Old man and the lamppost
Every morning he bypasses that old man squatting just below that lamppost, stretching hand for some pennies for day’s solution. Some sympathize by tossing some coins in his cup-shaped hand, which sometimes misses and reaches the ground, but most ignores his plight and takes their own way. It was his art class that gave him a chance to meet this old-man, who always gives him a chance to feel his own unseen grandpa. His grandpa left this earth before he was on this earth and he hardly could satisfy himself with his grandma’s description about him who too left this earth a few years back after long widow’s experience. Every time as he bypasses this old friend of his his age old body gives him a blurred image of his own grandpa. He is jobless and sometimes not even with a penny in his purse, but he always collect some with his technical mind to relief his addiction of cigarette. Cigarette has been his good friend most of the time whenever he is without any congenial environment but congenial environment too won’t be an exception. Every morning as he bypasses this old face something forces him to dig his almost empty purse for which he had to exclude a cigarette of his day. He then would place that coin on his cup shaped palms.
Old man is almost every morning there except for some days, but he doesn’t know where he goes during those absent days. Every time he stretches his hand makes him feel he is appealing for help not for money, which has been a misunderstanding between the giver and the old man. Sometimes as he put some coins on his palm a question pops out in his mind, how he came to be this? For which he never had any solid answer because he never had communicated him and he never will too because he too have his own ordeal for which no one is sympathizer. He murmurs –“Every life has their own experiences and this experience gives meaning to every life.”
Old man’s disheveled hair dirty outfit with numerous patches, sad eyes almost dead, decrepit in a word well describes his situation, for which he don’t need to use his tongue. He is no mumbo jumbo in expression. His fingers and arms are gnarled branches, skin waves of drying sea, and body shape shapeless… World’s worst has played with him. He is cursed, he is isolate, he is desolate, he is oblivion, he is forlorn, he is lonely, and whatever anybody call it. What is his scourge or bane for all these traumas of his life? His origin? He doesn’t know. His destination? He doesn’t know. Maybe he doesn’t have any destination to except to wait in vain for his own death. How could he in such an ordeal? If he even had any then maybe he already had forsaken it. His family? He doesn’t know. Maybe he is zero about him and why so close again with him. Is it human kindness? Is it because of his artistic sense? Or is there some kind of unknown relation between them? Futile questions then why is it to this proximity, intimacy again?
More then mere an old man he has been now a good friend of his and an inspiration. Never did his appearance dismay him because of his strength to live in this tumultuous word with hunger, pain, maybe he is one-man gang for him, fighting all alone in this traumatic world. Every morning as he bypasses his old friend and the lamppost gives him a consolation, if he can live in such an ordeal why can’t he live in this chaos. He always gave him a sense of living and to do something that can give some meaning in his life. Beside their silence communication and play of friendliness Saturday has been always a boring day for him but maybe not for his old friend because he doesn’t know what he feels about him. Saturday is his off day for which he doesn’t attend his art class and meanwhile he too misses his old friend. Though he is not maestro but some day the old man beneath the lamppost in dawn’s light expressing whole of these words and sentences in a single art would be his masterpiece and he will name it “Old man and the lamppost”.
Milan Gurung (Freeman)
Old man is almost every morning there except for some days, but he doesn’t know where he goes during those absent days. Every time he stretches his hand makes him feel he is appealing for help not for money, which has been a misunderstanding between the giver and the old man. Sometimes as he put some coins on his palm a question pops out in his mind, how he came to be this? For which he never had any solid answer because he never had communicated him and he never will too because he too have his own ordeal for which no one is sympathizer. He murmurs –“Every life has their own experiences and this experience gives meaning to every life.”
Old man’s disheveled hair dirty outfit with numerous patches, sad eyes almost dead, decrepit in a word well describes his situation, for which he don’t need to use his tongue. He is no mumbo jumbo in expression. His fingers and arms are gnarled branches, skin waves of drying sea, and body shape shapeless… World’s worst has played with him. He is cursed, he is isolate, he is desolate, he is oblivion, he is forlorn, he is lonely, and whatever anybody call it. What is his scourge or bane for all these traumas of his life? His origin? He doesn’t know. His destination? He doesn’t know. Maybe he doesn’t have any destination to except to wait in vain for his own death. How could he in such an ordeal? If he even had any then maybe he already had forsaken it. His family? He doesn’t know. Maybe he is zero about him and why so close again with him. Is it human kindness? Is it because of his artistic sense? Or is there some kind of unknown relation between them? Futile questions then why is it to this proximity, intimacy again?
More then mere an old man he has been now a good friend of his and an inspiration. Never did his appearance dismay him because of his strength to live in this tumultuous word with hunger, pain, maybe he is one-man gang for him, fighting all alone in this traumatic world. Every morning as he bypasses his old friend and the lamppost gives him a consolation, if he can live in such an ordeal why can’t he live in this chaos. He always gave him a sense of living and to do something that can give some meaning in his life. Beside their silence communication and play of friendliness Saturday has been always a boring day for him but maybe not for his old friend because he doesn’t know what he feels about him. Saturday is his off day for which he doesn’t attend his art class and meanwhile he too misses his old friend. Though he is not maestro but some day the old man beneath the lamppost in dawn’s light expressing whole of these words and sentences in a single art would be his masterpiece and he will name it “Old man and the lamppost”.
Milan Gurung (Freeman)
