THE QUIET VOICE OF RESILIENCE

I just settled on a long patch of stones under the shadow thrown by an old tree. I lay open the camera gear and rearranged the settings, compatible with the ambient light and the tone of the pale bluish skies above. Then, all of a sudden, a gentle sound fell near my ears, and slowly, I put down the camera body, raised my head, and looked at the giant tree below which I went about my unpacking job. At that moment, what tipped me was an unusual frame filled with freakish, disfigured dry branches, the bulky roots flowing out on the surface something like a python and hugging the rocks in a choking embrace. I sensed something odd in that lonely ruined ramparts, and the loud silence made the place more suspicious.

“Hello, seeing you after a long time; come sit down. I’m starved of visitors after the Corona pandemic; welcome to my crumbling home,” a voice called. I searched around, looking from where the invitation came out. I discovered it’s from the deep dark cracks amidst the broken stones – a mass of the forgotten relics of historical ruins.

As I was arranging my gaze to adjust the focus of my lens, the cheery voice spoke again as if calling for my attention, and it said, “Don’t see the horrors of carelessness and don’t see the despair in the fallen leaves, crumbling walls. I have been preserving these sorrows and scars for hundreds of years, and they are more appealing aesthetics you can appreciate that reveal my honour and serenity. You see how resilient I’m. And how I have survived and become a favourite as a romantic castle for many lovelorn souls and a visual habitat for nature lovers.”

For over three decades, I was a frequent visitor to this place, famously known among the local folks as the Kondapalli Fort. Nothing has changed much since then, but I see trace appreciable evidence that has made me glad that they have prevented no more damage to the existing aesthetics of these historical archives.

I went around collecting the perfect delights of beauty among the archaeological ruins and a few even among broken rocks. My lens always enjoyed those hidden patterns against the backdrop of the skies.

After completing my day’s assignment and packing my kit, the plaintive voice hung about behind me and continued to appeal in a warm and clear chime as if a girlfriend were asking her companion when he would see her again.

“Though my wounds are a stark reality of years of unforgivable negligence by humans, I protected the green flowing grasses, the stands of shoots running down the weathered blackish slabs, and everything lordly overlooked by benevolent blue skies. So have a good time and carry home my nostalgic images.”