tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-294796022024-03-13T23:58:37.419+05:30wildflowerwildflowerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02058577354878441243noreply@blogger.comBlogger1000125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29479602.post-1893022185823463452024-03-13T23:57:00.004+05:302024-03-13T23:57:41.943+05:30Third Person<div style="text-align: left;">Moisturize,</div><div style="text-align: left;">My dear</div><div style="text-align: left;">Feet don't stop cracking</div><div style="text-align: left;">Skin, is begging for some love</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Don't overthink</div><div style="text-align: left;">Think not, rather</div><div style="text-align: left;">Just keep going on</div><div style="text-align: left;">Pause not</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Control thy frizz</div><div style="text-align: left;">Braid and unbraid your hair</div><div style="text-align: left;">Don't hide in corners and cry</div><div style="text-align: left;">Not in bathroom breaks, ah no</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">You're more than your failures</div><div style="text-align: left;">Beyond your muzzled ambition</div><div style="text-align: left;">Breathe, deeply </div><div style="text-align: left;">And then shallow</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Take long baths,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Scrub some more</div><div style="text-align: left;">Nap, as much.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Don't bother. Nobody cares as much. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Nothing comes of anything, anyway.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Nothing gets. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Write about losing</div><div style="text-align: left;">Just so you can erase and move on.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Be a third person</div><div style="text-align: left;">Stand, unfazed, outside your body.</div><div style="text-align: left;">You're as dead as you're alive</div><div style="text-align: left;">Disconnect on volition</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Observe and appreciate</div><div style="text-align: left;">Whatever little you got</div><div style="text-align: left;">It's not as little, perhaps</div><div style="text-align: left;">You wouldn't be able swallow more.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Plateful of meals</div><div style="text-align: left;">Washed clothes, listless midnight breeze</div><div style="text-align: left;">Fairy lights, potted plants</div><div style="text-align: left;">Skin on skin; mouth on mouth</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Ain't too shabby for Rachel </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><p><br /></p>wildflowerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02058577354878441243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29479602.post-56511296017632670812024-02-17T23:49:00.003+05:302024-02-17T23:49:44.689+05:30Loop<div style="text-align: left;">It's only Tuesday</div><div style="text-align: left;">And my feet hurt</div><div style="text-align: left;">It's only Tuesday</div><div style="text-align: left;">And I don't wanna wake up</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But I am keeping up </div><div style="text-align: left;">With the world,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Because I've to keep going </div><div style="text-align: left;">I'm keeping the world up, rather </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Everyday's in a loop</div><div style="text-align: left;">Countless weeks,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Back to back</div><div style="text-align: left;">In an anxious delusion</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Nauseous afternoon traffic</div><div style="text-align: left;">The same billboards, staring down</div><div style="text-align: left;">Lunches and dinners cooked </div><div style="text-align: left;">And kept away</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Nothing is ever new</div><div style="text-align: left;">Honestly, new scares me now</div><div style="text-align: left;">And I don't even remember the old</div><div style="text-align: left;">Stuck in this static repetition </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">To pause, </div><div style="text-align: left;">Is to allow existential bs to take over</div><div style="text-align: left;">So, I'd rather not</div><div style="text-align: left;">But one random Thursday evening</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Perhaps at 7:36 pm, say</div><div style="text-align: left;">In a quiet moment in the balcony</div><div style="text-align: left;">Wondering whether to water the plants, or not </div><div style="text-align: left;">I pause, unconsciously - </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The loop is broken </div><div style="text-align: left;">And the whole world comes crashing down. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>wildflowerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02058577354878441243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29479602.post-64870938277373639542024-02-09T00:28:00.000+05:302024-02-09T00:28:55.915+05:30Saturday Sorrow <div style="text-align: left;">Keep your tote bags in</div><div style="text-align: left;">No brunches for you.</div><div style="text-align: left;">And no long stem, purple carnations either</div><div style="text-align: left;">No resting wine glasses or dangling forks</div><div style="text-align: left;">Or longish conversations, either</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">You're perhaps, not worth it, after all.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Run errands, you!</div><div style="text-align: left;">Doctor appointments, medicine store hauls</div><div style="text-align: left;">Pending gynaec visits, the psychiatrist awaits</div><div style="text-align: left;">Kitchen's all a leak, call the plumber will you</div><div style="text-align: left;">Door's come off it's hinges, so have you</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The house is falling onto us, what-do-we-do</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">More errands, some.</div><div style="text-align: left;">What about some deep cleans</div><div style="text-align: left;">While doing which, time's a plenty</div><div style="text-align: left;">To regret, while you clean</div><div style="text-align: left;">Thing's you've done and thing's you've not done</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">No Saturdays for you,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Only the sorrow.</div><div style="text-align: left;">No movies, no writing</div><div style="text-align: left;">Keep your creative corner </div><div style="text-align: left;">In your 100% imaginary artisanal balcony</div><div style="text-align: left;">Shun the jute rug, which you never bought</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Decay. Slowly though</div><div style="text-align: left;">Without mercy </div><div style="text-align: left;">Lose yourself, irretrievably </div><div style="text-align: left;">Feel your temples heat with temper</div><div style="text-align: left;">What-do-we-do what-do-we-do </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>wildflowerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02058577354878441243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29479602.post-88141305664192936432024-01-21T20:07:00.003+05:302024-01-21T20:07:58.532+05:30Slow Day<div style="text-align: left;">Slow day, braid and unbraid your hair.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Watch yourself age in the mirror, see them lines, under eyes.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Cook slow meals, de-shelled prawns in coconut milk</div><div style="text-align: left;">Eat in quiet corners, looking at Christmas lights on a stranger's balcony.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Imagine her life, breathe in. Breathe out, be you again.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Rummage through old clothes, unworn for years, yearn for smells of past years. Past lives.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Encourage clutter. Never get rid of stuff, ever.</div><div style="text-align: left;">No agenda, no to-do crap list.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Let thoughts simmer.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Tip toe around in lil-nothings. Let dreams be.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Don't try, do not try. Just be. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Watch the fuzzy sun, in the cloudy sky.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Take long naps, dream only then.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Wake up into the evening, cheeks a bit swollen.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Is it still today?</div><div style="text-align: left;">Then you isolate again and write a poem.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><p><br /></p>wildflowerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02058577354878441243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29479602.post-85401143457779108752023-12-30T00:29:00.003+05:302023-12-30T00:30:37.289+05:30Only I exist <p>Only I exist.</p><p>Rolling in swathes of time,</p><p>Loosing count of days & years,</p><p>Memories wiped clean,</p><p>All joys torn apart</p><p>Only I exist.</p><p>Terribly alone,</p><p>Singular, bathed in solitude</p><p>Devoid of dreams</p><p>Cocooned, with my desert like mind.</p><p>Sans the slightest aspiration,</p><p>Only I exist.</p><p>Forgotten, abandoned</p><p>Fiercely stoic, nearly inert.</p><p>Counting breaths, caught amidst an infinite pause.</p><p>Frozen. Decaying.</p><p>Only I.</p><p>Only I exist.</p>wildflowerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02058577354878441243noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29479602.post-87413811955404978022023-11-10T18:49:00.008+05:302023-11-10T18:58:17.800+05:30Drive<p>This day, the day of the Drive, was years ago. And I have been aching to write about it since I thought of it to be any value. But then, there have been days when nothing has felt valuable, enough to retain, and translate into words. So I have gone back and forth on this and the memory of the Drive has simmered in my head. And then, out of the big blue, life squeezes out an hour for me on a random Friday when I am buoyant with hope and believe, anything that has simmered this long, must be of some value. Some, if not much.</p><p>It was a Monday, I presume. How many years ago, this was, that many years ago. It's funny because never before on a Monday had anything been planned. Anyway, so we packed small bags and the baby's things. Milk and towels and diapers and blankies and wet wipes and such. Such an stifling hot day it was in August. Humid and sweaty. The air conditioner in the car was in full blast. The baby was so tiny, in my arms. It felt like a toy. Except that he cuddled. But my head was so dry. And my memory was so faint, post partum. I could barely remember the friend or the relative I met the day before. I zombied through the nights and the days were - well - the days stretched between hours and prolonged into slow afternoons and suddenly merged with sleepless nights. Sometimes I didn't connect correctly, how hard everything was. But everyone told me, it would get easier, most definitely. </p><p>And there was a friend who didn't tell me anything. Just listened. Established her presence. And allowed me to feel what I felt without intervening much. I felt closest to my previous person with her, and when she suggested the idea of this drive, I jumped. But we had to collect an aunt, on the way. An aunt, would accompany. The aunt was a must. Those months in my life, it was difficult to have a view or an opinion on anything since the mind was not fully functional. So I nodded, for most things. And shrugged, subsequently. Nothing seemed to make a difference, oh my.</p><p>After settling down, when each one of us got comfortable enough to slumber, the aunt started talking. To begin with, it was nice. She was no stranger, of course we knew each other. But to share the close confines of a car for seven hours is something else, altogether. Aunt started narrating the story of her life. But very much in brevity. I respected that. I tended to the baby, wiped its pee and poop, aunt did not pause - she moved on to how people make a living, in the world today. </p><p>Now that I find debatable. I have slept over it, and woken up on it. I oscillate between having a purpose in life and being a full blown nihilist. Now, nestling a baby and cradling nihilism don't go well together, so I gather all my forces to hold on to whatever is good in the world and build my life around it but aunt started to float away in her tales. </p><p>Aunt, being the aunt she was, told us how her husband was no good. He wasted decades of his life, sulking at his government job and battled alcoholism. Battling is the wrong word her, allowing alcohol to rage and take control of his life, would be more like it. And now he was dead and the children were no better. The daughter had married herself off, reasonably well, given everything that could have held her back. And she had nothing to do with her mother or her brothers. The younger son, decided he would be a parasite and live off his father's retirement money, whatever there was. The older son, her first born, was a replica of his father. Started drinking very young and didn't know how to stop. </p><p>Aunt spent her days and weeks worrying about him. She told us, the mother worries about the weakest offspring. I looked at the baby's sleepy face, the one and the only. </p><p>This older son of hers, she told us, was educated and could do all sorts of jobs. He could be a salesman, anywhere. Or have a smug desk job. There was hundreds of thousands of young men, who started jobs in private firms and moved to Middle East and made fortunes in dirhams and came back to their ancestral villages and built concrete homes for their grandmothers - and mothers. They had wives and children and lived peaceful lives, away from intoxication of all sorts. Of course, some habits - a few cigarettes or day, or something was fine. As long as you could work and make a living, aunt said. But her son won't listen. Then there were hundreds of young men who would sit for exams - banking or the railways or postal and settle down with jobs. They lived in dingy quarters to begin with but outgrew them soon. And they escaped the downtrodden impoverished lives of their forefathers, who lived off the land. Also, there were young men, hundreds of them again, who started businesses. A grocery shop in a busy locality, if you managed it well, would make money. You just have to show some interest in life. Both me and my friend agreed. Aunt went on.</p><p>There were traders, who just sat in their homes and talked on the phone and made deals on laptops. All sundry jobs, making money. You just have to decide to make money and money would come. She was so staunch in her words, I felt bad for her. I did. I imagined her son, whiling away the Monday in some bar downtown or drinking away at home and telepathically ignoring what his mother was saying, a hundred kilometers away. </p><p>Forget men, the aunt continued. Even girls these days are leaving no stone unturned. Either they marry well, meaning rich. Or turn into beauticians or nurses or flight attendants or bank clerks. But they definitely turn into something. And in the city they meet boys who are salesmen or businessmen and then they marry and then they have two kids each and they are happy and they buy a car and they buy a house and they build houses for their mothers and buy gold too and keep buying new phones and shoes and televisions and washing machines and keep paying everything on EMI. Nobody the aunt knew, except her son, who sat in front of the TV and drank rum all day. </p><p>I sighed. I had forgotten how rum tasted. I wanted a tall glass of wine and to fall asleep afterward. And not wake up until we were there. </p>wildflowerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02058577354878441243noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29479602.post-25843448803919816392023-10-02T16:58:00.007+05:302023-10-02T16:58:53.662+05:30Thirty-six<p>Last month, I tip-toed into any year.</p><p>It has been a very long time that I felt like myself. </p><p>I do not, perhaps, remember myself anymore. Frankly, there are no memories. My brain is either too exhausted to save and record anything, or it's playing the trick that she usually does - keep quiet and live on auto-pilot now and unleash the floods of what's happening presently a decade from now when these years will become clearer than day. I beg, it's the former. Because, I want to dissolve. </p><p>Because, I don't want to mean anything. Ever. I just want to close my eyes and rest a bit. For days and weeks, relentless. </p><p>Because, I feel like I've become less of a person, more like a non-person. Earlier, I used to hide myself inside a shell. But now, the self inside the shell has dissolved without a sign and only the shell remains. There is nothing that defines me. I've got no ideas. </p><p>I am a mere list of tasks, like a shopping list. I put food on the table, I eat, and I close my eyes, hoping to rest. But I never really. The disintegration that's happened over the years, is irreversible. I wish, something had remained. Some bits of the person I was stood beside me, against the tides of change, but alas, all is eroded. Leaving a weird tasting foul mouthed angry dreamless vacuum. </p><p>Whatever.</p>wildflowerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02058577354878441243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29479602.post-41081509606703645582023-08-24T11:08:00.002+05:302023-08-24T11:10:49.946+05:30Beautiful <p>I feel beautiful now.</p><p>Inside-out</p><p>How my hair caresses my shoulders</p><p>My eyes, curious - are dripping with kohl</p><p>Brows, thick and steady like arches </p><p>Lips, brown, holding a smile.</p><p>I know I am beautiful</p><p>Like, I knew never before.</p><p><br /></p><p>When I was longing for you</p><p>Decades ago.</p><p>I stared deep within, for this beauty</p><p>And shrugged, disappointed, finding nothing</p><p>How would you see my beauty,</p><p>If I was blind to it myself.</p><p>I would've held your hand and shown you myself:</p><p>Ah, see. Nothing is a-wanting</p><p><br /></p><p>But now,</p><p>When perhaps, so much is lost</p><p>It dawns upon me</p><p>That, there is no one like me</p><p>Neither will be</p><p>I am so niche, like etched from stone</p><p>And so delicate, that will vanish in a breeze</p><p><br /></p><p>What have we lost.</p><p>So much water under the bridge </p><p><br /></p>wildflowerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02058577354878441243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29479602.post-15902780096983698262023-08-16T12:36:00.001+05:302023-08-16T12:36:17.443+05:30Easy<p>For the past few days, I have been at rest. I breathe slow. There's no hustle. Or bustle. And my eye-lids are droopy. There's this light casual kind of burn everytime I shut my eyes. Like I can sleep half the day away. I close my eyes and fall asleep. I wake up, saliva leaking from the corners of my lips. Eyes are even heavier than when I fell asleep. I don't understand what is happening here. And I don't bother, either. All I want is more sleep. Some more, and more, of lie down time. Is it the buried exhaustion of years that has suddenly erupted, over a long weekend?</p><p>Also, I want to eat. Like gobble down the whole fridge. Sweets and cakes and chips and slurpees. Leftovers, won't be any more, left over. Cuz I'll eat them all. Like lick bowls clean. What's with this insatiable hunger. And the thirst. I guzzle down and chomp chomp chomp. And then I am off to bed. With no enthusiasm for waking up. Tuck me in, somebody. And don't wake me up, unless it's to feed me. </p><p><br /></p>wildflowerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02058577354878441243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29479602.post-40891478898080075292023-08-01T00:27:00.001+05:302023-08-01T00:31:09.875+05:30Layover<p>You know how flights work. You pick a flight with a four hour layover at some airport you've never meant to visit; just to save a couple of Ks - which you plan on upgrading your hotel room with, or buying some other compensation for your overtly critical overworked mind. You never upgrade your hotel room; rather you don't do any memento shopping either. All that you manage from your vacation is that you manage to come back home. Or atleast you've done one leg of your return flight, you're dragging your feet and sixteen hand baggages and your kids are getting lost at the airport, nobody has eaten anything in seven hours (they have!); and you're sitting there in a lesser known, not exactly obscure place, wondering how much better a direct flight would have been. You start to measure, obviously you can't measure such things, you drift and get lost until someone else gets lost, or someone else craves a snack, or so on and so forth.</p><p>Four hours is easy time, you wink and it's gone. You gather up, and board the flight. You wonder if the take off would be smooth, all the other flights on this vacay have given you the free falling in space experience. And you've been training yourself not to give in to fears, rational or irrational. Surprisingly, the flight is mid take off and you haven't even realised it.</p><p>You look out. Oh my god, the night lights are so pretty. What city is this? It's his hometown, isn't it. The x before the y before the zee. You wonder if he's home. Of course not darling, he left home long ago. And it left him too. When you met him, he was a bona-fide homeless nomad. He wouldn't settle and you wouldn't budge. Then he left you. </p><p>Today, looking down from the clouds, you wonder where his house would be. And where he went to the movies or where he played cricket. Or where he went to school. May be his parents still lived there. He moved and abandoned the country long time ago, and hasn't been heard of since - wreck of a lover that he was. You wonder if he calls his mother every day, or now and then, or has he called her now, like exactly now.</p><p>Then your mind drifts, you wonder if you got your ID back from that flight attendant, or whether you should get some shuteye. Knees are a pain, already.</p><p>So yes, in other news - the layover has turned out to be a fair enough compensation.</p>wildflowerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02058577354878441243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29479602.post-3966547323846957242023-06-12T23:17:00.001+05:302023-06-12T23:18:39.584+05:30Knot <p>Unknot me, I have been so knotted up, you know.</p><p>Undo me, with your slender fingers</p><p>Fair fingers, and done nails</p><p>Enter deep into my knotted knots</p><p>Dissect them well</p><p>Seep into the crevices of reason, rationale & madness of my capricious being</p><p>Retell me, my own story</p><p>Erase the designs I have been caged within</p><p>Feel free, please</p><p>I give you everything, hereby</p><p>Tell me something I would want myself told</p><p>Unknot me, oh my ensnaring, </p><p>Let me also live a little, darling.</p><p><br /></p>wildflowerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02058577354878441243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29479602.post-25527667342000718062023-05-29T23:46:00.005+05:302023-05-30T23:10:03.987+05:30Mother<p>I couldn't catch my breath for months, after my son was born. Weeks slid past, while days only lazed around, afternoons coagulated. I never had the damn minute, to sit and breathe. To stop hyperventilating, all the time. I just couldn't cope. And i barely tried.</p><p>I got back to work. Then, came the pandemic.</p><p>Boy oh boy. Was that something.</p><p>Inside four walls, our caged souls, trying work and get through our days like nobody was dying outside. We cooked, took baths, watched tv, stared at the roof, never shut down the work laptop, and people never ever stopped calling. I nursed and spoke on the phone. I nursed and cooked. I nestled my son and stocked up groceries. There was no getting away, there was no where to go to. Roads felt so foreign. </p><p>I sat with my son on my lap in my balcony full of plants who were nearly the only company we had. I took pictures of our feet, his within mine. Just the way it's supposed to be. Still nothing ever felt alright. </p><p>An agony of ages simmered within my chest, refusing to divulge why. And I let it. Because without that much of free hand, those demons would come to consume me awhole. And I had to last. Mothers have to last.</p><p>Months went by, years also, I lost count. I could no longer wait and quit my job. Because I could no longer answer the phone. I just couldn't.</p><p>During those three months of notice, almost every afternoon, i stopped working at 5. I took my son to the roof. While he played, I looked up. I looked up at the sky. And its purplish hues. Orangish crimson hues.</p><p>I waited for clouds to part, and then to merge again and to form shapes. Like sketches that some god forgot to complete. I breathed in lungfuls of tired city air and looked at the chaos of tall buildings for as far as eyes could imagine. I saw flocks of birds flying homeward, I hoped I could too.</p><p>I skipped with my son. I ran with him. Whooshed away dozens of pigeons and giggled. I told him stories. We giggled some more. Lights came on in distant hotels, which had no guests those days. And we would go home after the sun set. On some evenings, we stayed longer, reluctant to accept the day's end. During those surplus minutes after the sun set, momentarily though, everything just felt alright.</p>wildflowerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02058577354878441243noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29479602.post-76551564714877963792023-03-26T15:58:00.001+05:302023-03-26T16:01:01.594+05:30Mekong<p>One night, every couple months, I sleep to see an enormously real dream about you. It is so surreal, I do not have words. This is not a joke. Not a by a long shot. A decade old lover just cannot hang in there, so deep in my subconscious. And refuse to leave, like you're putting me through this. When did you get so deeply embedded in my head, Mekong. I fail to understand. My memory rarely fails me. We abandoned each other, remember? We broke each others' hearts. We were battered, agreed, but all set for separate lives. And it was eras ago. What are you still here? </p><p>The dreams bring you so close to me, they erase the many lives I've lived after you so easily, so conveniently. It is an escape, let me confess, because I've had to struggle through these many months and years. Life, had I chosen you, and you me, may have been easier. But who knows? May be I am cursed and I would gotten my curse along to you. Perhaps you're saved from me, Mekong. What do you know.</p><p>Then again these hallucinations - I have no control over. I sleep in anxiety splitting my mind between work and home. I live in such misery, I wonder sometimes why am I even alive. My subconscious sprouts in utter self-defense. And takes me hundreds of miles from where I've travelled to in space and time. And I see you and I sitting together in the park, on a random Sunday, growing old together, like we never separated for a day. I am taken by random incidents of our days, our casual happy lives. </p><p>It's like a parallel life. A parallel universe. So much so that I am misguided to believe that this life is the dream and that is what is real. </p><p>Later I wake up with numerous aching questions. If you and I were meant to be, then why aren't we? Why weren't we?</p><p>Will I get to swirl in your cloudy waters, one day? Accompany you from mountains to oceans. As you gather and split yourself from and to tributaries? Will I get a chance to build myself again, with you. If not in this life then, may be in another. </p>wildflowerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02058577354878441243noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29479602.post-13738233442290757802023-02-11T18:19:00.003+05:302023-02-11T18:19:47.493+05:30Elevator Man<p>So, I don't know. Have you thought about this?</p><p>Hi there Stranger! </p><p>I've no idea where I'm going, anyway. I am almost always, pretty lost. I mean, I am so trapped in my short term goals that I don't even remember faintly what I wanted to begin with.</p><p>A cup of coffee would be nice though.</p><p>So, like I was saying, have no clue where am going. I just run. Away from and into disasters on an hourly basis. While, for real, I don't move an inch. I am trying to be an adult, like a proper human adult with responsibilities and such. Clearly it ain't working. But that doesn't stop me from trying, lest I disappoint.</p><p>Nearly every morning, in the foggy cold, I thrust into the elevator, my warm showered skin. Forget makeup, I don't even have lip balm on. And I have no idea why I am like this, where I am headed. Smal temporary idiotic pointless tasks to be ticked off. I guess.</p><p>And there you are. Sweaty. T shirt sticking to your body. Hair drenched, in well, something. Standing tall, by yourself, waiting for your floor. Unbothered. You have the most erect posture I have seen in any human, I swear stranger. </p><p>And I am next to you. A zillion thoughts ramming through my head. None of them about you. You don't exist for me. And vice versa. We don't look at each other. We have never exchanged glances. But we seen each other. And been seen too. Without makeup and sweaty. Anxious and hungry. Depressed and apathetic.</p><p>This doesn't matter. Nothing has ever mattered, this included. This is one of those hundreds of things in life that never mattered, while we waited for things that we wanted to matter, but didn't and shattered our hearts. You know, stranger.</p><p>I am so exhausted, I cannot begin to tell you how much I want to go to bed and not wake up. Yet, there I am, ramming into you in the elevator, every damn morning.</p><p>And I am sure, you have your things too. </p><p>But, I would like to say this. </p><p>I have been so serious and meticulous all this time, I am broken. I always carry a pent up wish to be just juvenile. </p><p>Standing next to you, feeling myself breathe, counting floors, must be one of the most charmingly juvenile luxuries I have allowed myself to indulge in. It's made me feel a bit alive, a tiny bit less empty. I don't know. Let me tell you that stranger.</p>wildflowerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02058577354878441243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29479602.post-16672975949158939522023-01-16T23:46:00.002+05:302023-01-17T00:51:47.825+05:30Pause<p>Lately, how you pause in the midst of your phrases, my heart then, skips a beat. I count moments, looking for words also but they elude me thoroughly, with impunity. How could I of all, be so tongue tied. And that too, with you. The one for me, oh magical one.c</p><p>This way, you confuse me with your measured silences. Here, I have not the slightest. Of what's going on in that brilliant mind of yours. And whether a heart as irrational and inconsolable and capricious as mine, hides beneath.</p><p>All I know is that, while we speak, you pause. Mid way. Seemingly accidentally, but not much so. As if waiting for me, giving me an adequate opportunity to speak up and be heard. To rip open the hidden treasures of my soul and come out naked. Out front and lay on your palms, one confession after the other. </p><p>Shamelessly, remorselessly.</p><p>I count moments and wait. And then you catch up again and continue.</p><p>I wonder. What is that!</p><p>What are we doing here? </p>wildflowerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02058577354878441243noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29479602.post-64729707108134110632022-11-14T23:59:00.000+05:302022-11-14T23:59:02.112+05:30Starfruit<p>I will not right your wrong</p><p>Just for sometime, now</p><p>And you would do me the same</p><p>Favor, & breathe</p><p><br /></p><p>Because, nothing remains</p><p>Pretty much</p><p>Everyday is a worthless mess</p><p>Night's thoughtless doom</p><p><br /></p><p>So let's give it all up</p><p>But walk with me </p><p>In this abandoned garden laden with starfruit</p><p>So much fruit, oh, what do we do</p><p><br /></p><p>Also, feel</p><p>The lazy afternoon summer breeze </p><p>Wafting toward the salty river</p><p>Carrying my many unwanted ungodly fears </p><p><br /></p><p>Because we are both so sick and so tired </p><p>And we've forgotten </p><p>What starfruit tastes like </p><p>But not entirely </p><p><br /></p><p>That unknown strong citrus taste </p><p>In our childhood mouths</p><p>So abused and plenty scared</p><p>Although, adulthood ain't no better either </p><p><br /></p><p>It's the same cage, just the garb is new</p><p>And also, there's nil magic</p><p>Just drab mundane Tuesdays</p><p>Full of incurable guilt, unending tasks. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>wildflowerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02058577354878441243noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29479602.post-89992469201870179562022-10-05T15:14:00.007+05:302022-10-05T15:18:53.841+05:30Thirty Five<p>Lately, something's happened.</p><p>I've shut down. Like you know, emotionally. There's nothing I feel. Either this is deep-depression. Or this is nirvana.</p><p>So, in this utter dearth of conversation, my mind freed up. Because vacuum also means no obligations. And I dug into memories, flipping through old conversations. Fossilized emails.</p><p>There was this one girl, who had on a few occasions written to me elucidating to the tiniest detail how I had stolen her boyfriend. This was back in college. I had replied, apologizing - and also making it clear that I had no idea what she was talking about. But she insisted. I didn't even know the guy properly except that I had seen him looking at me a few times on campus. She kept on writing. I was painfully shy back then. I couldn't do anything other than denying. </p><p>I had forgotten about the entire episode, until now. That girl had a rather unique name and it just stood out in my inbox. I felt an emotion rather close to pity. Look - where we have come. We've taken long tortuous roads to being cocooned and loveless. All that effort and perseverance for nothing! </p><p>I hope, she is better today though. </p><p>I kept sifting through old emails - until your name came to my mind. I stayed awake all night reading our conversations. I never gave it that much thought - or may be I did - and now time has eroded those memories. But I now realize, how deeply you loved me. It must be a sin to let go of that kind of love. </p><p>And I would cry if I could. But can't because, now - tears have run dry. They just won't come.</p><p>I've said I'm sorry in the past I'm sure - a dozen times or more. And you knew as well - that I wouldn't do a thing to hurt you. But I have - and with so much cruelty. Because I know - and I've experienced first hand - what that kind of heart-wrenching heartbreak does to you. When you love with so much naivety - and the other person has nothing to return. </p><p>Many many years have passed, my friend. </p><p>I hope you're happy, my friend. I hope you're happier than me, at-least. In the very least and by leaps & bounds. </p><p>Thirty and five. Thirty-five.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>wildflowerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02058577354878441243noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29479602.post-80224016089560607532022-07-09T15:26:00.002+05:302022-07-09T15:32:06.549+05:30Priestess<p>The priest's wife was a dark petite woman. Her eyes possessed, as if, many unfathomable mysteries. But she was, in the end, a very real, vulnerable, hapless woman. Nobody cared for her, really. She must have been the eldest of many children, to have been married off that young. Her complexion being dark (since dusky would be an understatement), the sooner she set off, the better.</p><p>She entered the priest's home and slaved to serve one and all. The priest's mother who had only a few years then, was a difficult woman to please. But the new bride molly-coddled her well enough. The neighbors sang praises of the bowls of food she sent across the street, one of her many good gestures. She accompanied the priest as an obedient assistant whenever he travelled to distant towns for conducting religious functions. He had, after all, established a stern reputation - everybody knew that this one was capable of ridding people's houses of that odd homey ghost or making nascent fortunes stay. His wife, who by then people had started addressing as the priestess, also became party to that reputation. </p><p>After a few years, the priestess gave birth and became confined to home to care for the child. The priest began taking longer journeys and being away from home for extended periods of time. That his mother died so suddenly may have triggered the longing for distance and isolation. Years passed and the priestess brought up their daughter alone, almost entirely by herself. But her relatives and neighbors pitied her for being by herself all the time. They gave her several suggestions. </p><p>One of them was to bring a younger sister from her father's home. The young girl could help with chores and take care of the child while the priestess could free up her time, perhaps try to be with the priest, a bit more. This move, in the beginning brought in happy results. But soon the priestess found out the reason. The sister had seduced the priest to incapacity. And he wouldn't want to be away from her for a single night. Soon, he stopped going out during the days as well. </p><p>The priestess was aghast. She was too ashamed to even confide in anyone. She and her daughter had been abandoned to sleep in the courtyard, under the stars since her sister dislodged her from the bedroom. She meandered out of home at nights when her husband's groans of pleasure became unbearable to withstand. Her heart shattered with the guilt of having failed as a wife, she ventured into an old temple of Kali at the other end of the village, next to the cremation grounds.</p><p>Kali, is worshipped in two forms. The calmer form, with a smiling countenance and her right foot on Shiva is Dakshina Kali. The priestess had the good fate of revering Vama Kali - the goddess with her left foot on a startled Shiva. The rightful goddess of destruction and death. The one who waits to embrace the souls of those just freed from the labyrinthine sufferings of human life. </p><p>The priestess would leave home at midnight, bathe in the temple pond and swim across to its other bank to pluck bunches of blood red hibiscus. She would swirl in the waters under the pitch black sky, like there was nothing to fear, because there was nothing to lose. That she was indeed free and truly unchained. She shed her misery in the water and stepped out, a new woman, drenched, water pouring out of her sari. </p><p>She wiped the goddess clean with her sari and adorned her with flowers. She swept the room, lit a lamp and sat all-night long, chanting her hymns softly. Tears streaming down her cheeks, begging for enlightenment, begging for Kali's embrace. </p><p>Sleep would find her only just before dawn broke. She would lay like a log in the temple veranda while many a cattle herders would notice her as they went off to graze in the forest. Not many ventured into that part of the village, fearing the dead, their ghosts and ghouls. But soon, news made it to the villagers and the priest himself, that the priestess had gone insane. </p><p>Then started the rumors. That the priestess walked naked and upside down, on her hands, on no-moon nights. That she feasted on blood of stray goats. That she performed tantric acts to please spirits and could hurt and diminish anyone she wanted, if she got hold of a strand of their hair or a speck of their nail. Everyone wanted her banished. The priest threw her out of the house. Some neighbors fed her for a few days surreptitiously, before falling into line.</p><p>The priestess begged for survival in the neighboring villages where nobody knew who she was and came back to the temple to sleep at night. And each night, she washed away her sorrow and pain in the pond and emerged anew to worship Kali. After hundreds and thousands of such nights, on one night, finally Kali appeared. </p>wildflowerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02058577354878441243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29479602.post-37543736599534095272022-03-06T09:34:00.003+05:302022-03-06T09:35:02.296+05:30Wonder <p>I wonder what you do</p><p>These days</p><p>Do you think of me, sometimes? </p><p>Like do I float by your mind</p><p>Of course, the memories are vague</p><p>Nevertheless, do you? </p><p><br /></p><p>There is social media, lol</p><p>But we were always averse to it </p><p>Being private, is something I caught from you, rather </p><p>So yes, we continue unblocked by each other</p><p>The decent folk we are, unbroken by heartbreak</p><p><br /></p><p>Ergo, I see you</p><p>You see me also, I am sure</p><p>Or is this too much of an assumption? </p><p>Life is mind numbing</p><p>Also, I garnish it with my many obsessions and fears</p><p>But when I pause, and breathe, </p><p><br /></p><p>Your thoughts visit me </p><p>And I wonder how you are</p><p>I trust you're happy, in the very least. </p><p>That you get see your mom often</p><p>And take your son to the park</p><p>Pray, life isn't cruel to you, </p><p>And your wife loves you back, deeply </p><p><br /></p><p>In these fleeting moments, </p><p>I think of you, </p><p>Looking into your picture, in my mind</p><p>I feel a certain peace, haha</p><p>How wierd is life</p><p>There is nothing between us, anymore</p><p>But why does it feel, that still something is. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>wildflowerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02058577354878441243noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29479602.post-9962257044407923292022-02-19T20:50:00.001+05:302022-02-19T20:50:27.864+05:30House Hunting<p>The broker was an old man. I wonder where he is now.</p><p>The city was a stranger and behaving like it too. I was reluctant to give in too soon too. </p><p>But I had to rent an apartment, the need was almost desperate. So I went house hunting almost every other day. </p><p>There was this one apartment, the broker took me to. The time was early morning. The January sun was bright, the sky was absolutely clear with only a scanty scattered clouds. </p><p>This was one of those old apartment buildings - which aren't as showy or exorbitantly tall like the buildings coming up these days. But it was well maintained and almost hidden. </p><p>Once I entered from the front gate, I was surprised to see that there were almost half a dozen buildings - all built up to the third or fourth floor and each building must have had like 6-8 houses. Some of the apartments were duplexes. People who lived there must have settled there for life. Except tenants who came and left. </p><p>I started pacing up and down the narrow streets, lined with trees on both sides. These trees were lush and wild. There was no design. Clearly, the gardener had let her ideas flow. </p><p>It started feeling hotter, or perhaps I was wearing a jacket. Perhaps, I was worried I would get late for work. The broker who was almost twenty minutes late, showed up on his moped. </p><p>We went to check out one of the one-bedrooms on the ground floor. Sunlight wafted into the living room. A young mother sat rocking her newborn child. The father was gulping down his breakfast and rolling up his socks, in an almost frantic hurry. The broker asked permission to show me around the house.</p><p>Everybody smiled at everybody.</p><p>I tiptoed into the kitchen, following the young mother. I saw how she had set up shop. The little idols of her gods sat in the kitchen shelf. The air was a mix of incense and freshly cooked breakfast. The shelves beneath the stove were empty. I stood there for a minute silently comparing whether all my stuff would fit. I couldn't decide so fast and had to walk out.</p><p>She took us to the bedroom next. There was hardly any space around the bed. The broker started on how spacious the living room was and the small bedroom would not be a problem. A small window opened to the outside. I inquired about storage space.</p><p>The baby wailed, perhaps upon seeing the father leave. The mother rushed to the child.</p><p>We left. The broker called me a few times. I just couldn't make my mind up and continued seeing other houses. </p><p>Until I found another building, a little further away, and a neat little flat on its first floor.</p><p>Someone who lived on the third floor there, always cooked noodles in the afternoon. The corridor would overwhelmingly smell of soupy and tangy noodles when I would be on my way up the stairs to the terrace, almost everyday. </p><p>Some days, I would wonder if it would be okay if I knocked on all doors to find out who was cooking what. Although I never came around to it, I was pretty damn close.</p><p>When I was a young girl, and would watch cartoons in the afternoon after school, my mother would make for me noodles of that precise flavor and I would eat them straight off the pan, licking it clean.</p>wildflowerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02058577354878441243noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29479602.post-14835174326738038922021-11-07T15:44:00.001+05:302021-11-07T15:47:46.152+05:30No Love November Is it too late to look for love?<div><br><div>She thought this as she grabbed few files and tucked them under her arm. She gathered some more papers and stapled them. She was simultaneously looking for paper clips and love.</div><div><br></div><div>It was another late night at work. Lately there had been plenty of those. To begin with, this was not the case and work life balance was the mantra. But this had changed a few weeks ago and she had been going home, merely to sleep.</div></div><div><br></div><div>She assumed several Ubers would cancel on her, ultimately before she would somehow make it home. She should've felt tired, her day had been hectic. But being the night owl she was, she was almost bustling.</div><div><br></div><div>Fatigue is for mornings and not wanting to get out of bed. Now, she was agile. Myriad thoughts came to her mind, which had just been freed after culmination of a project that had been the cause of the late nights. One of those thoughts was the quest for love.</div><div><br></div><div>It had been furious when she was younger. It mellowed as she aged. For past few years, a peaceful complacency had settled in and several other items had surpassed love on her priority list. However, she could never completely give up the idea of being accepted and adored for who she was. And she believed she was a good person - past relationships may prove the contrary, nevertheless.</div><div><br></div><div>She looked at the hallway and grabbed her bags etc. A long weekend was to follow, may be should catch a movie. She didn't know about dinner. Perhaps, she wasn't hungry.</div><div><br></div><div>On the other end of the hallway, the lights in his cabin were still on. Dimmed, albeit still on. He usually stayed in late and sometimes slept on the couch, it was rumoured. His assistant made sure there was always a pressed shirt in his cabinet.</div><div><br></div><div>Anyway, she breathed in deep and prepared to non chalantly walk past his door. Their terms had been professional - bordering on impersonal. This was to ensure that their fling in the past never came in the way of their work chemistry, since they worked pretty closely. This formula had worked, so far so good. </div><div><br></div><div>She wasn't sure she could work for him. But he had insisted with an alluring offer when she was desperate for a change. Reluctantly, she had relented.</div><div><br></div><div>It was definitely not a coincidence that he was leaving exactly when she was leaving and politely asked her if she wanted a ride. She didn't. He told her it was late and Uber situation would be iffy. She yielded. </div><div><br></div><div>She had been wearing saris to work. After several months, he risked a lot to compliment her that saris indeed looked good on her. Despite all her self image issues of the bygone years. She smiled.</div><div><br></div><div>The elevators had stopped for the day. It was an old building after all, everybody went home at 7.</div><div><br></div><div>Together they started descending the stairs. From the seventh floor, it would be long way down. He grabbed the files from her hand, without asking.</div><div><br></div><div>Working on the weekend, eh? I've hired well. He quipped.</div><div><br></div><div>Too late? She thought again. </div>wildflowerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02058577354878441243noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29479602.post-89066522295394260752021-10-09T00:43:00.001+05:302021-10-09T00:43:49.230+05:30Poet, ThePicture you - dark & virile<div>Scathing with those eyes, </div><div>Irises as deep as two oceans</div><div>Curls of your hair, grab-worthy </div><div>Tall & shoulders wide </div><div>Yet, not too wide </div><div>You could shrink with need, if you like</div><div><br></div><div>Cheeks shining like honey</div><div>With a mind between those ears</div><div>Which can think endlessly, deeply </div><div>Leaping to & from fantasy and reality </div><div>But let's forget your mind</div><div>And focus on your chin, for tonite</div><div>Your grin, honest, your nose bulbous yet sharp</div><div><br></div><div>Things you wear</div><div>Your shoes - are so fun</div><div>Pretty sure, your socks are mismatched too</div><div>Your sweaters are perfection</div><div>Carrying colors in rows</div><div>So Christmasy - against a grey you</div><div>And pants, tall endless black pants </div><div><br></div><div>The way you sit</div><div>Rather, perch</div><div>Distant, introverted, distinctly self-possessed</div><div>And how you stand-</div><div>Hands locked behind your back </div><div>Leaning on various walls</div><div>Hair waving in salty sea breezes </div><div><br></div><div>I will leave your lips out</div><div>Precisely since words fail me, here</div><div>Your breath, I imagine must be always moist</div><div>Warm, with the exhaust of multitude of intellectual quests in your chest </div><div>And your chest, sometimes shirted</div><div>But mostly shirtless, with earphones plugged in</div><div><br></div><div><br></div>wildflowerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02058577354878441243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29479602.post-37087645445598711752021-10-02T09:17:00.003+05:302021-10-02T09:19:56.498+05:30Thirty-four<p>Heart breaks slowly over the course of years.</p><p>Then it catches its breath for a month or so, gathers itself for a bit.</p><p>Afterward, it begins breaking again.</p><p>Eons ago, I was a narcissist. </p><p>I loved myself, because nobody else would, apparently.</p><p>Went in deep into the trenches of my soul, scooped out love-stanzas, poetry, wild-lotuses, memories of things that weren't even there, built wind-palaces inside my head, and what-not.</p><p>It felt like the time of times - exploring day in and day out - what pictures to paste on the imaginary wall inside my head - like it was some unruly teenager's room - and what to discard.</p><p>Sometime later, this narcissism, felt misplaced - rather selfish - un-adult like; so I began to give it up. Without properly answering the question - so who would love me now?</p><p>More years went by, the subtle exhaustion of life kicked in. Searching for love, the ludicrous idea of holding on to a job, the gain and loss of weight, the ageing of everyone around - while I somewhat childishly stuck to a constant in time, refusing to get older - although the signs showed up shamelessly - the sagging of flesh, the visibility of veins, the graying of more and more strands of hair, the darkening under eyes.</p><p>But I aged, so swiftly sometimes, it took me by surprise. For months in between, I entirely abandoned myself - functioning like a pre-programmed robot - running from one task to the next, being carried from one day to the next with the gargantuan force of an invisible paranoia - I tried to be myself on some Saturday nights - but couldn't. </p><p>Then one day - I realized - I had finally shed all that obsessive narcissism for myself. For better or for worse or for both.</p><p>Now all I have for myself is empathy - enormous amounts of it - I weigh things quite differently. I am of course a bit crazy. Perhaps more than just a 'bit'. But okay. But, okay.</p><p>This slow, decay of narcissism has been a big part of growing up - in becoming the person I am. My heart too has broken along-with.</p><p>But clearly, some parts of it are still intact- from that morose period of years ago. Because on some rare Saturday mornings, I still slouch down to write - things like these. </p>wildflowerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02058577354878441243noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29479602.post-10609616748381892062021-09-01T19:02:00.006+05:302021-09-01T19:19:26.178+05:30Little Miss Sunshine Appreciation Post<p> An era ago, when I was in college, a few months before graduating, things got crazy. Walls began to crash and crumble. Walls that had been carefully built, brick by brick, to isolate and preserve, beside other useless things, my soul. Suddenly, everybody wanted to talk to everybody. It was weird. Although, not as weird as it would be now, but weird nevertheless. </p><p>I was not not the center of anyone's world in college, with below average looks, I wouldn't have scored above a six and half on any college going highly hormonal twenty year old, struggling to grow a moustache. But some folks still liked me. And I liked some folks. And if it were a Venn diagram, those circles of folks would be as far apart as geometrically possible, but yes, there were circles, filled with handful of boys in either category.</p><p>And there was this one particular, strange kid, who I now remember. Out of the blue, his name just dropped into my head after more than a decade or so. This was someone who always occupied the first bench in class, teacher's pet, almost obnoxiously. Many shunned him. But he was his own person and didn't need the recognition of others, as us regular good-for-nothings do. He was a nerd and unabashedly so. Library was a favorite hangout, outside of class, and it was funny because I would run into him in the library where I haunted the fiction rows, and he would try to initiate a conversation with me which I wouldn't know how to sustain and we would both part ways, feeling like utter failures.</p><p>And then college began to end, people got jobs and started looking forward to their lives as independent earning young individuals in the madding crowd. I was excited too, but had not a clue about how things would turn out. Except that I wanted to be free, absolutely free. But then freedom itself, if not empirically pure, binds an innocent in its chains, but that's another story. The nerd, in context, seemed pretty sure. Higher studies, of course, and a couple of doctorates, here and there. </p><p>So anyway. The last few months began to feel like the first few months of college. Lots of mixers, and farewells and dinner parties and catch-ups over drinks. And just to get a hang of it, I bought dresses for each one of those and made sure I attended them from end to end. I still don't know what I was thinking but that's what I did.</p><p>At one such party, the nerd, in context, walked up to me with a glass of what could be either sprite or vodka and asked me what my favorite movie was. I was into movies then, as I am now and as I will always be. I cannot recall what my answer to him was. </p><p>And then he told me his. Little Miss Sunshine. His adulation for the movie went on for a few minutes, till my friends started throwing a look in our direction and he sensed that too. Awkward went to worse and he walked away. We never spoke again. Because at that time and age, there's always a plethora of people in your life.</p><p>But now, when there is absolutely no-one, the silence is hard as ice and there is a draught of any meaningful emotion, I wish, I could thank him. Because I don't think I have ever seen a movie that evokes as much sensible beauty as Little Miss Sunshine. Touche' </p>wildflowerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02058577354878441243noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29479602.post-74265436250275967222021-08-20T20:05:00.003+05:302021-08-20T20:22:22.678+05:30Entourage<p>In an old house, that doesn't exist anymore, which had a nice courtyard, where a magenta hibiscus flourished and grew as tall as to show up on the roof, and which had two ponds to each side, the one on the right with fish aplenty and that on the left, abandoned to the wild, covered with hyacinth and huge bougainvillea trees leaning in like lovers and a rather obscure tree which bore huge citrus fruits which tasted like a distant cousin of an orange, quietly stood by, lived a family with several children, who chased chickens all day, played with wild flowers and lay on grass and waited, relentlessly for the mango season. And for autumn.</p><p>In autumn, the schools closed for festivities. Several cousins, uncles and aunts came down from cities and there were too many people for the old house, that some slept on the roof and some bathed in the river. The children, draped in new clothes, took trips to nearby villages and visited all the pooja pandals, shopped for trinkets and toys. But soon the holidays ran out and people had to go back. The night before such a day would feel desolate already, even though everyone was still there, the packed suitcases and bags dulled the mood. The children, of all beings, were the most heart broken.</p><p>Amidst things like these, an old uncle fetched all the children, from age four to sixteen and take them on an impromptu trip to the cabbage fields. The cold of winter would still be mild but mothers would have wrapped the little ones in mufflers and sweaters. The entourage would walk nimbly on muddied streets, carefully and then race when the road got better, some holding hands, staying together, others walking astray, wild and free, but still one as a pack, guided by the uncle's voice, and his bright torch light that lit up the path ahead. The dim bulbs that hung from lamp posts were good for nothing except attracting buzzing insects. </p><p>They walked by a canal that brimmed and the moon shone pretty in it. Ghost stories were narrated, much to the chagrin of the little ones. Upon many requests, they were traded for other stories, of zamindars and kings. They reached the nearest pooja pandal which was being retired, the goddess had been submerged in the canal earlier that day, there was a strange vacuum everywhere. The balloon sellers and snack sellers had vanished. The streets were still strewn with flowers and the air was still fragrant. </p><p>Then the platoon planned on returning, but uncle had a change of plans. He took the children to the vegetable fields. Whose vegetable fields those were, nobody knew. But they all walked in like they owned it. There was a not a soul nearby. Everything was dark, but for the moonlight, and twinkling immortal stars. The children touched and plucked tomatoes and chilies and cucumbers. Most of all, the cabbage fields took their collective breaths away, amazed with rows of green flowers, growing from the soil, flashing in torch light, they felt surreal. Uncle inspected the cabbages himself and the children followed suit, before marching back home victorious. They had conquered their fear of having to go back.</p><p>They washed their hands and feet and sat in a row in the courtyard and feasted on hot chapatis, baked on the open fire. </p>wildflowerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02058577354878441243noreply@blogger.com0