The Lost Yarn of Gold

I woke up one morning, to realise that I was lying on a boat in the midst of a vast sea. A sea filled with people. A sea filled with happy faces on tiny colourful boats made of papier-mache. They were all holding on to colourful strings of wools and every now and then they would tug at the woollen threads as if to make sure the bonds were still strong. I was watching all this fun for a very long time, when suddenly a big pot-bellied duck propped himself on the rim of my boat. I was rather very annoyed at that healthy feathered being. With a very stern face I pointed at him and yelled, “Sir, just what do you think you are doing? This is trespassing!” The haughty duck pulled out a thick cigar from underneath his waistcoat and lighted the roll of black tobacco. He pretended to not hear me and went on puffing his smoke. By this time a little embarrassed by the negligence of my existence I sat down and looked away. Half way through his cigar, he offered me a drag. I realised that the so called bird brain not only smoked Arabian cigars, but had a beautiful baritone.  He asked me, “so young lady, where are your strands of attachment?”

All this time, I had never thought there would be any need to weave strands of attachment or love. From where I had come from, we were told that souls were gifted with glistening threads of gold, some were true and some fake. The fake gold threads turned into ashes when they were exposed to the harsh red sun of the dusk. “If you are done pondering, can you please start rowing? I have to reach the island of hopes before the blue birds start singing.”
I don’t know why I listened to him, but I rowed to the island. I rowed for a six nights and six days, and came upon a patch of land which had a blazing purple volcano. When I asked about the volcano, he simply tactfully changed the topic. (The ‘hopelings’ never talk about the volcano I came to know much later in life.)
When he waded down to the silvery stream, he looked back and thanked me. He said he had given me a precious gift, and time has decided to keep the gift a secret from me. Without wasting any more time, I started steering my boat away from the island of hopes. I steered my boat as fast as I could. At noon, I was sailing in the midst of the vast and lonely ocean. Blue as ever, serene and peaceful. I lay down on my back and watched the sun when a flash of yellow light form the edge of my boat almost blinded me. I crinkled my eyes, and from the eye slits all I could see were hundreds of gold threads attached to the edge of my boat. Were they real gold? Will they turn to ash at dusk? I ‘hoped’ not..