The Forgotten Glory

I stare at the blank page of my diary as I stare at the huge tree in front of me. And the people near by, I can actually feel them staring at me instead. I can also sense that they are trying not to. It makes me wanting to laugh and I try to conceal it as well, concentrating on the tree and the page instead. As I wondered about the story of the tree, I can feel people wondering about me. They must have thought that I have gone mad, dividing my stares between the blank page and the old tree. May be I have been gripped by the madness. Or may be everyone of us is affected by insanity.

I have no idea of what I’m feeling right now. What am I supposed to feel anyway? Do I feel honored to be here or am I saddened by what I see? Do I feel perplexed just by the shadow of what it was or am I agonized because of what it has become now? Probably, I don’t feel anything at all. Or on the other hand, may be I am feeling everything.Right now, I think I am confused. Yes, that’s what I am – Confused. I guess, this can be taken as the moment when all of the emotion ever known to the human kind come to you almost at the same time, leaving you breathless, speechless and motionless. Yup, I have been taken by the numbness.

As I take a look of here and there, I try to picturize the history of this place. I imagine the greatest names in the literature of my country sharing their thoughts and ideas here. They are either working on their new project or imagining the plot. They might be debating and discussing about the current scenario of the country. I can see not only them but all the intellectuals of those times, talking about democracy, freedom and development of their motherland. I can see the flame of the passion burning in their eyes while they rest on the foot of this giant old tree.

And suddenly, I am brought back to the reality. There are books and magazines scattered here and there, kept to be sold.The place is dirty, and although there are mini temples, they do not help. The place is surrounded by railing cover with these books and international magazines, making it impossible for you to peek inside. Well, people do not bother to look at the place. I don’t think they even bother to remember it at all.

If ghost would have existed, then I’m sure that the ghosts of those people who grew and developed in the Chahari of the tree would have haunted this place. I could visualize the glorious past and see the shameful present. So you can call me a lunatic if you want, but I’ll keep staring at the blank page of my diary and at the tree, trying to figure out the unknown and the invisible..

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