When I was confident not to mix the colours of the mountains and the sea in my drawing test in class II, little did I foresee the hard time I would encounter adjusting the outlines of diagrams in Physics and Biology straight and sharp ten years after.
Colours that once ruled in perfecting the landscape portrait for a toddler, stood dethroned in the human intestine sketch in XII. Did I get the number of coils right would be my only worry. Colours were less than secondary.
I still don’t know how the sun would almost, always, rise from the strategic gap between the two slopes of the either-side stationed towering mountains. How could the river ever gush out from exactly the centre of the hills without its waves splashing into the little huts and cottages sitting petite on either side of the tide? How beautiful my ‘scenery’ looked, more with an A+ stamped on it in bright red. I never had to label the mountain- ‘mountain’ like I was compelled to later, in indicating the ‘RETINA’ (in a human eye drawing) with an arrow (mercilessly cutting through the eyeball). And dare you missed to accommodate the iris and cortex just below with similar piercing arrows!
I first learnt cursive writing with an HB Black pencil equipped with a pointed lead of smooth finish. How gorgeously my letters danced on the ruled lines of the copy like notes in a musician’s guide. But soon my hands were made to hold a syringe-like weapon that miraculously leaked blue/black blood on paper. The cemented and measured lanes were kidnapped and I was left to balance my letters on a vast expanse of unploughed land. Nowhere close to the melodious musical strings; words became lost travellers, wobbling out of tune, stranded in a desert.
When I was about to assemble my letters in an abrupt recovery, a techno-storm blew away from me my paper, pencil/pen and ink. Now, a blank screen in disguise of an old friend commands me to crawl my fingers on a machine that’s ugly, serious and grumpy.
The letters no more sway like the wind or sing like the chirping birds. Alive they are, but I still mourn their thousand deaths.
Letters are lost,
my trembling fingers ‘type’ and say: