my dreams come from, crossing seven seas and thirteen rivers, sitting on peacock wings?

The sparkle in your eyes drove me crazy; I saw you in that golden hour in some sprite light.

That smile on your face has captivated my heart. How many green crops have grown in the barren desert; a dense forest illuminated by the slanting rays of the sun.

Do you even know, honey? I’m your ardent lover.

I bow down to your feet a million times…………………………………………………………………

Life is like a roller coaster of incertitude, tribulation, and jitters, full of pitfalls. It impels intrepidity combined with celerity to surmount it. By and by, my mind again found wings in the sky of cloudland. I ventured through arcane spheres, outlying upland woodlands, then sailed across the double-layered sea, crammed with an outlandish euphoria.

Chronological barriers are like a flowing river that never goes in reverse. As you behold, the noon sun sinks into the western sky. No sooner did the afternoon approach than two or four people started walking down the street. And before long, a cumulonimbus cloud peeked out from the northwest corner of the sky. But lo and behold, a quizzical change bobbed up. The solitude of the sunlit afternoon evanesced. The day I conjured up, forsooth the skein of my pipe dreams, was torn to shreds, what’s more my chest throbbed with a weird pain.

Hardly had the sun set when the nautical twilight neared. Over a defined period, the blackout curtain of astronomical twilight lifted; therewith, another civil dawn began, holding the hand of dawn. This is how the interminable flow of time flows. The ultimate household chores of quotidian existence cast only tenebrosities like MP4. The slate of the mind doesn’t scratch with chalk. It’s certainly no picnic to spae beforehand when a prim period will become red-letter as well as leave an indelible mark on our memories.

In a flash, the song ‘‘Every night in my dreams’’ started playing on my cell. The phone showed it was a quarter past six in the morning. It was brass monkey weather that day. And next in line, I indicated in the very first line that fate cannot be resisted. Haply, my body fell out of the made-up world and onto the ground of reality.

Beats me if anyone wants to dream like me. But don’t dream of Alnaschar.

In fine, on this secluded afternoon, you encountered my omnium-gatherum fantasy, some muddled contemplation, in parallel with some reminiscences. And thus the memory of this solitary one-two-double-o is one of the most worthy events in my life.