by Prashant Dhanke
Before she died, she had one last look at the sky. She has been sleeping since then, only to keep waking in another dream.
Now she found herself on an island with no trees and three crystals. The crystals were the shiniest she had ever seen.
“Do you like them?” said a voice which came from nowhere.
The sparkles told her that she wasn’t in a dream. Nothing so pure can be untrue.
“They were sons of the same mother.” the voice continued.
“Sorry??” she mumbled, uncertainly.
“I’ll explain. What was Newton’s greatest accomplishment?”
“Calculus? Laws of motion?”
The voice smirked.
“No, child. Newton became ‘The Theory of Relativity’.”
“So, the dead turn into theories or crystals?”
“Yes, they do, into ideas, into events, into all things that are beyond the realms of meek, the living beings. Mona Lisa, the Ninth Symphony, Zero; each one of them came into existence after centuries of suffering of the dead. ”
“What about the beginning, when there was no one to die?”
“No creation is free of the guilt of destruction.”
“Then who died for Big Bang? Was it God?”
“A force more potent.”
“What was it?”
Even the waves paused for a moment.
“Nothing else explodes with such magnificence.”
And then the voice disappeared. And the crystals melted into tears and were stolen by the momentary breeze before the sand could swallow them, leaving her alone on the island of melancholy, till the day she turns herself into lyrics, yet unsung.