We were busy sitting straight
Colouring inside lines
Getting caught up in grades
Letting sketchbooks fade
And losing ourselves thus
Never standing out
Never making a fuss.
Oh, why didn’t we want our quirks to be seen?
We never really liked filling trees with green!
I have a map.
Dotted and streaked
With bold, adventurous plans.
I have a boat.
It glides and nods,
Cuts through waves,
But takes me on a new path,
An unknown trail.
I have a compass.
It flits and flirts with the wind,
Wayward and difficult,
Points to directions I haven’t framed.
And there is no lighthouse to lead the way.
I have an anchor.
It’s been on the mast since I set sail.
I hop onto it to brave the weather, uncertain.
My map is a criss-cross of contrasting inks,
But in for the ride,
However it fares.
I am navigating through life.
Photo by Oliver Cole via unsplash.com
Can you hear the lullaby
Or my mother’s touch feel.
Can you see the Alphabet
That I learned here to read.
Can you picture that first kiss,
Sense how it filled me with glee.
Can you listen the sweet warble
Of his first letter to me.
Can you tell the heartbreak
Didn’t fight shy of cutting deep.
Can you grasp the moments
Of which this bench holds memories.
Image courtesy of pixabay.com
Long walks, longer drives
Cool grass, clear skies
Loose sweaters, new shoes
Smiling faces, fruit juice
Petrichor, the colour yellow
Waning moon, a starry wallow
Paper planes, fairy lights
Hearty grins, chocolate bites
New leaps, coffee treats
Snug blankets, snowy sheets
Lazy dreams, a heart fickle
My safe and sound is a listicle.
:photo by Aaron Buden, courtesy of unsplash.com
On the ceiling, dragons breathing fire
Squelch across smoky skies and clouds gray
Erupting a sprightly bout of shadows
A trapdoor opens and takes her away.
On the floor, a big hole
Gyrates demons that is to say
Unearthing a darkness inside
A trapdoor opens and takes her away.
Up on the wall, flashbacks
Swirl and nerves fray
Schlepping memories out of blank space
Out of nowhere – a trapdoor opens and takes her away.
She set out to ford the rill
fed by a spring of the rocky hill.
Took many a nap
in her woolen cap,
tuning in to the heart’s trill.
I usually end my day with either reading or writing something. Today, I thought of welding the two worlds together, by writing about a book I read by my night lamp: The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy.
Roy delves into sexual abuse, gender bias, and untouchability in a subtle and poignant manner, stimulating deep thoughts on these issues. The story is set in 1969, in the south Indian state of Kerala. She narrates the story as if it were unlayering the thoughts of the two twins, Rahel and Estha, with words which evince innocence – Orangedrink Lemondrink Uncle, light blue carsounds, bumpy red road, . The sentences are as rich as they are moving. Twins separated following an unfortunate incident, a loved one dying because of a wretched system, and a mother spending her last moments alone after a series of unfair events – everything transpires as if one were half expecting it, but shocks and saddens in equal measure as the story unfolds. “Who should be loved, and how. And how much” is a question which forms the nub of story. The question is posed when the twins’ mother leaks her “Unsafe Edge” that leads her “to love by night the man her children loved by day.” It is posed again when the society looks down upon it. And yet again, when Estha’s quietness and Rahel’s emptiness finally merges. Roy depicts the malaise of the characters’ lives through words which depart from the literal sense, thus evoking deep emotions in the reader’s heart. It’s a beautifully written tale about love laws, and how they destroyed lives. How the small things led to a sad turn of events and shook the big things. It is a story I read months ago but one that has stayed with and will stick around.
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The beauty enraptured him, distracted him, and injected a new energy in his days. A sweet smell rode the air again. The newness had brought with it the curiosity, and a hundred different ways to unravel it. The raconteur in him yearned to chart the course, to peel off the silken layers and imbibe the splendour. He liked how he had woken up one day to find all the trees effloresced. He liked how it all happened without any warning. The wind carried contours of a melody. Sometimes the moonlight set the red trees on fire.
But the moon soon began to wane. The trees soon began to shed the frills. His interest soon began to fade and his mood plummeted. Had he anticipated this to be as graceful and fleeting as the fall? Had he only admired the exquisiteness, knowing that it was ephemeral?
The beauty enraptured him, distracted him, and injected a new energy in his days. That sweet smell rode the air again. The Sakura had bloomed again.
The Sakura or the cherry blossom flower is a celebrated feature of Japan’s spring. It is revered as a symbol of exquisiteness and transience. The bloom of Sakura is associated with the traditional custom of Hanami, or flower watching.
Photo courtesy of Timothy Ries via unsplash.com