My time. My time to rule and regain. My time to change and develop. My time to cashback. My time to realise the certainty. My time to live the constant, again. My time to undo and start over. My time to let go. My time to disagree. My time to understand. My time to cry and laugh. My time to be there and everywhere at once. My time to be quiet. My time to see and smile. My time had/ has / will come.
Sunday, 10 December 2017
Winter morning sun, a plate full of amlas drying on the terrace soaking in the air makes for a delicious amla pickle recipe. Of course the ceramic pickle jar, oil and a mixture of spices add zingy flavours to the story, but this happens much later.
Go ask the winter sun what magic it carries, sprinkling warmth and soothing glow, intoxicating the land and almost everyone you know. Or ask a farmer who works bare feet for hours and hours, sweating and smiling.
Go sit on the terrace on the pretext of shielding the amlas from those happy big flies. Beware, the air will make you high, for it brings along winter folk tales and songs, colourful kites and children’s laughter.
Winter just appears to be slow and quiet, maybe such is its inner joy and creativity. The spell will work, all you have to do is ask the winter sun, sit on the terrace or taste the amla pickle.
(Amla - Indian Gooseberry
Photo curtesy - Google)
Thursday, 30 November 2017
Smile that sunflower smile, I love to see your beaming face, eyes closed and the rosy glow. Oh, come on! Remember those winters how we huddled to be in direct sunlight… warmth of the burning star touched our souls, and we smiled.
Peeping through the bushes, the sunlight always made me feel like I am in a photograph – yet to be taken.
While the tiny white daisies were busy decorating and tackling the mad wind, blushing, swaying and often taunting it for impeding their progress, the sunflowers stayed glued like a crayon drawing on the wall, letting the sun seep within.
Seeing the clouds approach, the sunflowers never trembled or rebuked the sky’s spongy friends… for the sunflowers could feel the presence of that warm burning star, part of it now stored inside them.
Maybe that’s why sunflowers’ signature reads ‘Forever’ rather than their glowing name. Oh, how lovely!
Now just smile that sunflower smile, I love to see your beaming face, eyes closed and the rosy glow.
Monday, 20 November 2017
Living in a quiet and slow dust storm, I wonder if I am moving at all. Just as I approach the wall, it becomes dust and so does everything else.
What makes me thirsty? Is it the sound of future, my desire to see it or the knowledge of nothing? Sliding, swaying, fumbling I reach a well and quench my thirst happily.
Often a friend guides me, though, who borrows memories from whom isn’t clear to me as of now. But I am sure of my useless attempts to gather the dust after it is all gone.
Standing still I come across a sea of mirrors, I choose one and take the place in front of it. I tell myself I am ready to take the dive, the mirror repeats my words and then without a sound or any movement, I turn into dust.
Friday, 3 November 2017
Dragging oneself ahead, only because dragging backwards would be difficult and funny, doesn’t complete you.
Following an invisible lazy path in a directionless haste, refusing to change also won’t complete you.
With a quintal of clarity in mind and a certain blind belief when you finally try to pull the rusty chains of action they break. However mild, an action will lead to a reaction and so the wheel will turn.
Kill the illusion of faraway future that you nurture daily, tear that plastic hexagonal dream, burn that paper palace lying crumpled in a drawer and stand up to face the truth that you were born with. It’s nothing but you. You’re the truth.
Friday, 27 October 2017
After my failed attempt to balance, I realised I am missing an ingredient. It’s forgotten, it’s forbidden, it’s evil. Closed in a trunk and locked and chained, thrown down in a deep dark hole. Maybe that’s why it screeches and hurts when it reaches the surface.
Do I also need to be blindfolded before I balance? Not seeing means not feeling? Are both the forces ruthless in essence? Should we maintain silence to listen?
My means aren’t in fashion, but are prudent. The act has begun, I can see the missing ingredient now. So I attempt again to balance.
Tuesday, 24 October 2017
“Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.” – Simone Weil
Stone steps lead up to a place I am yet to see. Dealing with the quietness interrupted intermittently by sweet songs of the birds, I continue ahead. My mind usher some unwanted thoughts and force me to dwell on and on and on, until I refuse, pause and take a deep breath. Don’t inquire for I don’t know why I am smiling, but I am and it has opened the collection of happy memories. Beaming face feels like being in an ocean of flowers. I start knitting happy thoughts with the golden thread of dreams and everything seems possible, the world is mine. A castle is constructed, my reign flourishes in seconds and in seconds I see my downfall. When I gather the broken pieces and stand up, I see the stone steps staring at me. No dialogues are exchanged, and I continue ahead.
When I wake up, I don’t think much of this dream. I am already late to rush into my monotonous routine. The running time never bargains while I always find a reason to bargain, but I haven’t cracked a deal even once.
The whole day I critique myself, like a ritual, except when the dream hushes me-the-perfect and me-the-kind takes over.
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