Aloft on a rainbow

Some people have a wonderful way of touching the lives of others with all the colours of a rainbow.” This is a remarkably poignant sent...

Some people have a wonderful way of touching the lives of others with all the colours of a rainbow.” This is a remarkably poignant sentence that I discovered on a greeting card. It is hardly coincidental that these people are almost always either children or rare adults who still have, perhaps unwittingly, the child alive in them.

But this fission of colour is usually momentary, and one has to be quick to reach out and feel the rainbow before it fades away in the rays of routine and passing time. These rare adults come, or drop from the heavens, unpredictably, and almost always incognito.

I remember one such golden rendezvous with a rainbow-child who arrived in the middle of a dreary scene disguised as a “meticulously efficient, extremely busy professional” till the first time he happily put his foot in his mouth, and then equally happily, continued with the “meticulously efficient, professional” act.

I do not know about others but

Story continues below this ad

I personally find happily-made, clumsy mistakes endearing traits in a human being aiming for perfectionism in his or her life. Almost as endearing as tears in the eyes of a strong man and fury in the eyes of a lone woman. And laughing at the sum total of mutually-made silly mistakes by perfectionists can make for at least one small glimpse of a rainbow. But, like I said, adult “rainbow-children” are very rare.

Children, however, afford one such joys more frequently. Yesterday, a rainbow appeared unexpectedly at dusk with the grey evening sky fast giving way to the black of the oncoming night. My sister and I were sitting in the nearby park, just ready to undertake the return stroll concluding our daily evening walk, when we noticed a trio of little girls holding a hurried conference among themselves interspersed with some furtive glances directed towards us. Finally, they reached a decision and approached us.

The most enterprising among the three, a pretty little Afghan girl, addressed us in halting English, “Excuse me, can you write an English letter for us?” As we nodded, she went on, “Please write… Dearest Namrata, you should not have said such bad words to me. I’m sorry I was your friend. I shall never come to your house again. Then write… Your friend, Nilofer.”