When the Grey Tit Cogitated at the Bank of Dal Lake
When the sun was on the horizon flaking its most recent crimson streaks, on a feeble appendage of a tree landed the Grey Tit. The fluffiness hardly disturbed the leaves. Such elegantly crafted bird drooped its neck as a mark of respect for the dusk was laying its table for the deprived ones. That tiny eye of the bird was no longer microcosmic in texture with a replica on cards, but the entire Dal Lake emerged as a mere drop of wax to encourage immeasurable vast of the minuscule eye that was on to record the proceedings .
The tulip tinted facade of the liquid heart of the city wrapped up in supercilious apparel was not up to snuff to lure the bird for reasons many. The hues and shades on the liquid canvas were displaying the glory of blend only to address the hollow of artists, but to Grey Tit the rainbow for the matter of the fact had long been sealed on its tail. Another reason why the stylish bird steers clear of to study the draft of the Dal was obvious.
The watermen had queued their multihued boats for the people to join the back channels, but the bird sensed the delay. The holdup may be an ugly excuse and a deceitful over smartness that man has turned out to be skilled at. The Grey Tit in protest wagged its colourful tail to let the man learn from the reality of colours. Ah! These colours grow fainter with the passage of time, but the man overlooks only to earn timely contentment, which regrettably turns into a charadic disposition of man’s hollowness. The one laughs at the end, laughs the best.
Zabarwan hills in the vicinity only came into view as a lifeless portrait fixed against the walnut column of a drawing room to attract the lensmen and self-styled click masters who heavily rely on software’s softness to erase the coarseness of their clicks. These soft technocrats can hardly handle the rough and raw of the situation.
They by all mean miss the perch of the Grey Tit for their soft fingers fail to capture the most sensitive shots. Their insensitivity is exposed when the Grey Tit challenges their skill by giving them a slip even before they aim at its tiny wings. Even the island guarded by Chinar trees hardly moved the bird for the reason that mundanity in the apparel of immorality best serves the impish spirits in enclose. People in their privacies prove themselves. Behind the veils , one knows how beautiful his ugliness is and in their public life how their ugliness is beautified by their lies.
The thrill of the on hold currents put into words nothing inspiring save a tyrant’s perverted tuft of nerves, chaotic threads that in the costume of creativity plainly violates the rule of the road and above all the lifeline that instead of trimming the unlawful projections, nurses the conflict to proclaim truthfulness. The dissension and chicanery by the crimson credence projects the beauty as a canard for nothing that could move up the bird were ever screened, rather malice and malignancy was veiled like the ugly dots that the tulip hides in its blood-red cup. People generally are touched by the vibrant frill of the cup that the tulip confirms, but the Grey Tit knows the guts where this fragile cup hides its ugliness. The core of the tulip is ugly for it like men in their jocundity hide their raw faces.
The Grey Tit on that feeble limb to the mundane eye no longer attracts the attention, but to the boatmen for its perching at the dusk seems holier than a sermon of a clergyman who in spite of knowing the truth hides it for his own means. The jaded factual contour of surrounding only stands before the bird as a gold boughten slave because the back water channels had deliberately been lodged to cheat the razor-sharp eye of a sensitive observer. The situation of this sort that now reigns and rules the rudimentary stock for unlike the Grey Tit they are not willing to surrender their comfort but carry on winding the threads of their fancies on cozy beds.
Men may kill or mock a bird, but the bird knows how to fly and perch to beat the glass hearted global giants who love to live in their coziest chambers when in power and in mansions during voting stirs. Maybe for time being in the backdrop of supremacy this development better fits as a tag ‘halcyon day’ to the Red-Billed Chough, but with the dipping sun in the weedy lap of Dal Lake, the factual and actuality of influence touches the horizon to be spotted by an amenable eye of Grey Tit watching the water currents like wails of mothers and sighs of sisters. How long shall the Grey Tit be a silent spectator, only time can tell? And how long shall a man and the oarsman stay at the bay to return to their houseboats?
