That is Your Specialty

Things that could be expressed simply,

Were woven into an intricate web of words.

Took long for the meaning to surface,

The world had moved,

Was too late to reply.

That is your specialty, my dear friend.

You took all the bullets shot at you,

Silently, never uttering a single curse,

Without an option,

Had to do it for the one you loved.

That is your specialty, my dear friend.

The truth about myself,

Was so gently spilled into my ears,

My eyes open,

Now, I can see clearer.

Again, your specialty, my dear friend.

You embraced me,

When everyone had turned faces away,

That is your virtue, my dear friend.

Unaware

Climbing up the Rope of Life,
My grip grew stronger as I progressed.
All those memories behind,
Were left to crumble down,
Disappear.

Signs of you,
Were in my thoughts no more...
But, the feeling,
Still,
Survived.

"Now, I have a firm hold on it."
I said.
No more damage can be done,
You can shake me?
No, not anymore.

And just when I say this,
Why do I lose my grip, again?
Why can't the hollow you created be filled?
Why does it affect me still?


Why does the pain not go?
Yet, no one to answer my pleas,

And you lie somewhere,
Absolutely Unaware!

The World of Oblivion

A gust of wind had hit her face as she was lying comfortably on her bed, when she opened her eyes. Her bed was placed right in front of the window. It had rained throughout the day but things had settled down now and all was peaceful. The night-sky was rubicund (for all the rain). There was no trace of stars. A pleasant breeze made the night more enjoyable. The clouds sailed by just the way waves of music float in the air. These clouds were not like the thunderstorm-clouds which one is scared of, but were the tranquil ones that one has always fancied touching. It was so serene.

She wanted to go away from all the madness just for a little while. This made her climb up on the window sill and jump high to catch the tail of a passing cloud. She wanted to fly away with it. The cloud was moving at great speed and her body hung to it, dangling. She grappled but managed to reach the top of the cloud. Every step that she took got buried into the cool, cottony substance. The wind was stronger. If it were not for the clouds holding her feet, she would have found it difficult to maintain balance. She had to wade through it.

She felt the clouds, the wind and the whisper of the wind blowing. The world seemed beautiful from here. No madness. She now stood in front of a mountain-sized puff of cloud. It was so high, that she could not perceive where the top was. She sat down with her back against it. The clouds were carrying her away, somewhere, and the thought of going back did not pass her mind. Her thoughts moved from one subject to another.... all random.....all muddled up. She got transported to her dream world, the world of oblivion.

Black

It was a cold and windy day, the kind of weather that can extirpate all one's strength, if one were to stay out for some time. The old woman's demeanor did not suggest that she could bear to be outside in such a harsh weather and yet she sat, with her head down, on the wooden bench in the park, without complaining, without a groan. She was dressed in black all over: black shoes, black trousers, black shirt, black overcoat and a black hat.  It was a gloomy day, not a soul in sight, as if all life had been wiped out from the face of the earth. Her presence added to the day's obscurity and her black attire to the effect created by the dark clouds.

Every now and then, my thoughts went back to the wizened old woman. Maybe she was waiting for someone. Maybe she will go back when she can take no more. What was she thinking? Why was she alone? Is there something I can do for her? What had caused her to look so shriveled?

Was it old age?  

Maybe she had nowhere to go.....

It Was a Blowfish...

They sailed past the island and were now somewhere in the middle of the archipelago. At the horizon, one could see that it was almost time for the ball of fire to get submerged into the waters and relinquish all the vigour with which it had burned during the day; this was considered one of the best hours of the day to try a hand at it. Everybody on the boat had a rod in their hands. Everyone was patient except one little girl. She had seen how Tom catches fish in her favourite cartoon and this always kept her under the impression that it was not a hard task. One just had to sit with the fishing rod in one’s hand, bait attached to its hook and it was only a matter of a few minutes before you see success; little idea did she have about the amount of force required to pull a fish up and that her lean arms were not apt for the job.

Her father was the first one to catch. It was a blowfish she had seen for the first time. They put it in one of those old-fashioned iron pails. It had a shiny black exterior speckled with white dots; the lower part of its body was white with yellow lines running through to the tail. The girl could see its gills throbbing.  It was jumping and bouncing; trying to do something that could get it back into the water, so that she can live a few more days, a normal life, so that it could be with its little ones for whom it had come in search of food. But, how could it survive when everything it was surrounded by was against it. The girl watched the fish flutter; something inside her, urged her to save it.

 Her watch ticked by, the fish had stopped all movements and was still, even the sounds made by it could no more be heard. The sun had gone down, the light from the tiny CFL under the boat’s shade added even more gloom into the atmosphere and a quaint silence prevailed all around.

Collective Stinging

Yes, it required immediate attention so I ran into mum-dad's room last night at 1 o'clock and quickly prodded dad out of slumber. After I came back to my room, I started examining my face again. There was nothing I could do right now to cure it. I had taken the medicine, but it won't go. It looked as if three bees had collectively stung different parts of my face. One on the upper lip.......one on the upper right eye lid....and the third on the lower left eyelid. I mean how would you feel if you woke up one fine night (or call it morning, if it suits you) to relieve yourself and instead find out that something more troublesome has happened? Your face has ballooned out; it has become swollen and started looking ugly with rubescence all over. You can't help itching. You don't even know whether it will ever go or not, leave alone the uncertainty about the amount of time it will take. So, you go off to sleep in a state of dejection; next day is a big day for you (Every day is big, so what if you are on a vacation?) and you are left with no other choice.

Next day, mum tells you that you look pretty and makes your situation even more arduous. You spot dad smiling secretly at your predicament. "Wow! Things couldn't be better than this.....What a life?!" You would say.
It is true that life is like that, so move on. Live your Big Day. Let nothing stop you!

PS: - The disease is called Urticaria in which red, itchy welts appear on the skin; and when on eyes and lips it is called angiodema ( and trust me it doesn't look very pleasant).

An Unexpected Loss

From somewhere in between the mountains a voice called out her name. The voice told her to go back and finish things she had left undone. She had been away from home for almost three weeks now and still did not want to return. She was running away from her own past. She was not the kind who has the courage enough to face hard times. Her loved ones had always told her that these escapist tendencies in her are signs of a weak soul inside. Not that she, had never tried to get rid of these bad qualities. At some point or the other in our lives, all of us have realized what is wrong and needs to be set right but have failed to correct it. It becomes a part of who you are, a part which requires great force to be pulled out.

She tried to divert her mind. She went to places absolutely unheard of (one probably sees them only in ones dreams), she saw things she had never seen before. But, nothing, no horse- rides, no walks through the orchards, no sipping of coffee on a cold morning, no feeding the birds, no sun setting behind the mountains, however fine the weather may be, however pleasant the breeze, nothing could make her forget. 

Every half hour she would be reminded of the good times she spent at home. She could hear the laughs and cries of her family, enjoying, calling her back. She would see people dancing on her sister’s wedding. She would see her mother telling her all the time to dress up well. Her father would pamper her. But when she would return home there would be no one there…. The house would be empty.