Saturday, March 04, 2006

To the remains of my untortured past

One of the thousand things we didn’t discuss while in love was the winter of Mauryan era. I don’t know if it holds anything of the slightest importance, or in that case, if it smelt different or felt amazing, I know nothing of that sort.

But comrade when we could pick up certain things straight form trivia and attach extraordinary significance to them and assume them to be love, then we could very well have attended to things that demand our imagery.

Nevertheless. Trifle is a literary paradox. It always cocoons the subtlest and the most remarkable of things.

I invite you to explore through one of such trivially significant domains.

WINTERS OF THE MAURYAN ERA

They were cold. Frosty at places. A south-eastern wind blew gently over the plains with its perennial stock of dew. It planted a drop each on infant leaves of a shrub extinct now. A courtesan at Chandragupta’s palace once told me that these winds emanated form the nostrils of maidens who had just discovered the art of love. Their mates could trace them in the dew drops, glistening on the leaves of that tiny shrub, Ria.

3 comments:

Runa said...

when did u start blogging again?And how come you are struck with the name Ria?

Siddharth Tripathy said...

this writing happened more than a decade back...was just going through my junk

Runa said...

oh ok. keep posting