The page turns...

What profound darkness! Though the air thrills with fragrant whispers of blossoming flowers, nature itself remains unmoved. Silence, soundlessness all around. A thin stream of light from an unending advertisement writhes in one corner of the wall. The perfumed breeze, playing hide-and-seek with that light, sent the calendar pages fluttering. I became ancient, swept into the orbit of a primeval world.

Here too, darkness. The silent royal palace of Kapilavastu. A shadow slowly faded away, crossing the palace gates. Gautama Buddha is renouncing the world, seeking to transform a trivial life into something greater. I looked toward the calendar. It remained mute. Slowly the scene dissolved.

Suddenly I hear a tremendous uproar, commotion. Alexander is setting out on his conquest of the world. Running and rushing everywhere; in every home of Macedonia there is celebration, the ritual of bidding farewell to loved ones. Under the pounding of hooves, whirlwinds of dust rise. At the windows, the tearful eyes of abandoned lovers. On the calendar's dim pages, I could make out only the century—third century BCE.

In my trance, I saw a supreme beauty seated on a throne. She was conducting court. Quietly I asked one of the court attendants, "Who is she?" The answer came: "Queen Cleopatra, sovereign of Egypt, land of the Nile." King Antony arrived at Cleopatra's court. The two of them left the court together. For some time, neither was seen. Antony was deeply enchanted by Cleopatra's beauty. Antony returned to his own kingdom.

Suddenly I see Cleopatra's corpse. Grief shrouds everything. I heard that Antony, receiving false news of Cleopatra's death, had killed himself. Hearing this, Cleopatra too died of sorrow. The calendar announces: thirty BCE.

Why such suffering, such humiliation for humanity tormented by fate? Why is this game of destiny so meaningless? Omar sits alone and contemplates. The eleventh-century poet Omar Khayyam is absorbed in composing poetry. The defiant poet seethes at the Creator's whims—

Time daily brings its wares of sorrow,
When does the heart spread its wings?
Spend these two days in joy,
Before that body is shrouded in earth.

Then... Copernicus and Galileo sit with strange instruments pressed to their eyes, faces turned skyward. What they're saying enrages the people of their land. And Galvani is doing something mysterious with frogs!

Another scene change. Oh, why are they killing that beautiful, innocent girl so brutally? Who are they? And who is the girl? Ah, I can no longer bear to watch this scene! Making inquiries, I learned this is Joan of Arc, the heroic woman of France, whose courage inspired the French to drive the English from their land. The imperialist English are burning her alive. I cannot endure this sight any longer!

Before my eyes passed more scenes, images of countless poets, heroes, and sages, so many struggles, so many tales of rise and fall...

Suddenly consciousness returned. I had fallen asleep at my desk. So was I dreaming? Perhaps so. In front of me, I see the calendar swaying in the breeze, its form shimmering in the light. For centuries, the wind has carried news of the unknown in just this way. The darkness of ages immemorial is likewise deep in the unfathomable abyss of forgetfulness, of extinction's great mystery.

I thought: our days pass one, two, three, until thirty are gone. Calendar pages turn. Months follow months in this way. Then one day, year after year ends and time runs out. Long after our mortal bodies have dissolved into earth, calendars will still hang on walls just like this.

Dear calendar, tell me, will you remember me then? Or will I vanish into the infinite unknown darkness, as so many, many others have gone before!