Special || Molten Symphony (Jagannath Chakravarti)
What was the symphony of the sun, have you wondered, when she came out of her assigned womb to burn and burn, and burn with such ferocity that she exhausts herself and burns still; in a way we cannot imagine nor conceive, perhaps even in the formlessness of a black hole. The hurt would nigh go unnoticed, no. The ardent desire to express, to communicate, to send an SOS is so someone can come and save her soul from the agony of a lonely death. The process crushes her from the inside as she sends out waves of gravity across the sable sea.
You could ask: why all this effort? Why not revert into the nothing that she was before? A mere dot before the bang! Weightless, sans mass, a nonexistence, peace. Zero. To her, the answer was simple. Lonely she was sure she was not. She could feel him everywhere. Someone. Someone who wasn’t I. Has not the cosmic search for the other led her till here in the first place?
She had no opportunity to plan her progress, she could feel nothing but the fire. She could think of nothing but to let some part of her escape the agony, feel the receding warmth and the soothing cold. She would immerse herself into the burning music, attaining ecstasy she would give birth, become a mother yet only to push her children away, away from the engulfing flames but with enough love to keep them in orbits around her. She would give her children the gift of time, which would seem to stretch her assigned 19 minutes into eternity.
In return, she would ask her children, beg of them to find the ‘other’. Gravity was survival personified, but rather illegible a tongue to communicate in; she needed more than a mere sense; she needed voices to invade the eerie silence of space. Voices necessitated life.. and thus it went!
The fire of her children satiated with ice, they proceeded to experiment with their selves. The third child cracked the code to consciousness as she covered herself up in a transparent yolk of life, a layer of gases, like a coat of instant make up that would transform her skin.
Earth, she had named her, would be blessed by all the stars in the system, she knew. She also knew the pitfalls of both fire and ice, and how it would cause the most fertile the most pain. She was blessed, cursed. Earth would break into a trillion selves and cry.. so many voices! Should the sun lament or rejoice?
As the bug of individualism seeped into the nine unruly births, Earth suffered on her own. In search of her elusive ‘other’, her pregnant melancholy birthed the moon. Her molten core claimed it as her own, holding on to the dead child with all her might, placated by the kind Sun’s illusory nights. A renewed hope.
Undaunted by the demise of the first born, she continued her creations. Their cacophony not reaching beyond the realm of the cloak, the Sun pushed, made Earth follow the north so life could see the light anew. They spent far too long traversing downwards, tearing each other’s head off, procreating like rabbits. The Jurassic experiment a fail, she made her take up Plan B. Onwards to Polaris.
Mankind, oh, mankind! A trillion splits and ‘she’ turned her back to let the base, primitive ‘he’ in the driver’s seat. How could the Sun object; she was losing her farthest rocks while others no longer had masses to uphold the maya. Earth was her only hope, and she would probably take a long time. Earth was engulfed in sadness.
Melancholy breeds art, Earth bred life to aid her identify the symphony.
Despite her sad eyes, she led them by the fingertips and introduced them to Music in a raining tropical glade. Dance was in the flight of a beautiful deer and the naked, dancing flames that scorched dead forests at a time. Art was in every moment’s sky amidst earthly scenes of breathless beauty. The love that Art forged tore away the fear, shooed off the hesitation of human veins as they set out to discover and conquer fire. Food became tastier.
The happy children made the Earth happy, the inexplicably sad children made her melancholic still. Her core heated up in agony for all the bloodshed in the hearts of the wayward. But they progressed. Mankind did. They ripped open the heart of their mother to bring out the minerals that would sustain the extension of their existence. They experimented with success. The mother did not mind the years wasted, the life spent, so the children can grow up. And thus began their collective march towards modernity!
Imagination led them on. So did common sense; apes progressed so far as to build worlds and multiverses of their own to get lost in, yet their overworked imagination kept the lamp aflame.
It wasn’t too difficult for mother Earth to spot the ones who were lost and those that were closed. The peace of oblivion can seldom be matched in money, and thus they chose to remain stuck in a lifeless, burn-proof limbo. She pitied them, did her best to lead them back to point north. She could be more caring, yes. She was plentiful, but never could be a perfect mother. But she misses the one to care for her too, do you not see?
Her alive exterior was being covered up square inches at a time. She could feel her children send out toys, burning garbage, piercing the cloak of life that shielded those foolish creatures from the Sun’s pain. Their imagination had gone askew, breaking radars, cracking window-panes during a zero gravity flight. Their imagination was eerily repeating the last few words like a broken record.
Those that still burned camphor wept on as plastic armies laid siege over the Capital. Misplaced reasons fought for the soil, the silenced souls went underground. They moved deep beneath the soil, sailing to hell with a purpose: to ignite the core of genesis anew.
The conspiracy created chaos. The symphony of perfectly timed chaos filled the heart and the mind of the living as Art poured into the open. Art poured into the sun; filled the solar system, galaxy, the universe itself. Their cry would pierce the vacuum, recording in vinyl or ones and twos, to brave even the steepest climbs of space. They were as great as they were selfish, assigning worthlessness to that which did not manage to traverse the realms of the outer galaxy.
Mankind had but a few points to fall back over: dreams would be at their sweetest when they would end at the verge of an attainment, and that is where life would be at its most real. That was the best way to confirm the veracity of life, they had found; it was as satisfying as drinking from Earth’s finest vineyard.
Thus we began to create this molten symphony, day in and day out, igniting sparks that would otherwise not be, birthing waves of vision and sound that would otherwise remain undiscovered. We call, knock, push, shove, twist, kiss, breathe to create chaos, a conspiracy of the extra-conscious that devices ways to speak to their other half. Deprived of love, care; we kick, ensnare the senses of those we think we can devour, as if a monster; necessitating the coming of a burning angel of love and lightning to balance the scales.
Fire to purify all, fire to burn her on the stake! Joining forces, forging will like the tempering of steel from molten ore, we progressed beyond our imagination to settle on a bended knee, awestruck at mere particles, the yin and the yang, that combine over eternity to gift us consciousness. Mankind’s sad, and greatest gift remains the capacity of being awed, both by this magnanimous creation and the elusive creator/process that began it all. 
First Published in Issue #5 of CultureCult Magazine (Summer 2016)