An Empty Bottle

The brain of a child grows at a rapid pace to process myriad information- keeping in mind the newer explorations encountered in day-to-day life. The pursuant nature of a child tries best to decode plethora of first -time knowledge, save the data and retrieve it later as an information. While all these management procedures keep churning tons of data, a silent mind is engaged so as to act such that appreciation follows from the near and dear ones- and this involves adventures of selfless values- for a little smile on the face of the parents, for a heartfelt hug from a brother, for a pound of love from a sister. These feelings cannot be harbored superficially- they have their origin in the tranquil unadulterated corners of the auspicious brain- called the heart. I don't see them as two entities- rather it's their jamming effort that leads to the event called thinking.

It was one such event that led triggered this story to see the light of the day. While four of us 'friends' were happily ambling over the road for an evening snacks, we discovered a girl- little enough not to carry heavy weight- carrying discarded items (or may throw-away items); a comb with protruding teeth like that of an old man, a slice of a mirror with sharp protruding edges like that of life- a little misjudgment and a deep cut worth lifetime of memory, some torn books like dreams of a poor- with pages but unordered and disconnected, a pen without a cap but with little fountain of ink left- enough to propel the dreams for a constructive travel ahead, a few caps of soft drinks bottles- like the courage to prevent the aerated soda to flip, a glass with meandering edges like the mountains and volleys- none can keep you at the bottom for a lifetime.

With much effort she was trying her best to keep the paraphernalia from falling from her gracious clutch. She may be around 4-5 years old, wearing a purplish frock that seemed to have outlived its expiry, multicolored sandals belonging to two different sets adorned her motherly little feet, a pair of eyes like that of an archaeologist set to unearth some heritage monument, ruffled hairs from where the setting sun was bidding a charismatic good-bye.

She was just unaware of anybody's presence around her and was walking with the slowest of strides lest her findings may once again have to be arranged and that might break this composure and the rhythm of this pleasant walk down the road. She was some hundred feet away from us when all of a sudden- she put down her valuables by the side of the road and picked up an empty bottle- looked  very closely from all sides and somehow her face gestured that it brought more of an accomplishment than the rest of her findings.

In the meantime we were about to pass by her and I could not resist myself from asking her, "What would you do with this?". And I just could hold back my tears to what she replied. "This is what my baba (father) drinks daily.". It was a empty bottle of rum.

A child who has hardly seen anything beyond her village and nearby was so satisfied on discovering an empty bottle that her father brings daily. It was a feeling that never knew how to distinct- a shudhha (pure) and satwik (virtuous) ātmā's (soul's) outbursts- this feeling moves and surges ahead with the fuel called care and love.

Written on 23rd May 2011.