I have no recollection of my age or where or when this was, but this one seemingly trivial childhood memory stays cocooned in a ray of soft, warm miasma. In that timeless frame, there’s no one else, nor anything else, just the both of us, in a sunlit open space of the Bangkok of yore. Darjee is holding my small hand, and in my other, I’m tightly clutching the string of the precious, pink balloon. It wasn’t often one came by the balloon vendor walking the streets, so my father, as always, sensed my apprehension. He took my right hand and gently tied the string to my kara, the iron bangle we Sikhs wear.
I think it wasn’t as much the fear of losing the balloon, as a desperate attempt to hold onto the here and now, where darjee and I were together, in our mission to restrain the balloon. Nevertheless, the knot somehow managed to come loose; we stood transfixed, watching the pretty, pink balloon slowly flfloat upwards into the sunny, cloudless sky. Seeing it go was sad. Yet there was a wonderment at how unencumbered the balloon was, as destiny carried it adrift, till it was a mere tiny dot and eventually, beyond sight.
A balloon’s life, though much shorter in comparison to ours, has much to teach. Initially, when fully inflated, the bright colours are at their best and the balloon delights both the young and old.
In our prime, we were full of life; we had much to tell and do; we were fun to be with, and made friends easily. However, while the balloon is totally transparent and has no other agenda but to cheer up an event, whether simple or grand, we hide behind masks; scared or ashamed to be our real selves. Although we are each a masterpiece, here for a unique, individualised purpose; be it noteworthy or seemingly insignificant. The duty of the almost invisible garbage collectors is such, that our streets would be unbelievable without them.
Watching the free-floating balloons is relaxing. They are carefree and offer absolutely no resistance to the draft from the air-conditioner, or the direction the fan pushes it. It remains buoyant and happily bobs up and down or sways from side to side in whichever way the gentle gust of wind is coming in from the open window nudges it. On the other hand, we humans are stubborn and self-centred; we refuse to give in or adjust to the needs of others. We resist and grumble about every little thing, even that which is beyond our control, like cussing at the rain for ruining our day’s plan. The easy-go-lucky balloon spreads cheer, while we, disgruntled and whiney, spread only misery.
Be it a balloon of a superior quality, or the trillionaire; the helium and the pranas, the numbered breaths of our lifetime are slowly, and continually seeping away; nothing can halt or slow down the dissipation. Within two days, the colourful, high-flying balloon is fully deflated and lies limp on the ground; now, just a wad of rubber, fit for nothing but the bin. One day, we might have been up on the pedestal, undefeatable and undauntable, and then, despite our best attempts to preserve our looks, health, wealth, and position, we are relegated to the forgotten corners of society, invisible and insignificant. The hands of time had been gradually gnawing away at the bravado and the height with which we had walked and talked.
Life is what it is and we are, who we are. But we still are alive, and we can as yet tweak the legacy we’d like to leave behind. It would do well to sit with ourselves to summarise whether I’d like to be remembered as the empty balloon, all talk and no action; the drab and colourless whiney balloon; or the balloon that spread joy and optimism to anyone and everyone it touched.