The Dream and the Dice

The dice tumbles, perplexed, ignorant of the fate that awaits him. Bearing on his ivory shoulders the destiny of mortals he rolls, attempts in vain to make up his mind and rolls again. A gasp, a dull lub and a dub strikingly similar to the rumbling of a far-away train echo in his brain. The distant thudding becomes loud, defeaning and he realizes it is the moment of reckoning. He had experienced this ever since his glossy atire had been removed, faces marred with chagrin, faces jubilant with joy, the thunder of victory and the silence of defeat- the emotions were constant ,the audience variable. He was a good dice, a noble one, and it pained him to be the cause of a mortal's anguish. And then the audience would disperse, darkness would overthrow light but he would lay awake and think of the faces, the disappointed ones, the happy ones eluded his thoughts.He hated his job.

Board games amuse me, they are life wrapped in a colourful box with funskool branded on them,stretch the four corners of the board to infinity and you have the most intricate game,the one wrapped in the colourful box. There are two categories of nightmares, one, in which you wake up screaming ,drenched in sweat,and the other in which the hollowness of the dream still clutches you days later.Now you must be wondering how are board games and nightmares related.Let me relate a story to you, a dream infact.

We rewind a thousand years, a dimly lit room cluttered with wooden animals,humans,landscapes, a sombre-looking man delicately carving a bird out of wood and a young boy seated on his lap. The old man says, “Why don’t you go out and play with the other kids? ”
“ They don’t allow me to touch their expensive toys.”
“ Hmm..Is that so, come back here tomorrow.”
The boy left, the old man pondered, he wanted to craft a special gift for the boy. He sat on the rooftop and observed his creations….animals,humans,nature. Shadows stretched, shrunk and stretched again, and all he had were the images of the bustling market, humans attending to their daily chores; people hungry, lonely, desolate, hopeless. He became sad, heart-broken after seeing his youngest son squander away his life, indulge in callous acts, killing his brothers. He was confused, he had used the most beautiful piece of wood to create the masterpiece. The night was aging, he was running out of time. He resigned to his desk with a piece of the golden wood, he had saved this one as a memento, and concentrated. He recollected the hazy memories of his life, events blurred by the creative artistery of time.The day his son marked lines over his property and created walls; he divided the wooden piece into a number of equal squares. The day his son manipulated his brothers and used them for his interests;he carved ladders on the wooden piece. The day his son killed his brothers, the ones who had carried him on their shoulders when he was young, because they demanded what was rightfully theirs, he carved the snakes on the wooden piece.His son bore a family, he had grandsons,granddaughters and then they had grandsons and granddaughters, he created the pawns; the cousins, the white pawns; the uncles, the knights,the bishops,the rooks; the aunts, the queens; the old man worked feverishly, his shaking hands bringing to life the inanimate objects. When dawn broke, he was contended but overcome with melancholy, a stinging pain, a sense of loss. He still loved his son and could not fathom what had gone wrong, yet he could no longer be a witness to this chaos and disorder. He had made up his mind,it was time to let go; still he yearned for a way to make things right, tears rolled down and wet his wrinkled cheeks.He sat on his armchair and waited for the young boy to arrive, tired.

When the young boy arrived there was no trace of the old man, all he could find were his new toys; two boards,one with black and white squares and the other having snakes and ladders. A white square with numbers written on it was kept on the board.

The dice smiles, thinks about the times when he lived in a dimly lit house amidst wooden animals,humans,landscapes. He sighs, realizes times have changed but the people around him remind him of his youngest son, the same selfishness, the same hatred, the same greed.

Call Of The Wild

It was a beautiful spring morning, the coquettish winds scurrying through the whispering leaves, the sky spreading its blue arms, pressing to her bosom restless clouds and a silence encompassing them occassionally broken by the cooing of the birds. The nature was peaceful and so was my heart.I imagined if Chris would have been here he would have said, "Didn't I tell you.....now you can see what I see".
The book 'Into the Wild' by Jon Krakauer and a movie by the same name paint the portrait of a young man named Chris Mccandless, a complex individual whose story compels one to dwell on few negelcted aspects of existence.Chris dreamt of a life far from civilisation, a life not crippled by irksome desires, a life nursed by nature. His contempt of materialistic possessions and human bondings is uncharacteristic of a person his age. So when he finally walked into the wilderness of Alaska with a bag of rice, a rifle and a few other possessions I was puzzled. Though I admired his courage and the rules he had carved out for himself I searched for reason in his actions. He looked up from his book, removed his spectacles,smiled and said, "If we admit that human life can be ruled by reason, then all possibility of life is destroyed". I think I am satisfied by his argument.
Chris has been labeled a hero, a fool, a warm friend, an indifferent selfish son, a courageous man who had the courage to follow his dream and an impractical man who lived in a dream world devoid of reason.These perceptions of him are of no consequence and infact immaterial. He would be still be a dreamer who had the guts to step out of the line and tread a path which he thought was ideal for him, a common man like you and me who had this uncommon urge to cuddle in the arms of nature, a human being who made mistakes and paid for them. I guess one should concentrate more on the way he lived and the ideologies he professed rather than mull over his mistakes.
The movie is coming to an end.....Chris lies in the "magic" bus, inside his sleeping bag, his eyes placid, his heart effusing a sea-like calmness,violent on the periphery but contended deep within, the smile of a cherubic four year old kid. And as he breaths his last the only feeling that arises from the pit of my stomach is of a deep melancholy, a feeling so intense that it surpasses all emotions scripted in the most tragic stories. Chris Mccandless may have died but his presence lingers and can be felt maybe when you kayak down a swirling river, walk miles and miles till your calves burn or share a meagre meal. I can surely see now what he saw then.