the wall painting

Enveloped by an invigorating breeze and a frigid silence, he stood on the roof top for reprieve which surprisingly seemed to evade him. Harder he tried not to think anything, harder he got collided by random thoughts. Harder he tried to inhale and wear the calm, harder the strain squeezed him."Excuse me! Dwayne is attempting to reach you on your phone" His new caller tone played. "Excuse me! Dwayne is…TAP! He rejected the call and switched off the cell slipping it carelessly in the pocket. Not getting what he came for, he decided to abandon the breeze.

Even the splendid decor of his room failed to compensate for the breeze; he still rummaged for inner peace. "You turn 30 tomorrow" someone whispered. Discarding any such possibility he focused on his favourite wall painting. Moving his eye balls from the chamfered ends of the wooden frame to the canvass showcasing the gallop of a horse, he paused. The smile which would instantly come in appreciation of the painter and the dignity of the horse didn’t come. He didn't know how many seconds or minutes his stare swallowed except that his innate affairs were every bit the same at the end of that period. "Half of your life is history now. You do not have much time left", came the whisper again and strong enough to make him leave the chair he was sitting on. His heart skipped a beat and forehead caught sweat. The struggle between his heart and mind could not be veiled, it was more than evident. "Yes I'll be 30. So what? Everyone gets old and dies. That’s how it goes" he jabbered to himself needing to get rid of the anxiety which was multiplying. For an instant he thought of lying on the bed but a brief look at the mattress perhaps communicated that even it cannot offer him that moment of calm he was looking for. With eyes closed and cerebrospinal fluid rushing at its peak, his resigned heart begged for respite. As he turned, the wall painting captured him again but this time overwhelmingly.

His vision had discovered what he never noticed before; a wasteland hedged by trees. On that ground was the horse, running towards an unknown and unapproachable destination. The trees seemed to be getting blurred but the horse didn't seem to reach anywhere, his gallop never finding rest. Realization struck!

The wall painting was his life in a miniature. He was the horse who had been galloping for the past 30 years leaving incalculable things behind him but still nowhere close to his destination, his aim of life. He hadn't done anything for humanity or for his small community. He had been overlooking the injunctions of his religion and commandments of God in pursuit of a journey which had imparted him after 30 valuable years that it has no end and no reward for that matter. He didn't even know how much more time he had and the inevitable accountability of his deeds and his purpose of life had come to jolt him. The idea of exhausting, falling and dying for nothing in a wasteland after running so hard was the reason of his inner discord. A drop of tear rolled down his cheek followed by the normalcy of his heart beat and the long awaited and enlightening moment of serenity. Ding….Ding….Ding….called the wall clock. He was 30.