Wall in Love

No. It’s not a typo. I am a wall. And I am in love.

I am a wall in love.

I may be all stone and cement and bricks… and because I am a wall on the road, God knows what else. But I have feelings.

Yes, you, Mr. Tobacco Chewer! It deeply ‘hurts’ me when you paint me red and not in a good way.  Those yucky stains you leave on me that not only stink but make me wonder what the original colour of me was… But at least, with you I have the consolation that you are treating me better than you are treating your own mouth.

The real insensitive being is … yes, I am talking about you… you shameless urinator! It may come as a surprise to you that I hate it when someone relieves themselves on me the same way you feel when someone relieves themselves on you! Are you even listening to me? Stop it. Stop the flow. Go away… Shoo! Gosh! It’s like talking to a wall!

Ugh…. I am so angry and frustrated! See! I have feelings… though these are not the best ones. No. The best one is love. And I am in love.

It all started when I was just minding my own business and being a snack table to two birds. It was one of those moments that I loved being a wall. It brought me so close to… life. To the heart beat of a being. I’ve always wanted to know how ‘life’ felt like.

How does it feel when blood runs through every vein of your body? How does crying feel? What does it feel not to be stationary? (I fail to understand how people get stuck to TVs, computers and gadgets when they have the gift to MOVE!)

I would do anything to speak, contort my face into expressions, sing (even without the talent), read (not just the pamphlets stuck on me) and most importantly FEEL.

Life amazes me. That’s probably why I don’t mind the bird droppings. And that’s why I want the cat on the wall to be indecisive forever. Just so that I can feel its paws on me. I’d love me some human touch too (instead of being the ‘human refuse station’) but apparently, I am not that kind of a wall where children just climb upon and dangle their feet or lovers just lean against or murals are painted. 

To be fair, I get painted. But mostly they are political advertisements. And they use stencils! And there are no flowers or colours… just bland words. And by the look of the readers, not very pleasant words either. I see them frown, I see them laugh derisively, I see them ignore… not once have I seen them feel inspired. Is it me or the politics, I wonder!

I get postered too! Film posters, huge, colourful. I’d have liked them. But they cover me up completely and I doubt many look at me only because of them. I feel dwarfed and dominated. They make me feel like I don’t exist. I heard films do that to theatre, classical arts and literature too. I must speak with them sometime and compare notes.

But, where do I have the time? I have found this new love and my days and nights are spent in adoring her. The birds flew off that day leaving their crumbs behind, as usual.

I just remember drenching thoroughly in the rain (I love rain too, one more things that feels like ‘life’). It washed away my stench and stains. It crinkled the posters and they just fell limp! (Ha!)Some rogue had wanted to spray paint on me some unmentionable words. The rain deterred him too. But most of all, it gave me my love.

It wasn’t till rain faded away and several days passed till I discovered it. But when I did, I was overwhelmed.

Now, I am an old wall. So I have my share of wrinkles. Hey, I am proud of them and would never resort to the wall equivalents of Botox. Wrinkles feel like lines of life… that the Sun shone on you, that my dear rain soaked it. That the life threw so many surprises that the eye brows went high in exclamation and left those horizontal lines… see… those are the real exclamation marks! That there were so many moments of laughter that the mouth has its own parentheses! That its time for you to start thinking of saying good bye! Ah, death! That which is the ironic proof that there was a life! What wouldn't I give to die! Oh, I love me my wrinkles. And now, I love them even more.

Because in one of them, thanks to my birdie friends and the rain, a ‘life’ has started breathing.

I noticed its tender leaves only this morning. And for the first time in my lifeless life, I fell in love.

What do you call a new born leaf? What kind of plant was it? 

Vocabulary said “shut up and just keep admiring”. Botany agreed.

Only one leaf was whole in shape, though yet small in size. But there were a couple more like princes-in waiting.

You have to see those leaves and you will agree that green is the colour of love. Not any green. Just this delicate, moist, dewy, fresh and innocent green.

Hope was written all over the faces of those leaves. Somehow they invited better looks off passers-by than anything else on me.

Then the air came to meet them. It too felt fresh around them, I could see. It played with them and playfully pushed them towards me. And then I felt that brush of life against me. The leaves knew me. 

They knew they are growing inside me.

And then they looked at me. They seemed to ask if they are welcome here, if I would let them grow.

Why wouldn’t I? I will be their wall of support. I am their mother! This is their womb!

And when they grow up, they will attract more life! Think of all the cows and goats that come to feast when it is big enough to give! 

I know it will do me proud! It will give. Like, I gave.

But what is this I hear? What are they talking about my lovely green off springs? That they will go stronger by the day? That they will spread rapidly all over me covering me in green? That their roots will run all through me like arteries and veins? And then one day, they will outgrow me and I will collapse and die?

Is this true? 

If it is, then, thank you children!