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.

Why Do You Serve Us?

He was holding the tray tightly when he entered the hall. He had a red t-shirt and a pair of dark-brown trousers on, hair oiled and neatly combed in a side-parting. While he walked along the benches or served water to us, he remained expressionless. Every time he would see us communicate in English, his mind would be filled with all sorts of questions. It must have taken a lot of effort to learn a new language? He would try to make out what we were talking but without any success. He barely knew two-three words in English. He would also wonder what we wrote in exams or what they taught us in schools. Why did we study so much? What is the point in writing exams? Why did he never get the opportunity?

My first encounter with him brought a frown to my face. While I was engrossed in writing my paper he went around the hall, holding the tray in his hands. I had only momentarily lifted my head to look at the wall clock when my eye caught a glimpse of him. His presence made me uncomfortable and at the same time ashamed. This was not the place for him. The difference between him and me struck me. It was as if there is a huge valley between me and him, to cross which, would be a formidable challenge for him.

He was hired to serve, by people who claim to be committed to doing their best in imparting education!

I Miss You

They allow me into their world every time I open a book; and every time I do so it's as if my actual surroundings are sucked into and metamorphosed into the surroundings of the characters inside the book. I keep standing there and all the action takes place right in front of my eyes. I go slow, letting every detail sink in. I come to know the characters all too well and get a welcoming response. The more pages I turn, the closer we get. It gives a feeling that they are comforted by my presence; there is someone who is interested in hearing all that is happening; someone so impervious that all the emotions can be shared; someone who wants it to be a happy-ending for them.

I give it several days before I finish a book and so each day some small part of my life is spent with them. The credit lies with the writers, pouring in their chimera, that readers like me want to go back to a book.

If the mood is sunny; it is sunny for me; if it’s dark, it is dark for me. The days I don’t read, a gap is created. Someone goes missing. It feels so important to meet that person again. The connection that has already been created must not be severed. I will miss you Winston. I miss you Mellors, Scout, Jem, Connie, Julia.

Why then, do I always say I don’t have any friends?

If One were To Compare?

A Sketch of My Profile Picture