Lost In Translation

I remember all those early mornings before a road trip, those few dawns that sleep couldn't seduce me back into bed for another round of snuggling under the blanket. A proposition I hardly say no to, but the dawn offered much more. There was a rhythm, a beat to it, making my stiff body dance to it. To travel is leaving yourself behind, all of you; the masks, the scars, the bruises and putting on a slick leather jacket and that all black wayfarer. There are no sad travelers, just seekers! Peace, solitude, yourself; one long list.

The golden rule of travel is travel early! Before the sun shines down or the bones go weak. Yet, there is no definite way as such because there is something new to be explored every single time despite seeing everything. And we tried to start early, before the first sun ray could tickle dew drops on our petrol tanks. A rub on the cold bike is the perfect appetizer, a foreplay that surely kicked off the act. There is some sort of strange affinity between the coldness of an early morning and a morning ride, they seek out each other every day taking over different lives to find what they lost and how they lost it. And in despair and grief that pursuit ends midway when warmth wears one out for the day. Its just the thought of it, and I can't make myself unthink about it.

I would sit behind the bike, embracing these thoughts the cold breeze pelt at me like my own, giving it space and shape to find its path to me and pondering if its mine to keep. And one day it hit me, how much more the breeze could talk to the rider than the pillion. The first hand touch of breeze caressing against the frame of the black wayfarer; stories of distant lands, ciphers to hidden treasures. There is so much lost in the process for a pillion that the rider will never know, for him its the same trip.

And soon I made the shift to the front, to be bestowed upon the fresh dew of early morning.

Under the shade of solo season of reckoning, many more flew by, some left unsaid and some with a promise to return. And I find myself here, a calm and cold winter with Christmas on the doorstep. Paint it any way, write it any how; Christmas will always be something to be heard of. Carols and recitals of angelic chorus is a thing always synonymous with it. I look forward to it every year, eagerly than any other season.

I attended one this year, so much different from I've seen before. And strangely enough it wasn't the choir or the songs that stuck on, it was one person in the audience. Even as the children sang the best version of the famous carol and the eager crowd basking in it, I looked at this lady standing a few rows to the center of the hall with her ears glued to the stage, and her hands moving like a perfect Beethoven symphony. What is "Christmas Carols" to a deaf bunch of kids, just the bright laugh and flowing hands of their beautiful teacher. In all these years of hearing to various rendition of the famous carol, I found this different. This can't be beautiful, because I've heard the original. Even the Rahman of Sign Language would be able to conjure up something to show justice to it. But I guess the teacher did a great job, for the eyes were all upon her as the kids waited upon the next move of her fingers. There is so much lost in the process for these kids that I'll will never know, for me its the same song.

Yes, the stars, the colorful lights on a Christmas tree and the beautiful manger could narrate the story well, but how well. Not enough! For there is so much lost in translation from waves to signs, the bargain is too much and it's a loss for all the parties.

I wonder why doesn't the universe conspire for these souls and many out there, maybe they don't want it as much as I want it for them. My bad!

There is so much lost out there in translation; literature, love, dreams and even as small as the joy of hearing a beautiful carol.

And all I could do was wish, that it would be as easy as shifting from pillion to rider.