The charm, as charms go, was white. White represents goodness. Fairness. Purity. Life. Virtue. It was a good charm, it did good things.
It did not do a thing. As far as charms did things, it did not do a thing. But it was a wind chime and it made good music and was agreeable company.
Good company is rare. Even rarer is good company which does not say a word. One appreciates that kind of company, the kind which chimes when you wish its approval and chimes louder if you wish its disapproval.
No sane person wishes to talk to themselves. It’s the final nail in the coffin, an acknowledgment that all is lost, nothing’s for real. But man is a social animal, and even more, man is an animal. An animal needs to hear the pleasant tenors and rhythms of like company, or we Forget.
Forgetting is a habit everyone falls into. Time passes like the river, and everyone who tries to stand still is swept away. All we can do is fall back and flow with the time till it reaches its destination. The river erodes the rocks, splits them clean with experienced hands, and likewise, Time beats relentlessly upon our memories, and sweeps them away to its destination, and we Forget.
I was in danger of Forgetting, when I found the dainty white charm in the snow. I caressed its shining hue, relished the sparkle of the rainbow, its own personal rainbow. The charming delicate little jingle it made when the wind beat down, when the time passed slowly.
We lived together, me and the charm, and each night, we would curl in front of the fires and mines and fought that deep current of time. This river is deep and its flow hard. The wind is picking up dry white leaves, making them fly away in waves of dainty magnitudes, and then they all curl up and fall down, gravity neutralized with layers of snow.
There are voices in my head; they ask me to do things, to think things. I am tired of doing things, then getting up and doing them again. I want to fly, fly from white snows to snowier whites. The wind is picking me up. I see myself rising, I slump and foam at the mouth. I sit down. I stand up. I spread-eagle myself in preparation. I see a rope, golden rope, juxtaposed with endless white. I reach an arm out, coil it firmly within dead fingers. He pulls me.
The river is hard and strong and it does not want me to go. I hear Him singing, deep melodies of creation and destruction, coaxing the river to let go. And as I thus levitate, the charm falls from my hand.
I grope for it, reach down as low as possible for that one companion; tears of joy mingle with tears of longing. My one companion is uncompanioned.
Then I look down, many acres of land and water, and one man, spread-eagled, melting charm in his hand.
‘Mr Vaidyanathan, are you quite alright?’
‘Christ, he’s dead.’