The White Wall Chronicles

Posted: April 27, 2015 in Blog Posts
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Dear folks pull your thoughts up for a few minutes, keep your mind clear. Let me take you to your subconscious, let go off your conscious for a minute or so. Read this but don’t you just skim it. It’ll be fun, a joy ride of past replaying in present. Trust me; it’s just you & me, none other than us. Isolate yourself from the anxieties of present & flow in the gaiety of past, remember the bliss of solitude, of which William Wordsworth talks about in his poem, ‘Daffodils’. Let it dawn over your mind, feel boundless, close your eyes & suffer yourself beneath the gaze of the distant sky. If your mind is clear go further if not read it once again from where it begun.

Did you read the title? Certainly you have, no doubt. What passed your mind when you read the title? Thoughts as that of history asleep in past anything about Kings or Queens or even anything about their era? Alike thoughts huh?  Or something else, whatsoever it is try & relate it, with the walls, save chronicles. Come on at least try, is it that hectic? Let me make it easy, it’s something very remarkable; it starts from your very house & ends in the same…

Oh! I admire you if have caught the clue, if not I still admire you. It’s our childhood for sure- starts from your very house & ends there. At this moment three things shall be occupying your mind- chronicles, childhood & walls, most probably. If not reconsider, arrange your thoughts to the above stated decorum.

Now consider just the walls, school walls or your own house (I would like to mention my childhood was dealt with white walls & perhaps I guess, no other color might have gave me memories vivid as 1080 pixels), there is a mischief of your childhood, which would have involved the walls, for instance writing on them; scribbling your first learnt letter on them, your first figure that the art teacher taught you. Indeed! There are, for there is no childhood without this simplest mischief.

We are done with childhood & walls, what’s left? Aha! The Chronicles. Well what is it? I think you know it. Those childhood adventures, childhood mischief, did you think of the same? Then several mischief of your childhood certainly erupted in your mind, hovering from one nerve to other. Hmmm! I can see, I can see. I see those eyes, those of your childhood glistening in your minds, peeking out to the heart which is breathing softly than it ever did. Feel the aura which is surrounding you this moment. Yayyy! The sprinting child, which you were in your childhood, is alive, see he is laying by your side, gazing at you with those infant eyes, murmuring to you some childhood memories. He can see the new him in “you”, as he the one evolved. Nevertheless, empty your minds again, but save the feelings.

The revelations & elucidations done- of the title, now recollect the three things again- chronicles, wall & childhood. Connect them altogether; make a connection of what this editorial may be all about. A rough image likely of scribbling on walls, figures made on them, etc. is it that? Yes it is, everything related to your childhood in respect to the walls spoiled, those are the chronicles of our childhood, based on your walls & my white walls (they maybe colored in your case but it won’t make any difference). Evidently you must be thinking what’s yet veiled, is it? The efforts of thinking had to be applied exclusively to the title hereafter it’s a tale of my ‘childhood chronicles’. You played your part it’s about time I play mine.

‘The White Wall Chronicles’ certainly something you never heard of, ain’t it? But it’s the something of which you too form a part, as you too might have done similar notorious acts. The White Walls are the walls of my very own house; in it it’s my very own room, embellished by means of the art, the remarkable scriptures, and those immature drawings which look as if prehistoric, drawings as that of cave men & things likewise. These Chronicles which I & my sister shared made my room a masterpiece as that of Da Vinci’s, a panorama of our childhood, tracing our infant minds.  My room is a picaresque book, painted by two siblings, on the “White Walls” of a mediocre house. The walls are plastered, thus white, although we made them look colorlessly cool.

I remember when my sister joined kindergarten, a few days later, she came back told me how her teacher had taught her to draw a “duck”, & I was like, ‘a duck?’ Perhaps, she still was flustered, she kept drawing it all day anywhere she could put pen to paper but I was somewhat inquisitive about why the walls were spared. Next day when I came back from school & entered to change, there was a fleet of ducks heading towards me. She stepped back & immersed herself into the chair accompanied by the indignant air; she sat watching with an eye of an artist, the drawing she had just finished. I was terrified & those ‘ducks’ afflicted me with agony; I could vividly imagine each reaction of my mother on witnessing this catastrophe. My prodigal sister, with a merry look & a stupefying wink scuttled out of the room leaving me to deal with mother. Even though mother was aware of the ‘accused artist’, I was still advised not to let her do it again. Although I tried extremely hard to make her stay away but it was never over, she always rejoiced over the vexation which I portrayed.  I was so tired that I began throwing tantrums over her follies, as it was never her, who was shacked up in the room. A week later after she was gifted by poster colors, she had numerous plans & as we know the white wall was the first of its kind nemesis to her amusement, undoubtedly it would prove a great canvas for her, probably.

Succeeding day, after I reached home, those ‘ducks’ looked more naive & lively, I wondered why & it was not a minute after I realized what had passed. The fleet was colored! & the imprints of her small round white hands were clearly visible, on top of it multicolored. This time there roused no need to throw a shabby tantrum as the ‘accused artist’ had left her imprints. I felt as if ‘Sherlock Holmes’ & paved my way down as fast as possible & summoned mother into the room. At this moment my expressions were mingled & possibly they can’t have a formidable expression.  I was curiously absorbed in the whole scene when to conceal my horrors my mother encouraged my sister that the drawing was everything she ever dreamt of & said to her “you have freedom but spare the walls, dear! They might turn into a sordid mess”. She patted her & left…I have no need to express the stupidity which fused in me, I was rather flustered. Blank & expressionless, with my mouth wide open, I stood there & squinted at my sister who in turn did the same sarcastically.

Incidents like that erupted a great deal till she graduated to 1st grade. I always was glad whilst she sat contemplating towards the wall, a chalk at hand, I could see her childlike eyes gleaming, on the thought of drawing something. Somehow by some means she would be well aware of the watchfulness I attended to at moments like this & she in vain would drop the chalk, but it wasn’t she always who took the pleasure herself. I myself did it numerous times but in secrecy. I myself added a ‘duckling’ to the fleet of ducks & a pond a day after.  She & I nailed our names on multiple both inside & outside the room.

We have parted from the fact of being a child or an adult, we lie somewhere in between, & things like that don’t suit now, it’s what mother says but who cares, when the ‘child’ takes over.

Ubair Fayyaz Fazli for Beyond Sanity Publishing


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