When fancy fleets

When Fancy Fleets...
The last winter night I spent in my village in Kashmir was magic. Nothing less but maybe more. A spell was cast by the cold mystical fog that embraced every living and non-living being with a warm hug. It filled every inch of empty space with mystery. The time stood still watching silently and patiently with a creative eye,the beautiful things fog was doing to the virgin night. I huddled in my comfortable resting chair in the balcony. The closed door behind me hid every beam of light present except for the faint yellow light of the old lamp-post at the distance.The air didn't move the leaves didn't flip. Stillness prevailed. I remembered John Keats:-
where are the songs of spring aye!
where are they,
think not of them,thou hast thy
music too.
Full of thoughts,I thought;the essence of the beauty of this season lies in its maturity and ripeness. It sets the stage for the spring. It is the perfect blend of old and new thoughts it is not a season to be dismissed as worthless just because it is a little too harsh..it is lovely,it is serene ,it is an old wine, it is to be drunk again and again.
The night was growing white,it was maturing ,while in sleep. It was a damsel enjoying a slumber full of dreams of charming princes and fairy lands .Ecstasy, is what one should call what I was feeling. It was a moment when gloom and joy together bring happiness.It was one of those moments when reason is kept aside for a while and fancy rules every cell of our body. Alas! fancy is fleeting.Not for long can reason be kept aside.The door of my room opened,the tubelight struck my eyes and I saw him lying on the road.A lonely desolate figure wearing rags and struggling to cover his frail body with a battered blanket. A chill ran down my spine. I was wearing two sweaters,a small jacket, woolen trousers and socks, not to count the innerwear and a firan(kashmiri gown) to cover up it all. No more was I cosy no more was the night romantic.It was a night when thousands like him struggle just to live and when many like him die in the quiet cruel moment. It is at times like this that Darwin's principle survival of the 'so called' fittest holds firm ground, it is at times this that one feels we are nothing but animals.

by- Arif Hayat Nairang
TISS, Mumbai