The Angels Song (Since i have not been able to write anything like this for a while, the story has turned out to be longer than expected. I only hope all of you will read and enjoy it despite this minor problem) At the centre of the Universe a song is composed with fury. It is a never-ending song. No one knows who or what holds the pen but one can often hear the faint trickle of melodies travelling through the many dimensions and strands of matter; crossing, colliding , reforming and rebuilding. Some say the song is an elegy, sung in the glory of those lost and gone; while some believe it to be the song of hope, and often they find hope in the strangest of places. Some consider the song to be a song of love, of light and warmth; while others know the song to be dark, heard only moments before death. If one listens carefully on cold lonely nights, sometimes one can make out whispers in the wind. And if you then place your ears on the wall, they say you can hear a faint heartbeat from millions of light-years away. Proof that you are not alone. Right across the street from my house there lived a man who always claimed that he could very often feel that song. I never believed him. It sounded nothing like the logic I had been taught in school. But if you chose to believe in his foundations then you would find his stories to be rational… perhaps in a universe where two would refuse to add up with another two to produce four, you would find his stories to be the definition of logic. Much like the one he told me a day before he died. In that story there was a beautiful porcelain figurine. It was white like the snow and along its limbs were transparent cracks filled with colours that took on the mood of every passer-by. He did not tell me how that Angel, he called her Angel, came to being or what was its purpose at first; but somehow I believed his every word. That deep voice of his was carved out with honest blades and even in utter nonsense it held more power than the greatest voices of reason. I listened and got lost. ***** “Angel was lost. She did not expect to reach this strange world but there she was, in the middle of what appeared to be a deserted crossroad. There was no one present and the time was one of darkness. There were artificial lights all around and a giant metal snake was held in the sky with enormous pillars. Angel felt cold and a trifle scared but inside her heart the melody played on. Even in that strange alien world of cold metal bars and layers of dust on asphalt roads, the melody whispered to her every fibre and it gave her strength and courage. Angel was alone in an alien world and she did not come without a purpose. Angel came with a song.” ***** But the old man was very odd. Often he would stop mid-sentence and glance out of the window. Sometimes in winter he would get up without finishing his story, open a window and face the cold breeze that came from the north. He would not flinch and after several moments of perfect silence, he would light a fag and without warning restart the story. It was the same that night. ***** “Angel belonged to a land of melodies and whispers. Her people were able to feel the song of the universe from a very early age and they would often go out on journeys following a stray melody or two. In their world every sound had colour and every colour had a sound. Every smell was the pleasure of ears and every touch produced an oscillation within the cracks of their limbs. Yet, even among such a tribe of beings there comes once every decade or so, someone like Angel, someone who could hear the melodies of others from far far away. And only once in a hundred years can one actually travel to the source of that melody and meet the cause of it. And that night Angel was searching for such a tune. It was a tune of longing and it was so strong that the moment she felt it, she was drawn to this alien world of metal beasts and concrete cages. The yellow tungsten light washed upon her white figure and she shone like a beauty from eternity. The cracks in her limbs grew redder as the longing intensified. Finally Angel knew who it was that she had to meet. She opened her wings and within moments kissed the air above the cloud of pollutants. It was only then, that she realised that she was near the heart of a city made from the blood and toil of many lost melodies. The past of that world was a sad one and it made her heart heavy with the gloom to notice the dirges that were played by so many who slept an suffered even in their dreams. Yet she carried on towards the source of that longing filling her heart.” ***** The old man’s death was a strange affair. A kind of mystery. He was found hanging from the ceiling fan the day after he told me this story; but no one knew why he committed suicide. He did not have a family. His son had died from an accident years ago and some said his wife was responsible but no one pointed any fingers. A few years later the wife disappeared and the man she was having an affair with disappeared with him, but the old man lived on. Yet when I look back now, I can almost feel that there was something wrong with him; something greater than his usual queer habits. For one his voice became heavier as he neared the end. ***** “Angel found the man he was looking for. It was love at first sight. When he saw her white lips and those bold white wings, he found the inspiration of his life. And Angel did not hesitate for a moment after he opened the door. They kissed and then fell in love. ...” ***** “What happened after that?” I remember asking him. But instead of giving me a straight answer right away, he asked me to do something for him. He gave me a key and told me that it was the key to his safety deposit box. Inside that box was his masterpiece and he meant to give it as a gift to me. I went to that box a day after his death and retrieved the contents. I was full of excitement at the prospect of receiving his masterpiece. The old man was a well renowned sculptor after all; but what I found inside was a little disappointing. It was a tiny porcelain figure of a beautiful Angel with wings. It was nowhere near the best of his works. Even though the face and the figure were well crafted, it was really nothing distinctive, except for a strange pattern of cracks upon her limbs and on her chest. The cracks seemed so real that I was at first under the impression that the figure would break any instant. It took me days to figure out that they were intricate patterns drawn through absence of matter; they were not mere accidents. Sometimes I look at that figure and it makes me shiver, because though I cannot quite place it… there is something very odd about it. And for some reason whenever I feel that way, I remember what the old man had said in his reply to my question that night, “Angel loved music and the man loved dirt, it was always a beautiful story without a happy ending. It ended one night when the man drove a hammer through her chest... And that image became my greatest work.” I remember that a strange giggle had followed his words. It is true that I never quite understood the ‘logic’ behind any of his strange stories let alone his last one, and that never really bothered me in the past. But ever since I got his gift, I keep on hearing things too. Often these whispers become melodies in my ear and I sit down by my piano to play. And every time I play the piano at night, the cracks on that tiny figure seem to glow redder than usual… Every time I play the piano at night, the angel seems to smile.
Posted on: Wed, 26 Nov 2014 21:22:46 +0000
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