Christmas Is Over
And Boxing Day is, too. I don’t complain.
I spent both days thinking about my past Christmases, just like Mr. Scrooge from A Christmas Carol by Dickens. There is nothing that makes you think of the days when you were little like Christmas, isn’t there? You’re reminded of all your childhood hopes and dreams you thought you had long forgotten but are still there, intact, aching.
Still, I do consider myself a lucky man; I’ve been through so much and yet I don’t have many regrets. Given the extraordinary circumstances I’ve often found myself into, I’m not unhappy with the decisions I made: did I always do the right thing? I don’t know. Only time will tell.
This Christmas I thought a lot about Gwendolyn, too. Of course, how could I not? My thoughts flew back to the afternoon I drove Devi to her uncle’s diner. The rain was washing the wheat fields, everything looked kind of misty. Devi and I were alone in the car, so I decided I’d take my chance to finally have some answers.
-What’s indigo art?- Devi looked as if she had been expecting such a question. but took her time to answer. Carelessly flattening her blue sari, she told me indigo children were children who were geniuses. They could paint, write poetry or music at an incredible early age and with excellent results.
-Haven’t you ever heard of them?
-No , I don’t think so.
-They are quite a controversial group. There are some religious fanatics in it, people who think the kids’ abilites are someting God gave them to distinguish them from anyone else; according to this people indigo children are the chosen few who can save the world. And, as you can imagine, there are adults who try to exploit the children’s extraordinary talent financially.
- I see. Why are you so interested in the group, Devi?
As if it had known that Devi didn’t want to answer, her cell started ringing. Trying to conceal my disappointment, I concentrated on the road map in order to check our position. You can think I’m insane, but I had the impression Devi had known the cell would phone so that she could avoid answering me. And when she finally ended her conversation (in Indian, I couldn’t understand a word) I was parking right outside Uncle Ben’s diner.
Should I not have time to go on with my story before 2007 ends, let me just wish happy new year to you all.
