1.
The Immortal Cheetah
A cheetah given into leaping by nature
Leapt across swamps of grief
Crossing miles in air
Feeling the rush of wind in his eyes
He was crying – tasting the salt of his tears in his eyes and on his tongue
The indigo stars illuminating the silence of the universe with a strange tinge of blue sighed: Oh god! The cheetah is crying!
The cheetah flies in the air almost daring to cross the planet with a half-leap
Falling all of a sudden through midair as if he had crashed into an invisible cliff trapped within a canopy of clouds
Falling inside a jungle: a boiling cauldron of darkness, incessant rain and violent vegetation
The celestial bodies in the sky prayed for the cheetah – with the finest bones and flesh ever to find their unified life – to make his final motions against the entrapments of this fateful jungle
Nobody knows what happened to this cheetah
Except that we make yarns about this cheetah, who leaps inside our souls forever
2.
Jump cut – in the past – 25 years – almost – approximately – a full-moon night – after midnight – on the terrace of a G+3 newly built apartment block – on the fringes of the city violently pushing against the margins of a crumbling suburban landscape – full of dreams – a series of conquests – a bright disc of silver hanging in the sky – an elderly friend of mine and I – a telescope in between us – a gazer of stars and galaxies – well, planning to show me what is a sky and infinite continents of space – a wise man – hating my absolute love for rock music – dismissing it as ‘boyish elitism’.
A night redefined!
We smoked hard. We smoked hard – only nicotine fellas! We discussed Dakghar. We recited Wasteland. Death was looming large on our sub-conscious.
Then he asked me to take a drooling walk to the phallic instrument chilling in the night – his love and work of love.
“Boy you could look at the moon both ends from! This end from it looks like a shining piece of nut. And this end from it blazes on you like a scorching sun … So you see; there is nothing right or wrong!”
I asked parched in smoke, “Is there no perfect way of life on earth? Ideals to follow? Creating and adding on to the civilization of men? No right and wrong! Live like dogs, do we?”
He whispered in my ears, “You hate dogs, don’t you? There are ways. There are no ways still. A creative man must learn to suffer multiple takes on life. A creative man must strive for his absolute solitude to unburden his load on us. He walks through the world but returns to his cave. Your cave is this universe of galaxies, constellations and pacing heavenly bodies. You are a banished soul attempting to be a part of this colossal space. Don’t you feel like that? How tiny you are, my boy!”
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