Whispering Thoughts

Tiny hands fumbling, Contouring cursives. Tiny feet staggering, Spanning corridor. His babble, Seldom making sense. And now Confident hands Arranging bookshelves. Confident strides Shifting furniture. Occasionally nuggets of wisdom In complete innocence. His hearty embrace unchanged. He comes running for one now.

Letters! Wrinkled, thumbed, yellowed. Dated her collegedays. All beginning with "Dearest Dora". Dora! Doreen! The vexatious old Doreen! Incorrigibly narky, Definitely unsweet. And yet, Here it is. Her very own Sweet, Pricey, Sealed carton story, Being sold to scrapdealer, With quivering hands.

Despite the layers, she stiffled a shiver, Under a foggy grey sky, without a visible star, Amidst a myriad of humans and cars, an endless sea. His words stirred her, like ripples in the sea, With bated breath she listened, stiffled another shiver, Moon would have made it perfect, moon and some star. But she knew they were out there, both the moon and the star, And that made it perfect. Her own perfect little story in a sea Of infinite love stories. Two souls bursting in an ecstatic shiver. She stiffled another shiver, was it because there was no moon or star that she was now left with a sea of memories.

Dear Monday, I participated in December poetry slam : Tritinas. Of the two prompts given to me, I have attempted one. On a workMonday, I could afford only these many measly minutes. Plus the skepticism about trying a totally new thing. But I liked the format so I will try the other set soon. On with the prompt set: Christine Hanolsy suggested the following set for me: dark, wind, gold. And here's my very first Tritina: Only if you were not a dream of dark Winter night; I would have told the wind, To call you back; Bonding beneath the sliver of silvery gold. But when the skies were stained a sparkling gold, All I had with me were wrinkled reminders from dark, And some lilting sussarations of the cold moist wind. Slowly the leaves and straws scattered in the wind, With the wind. Slowly, through you I turned to gold, Burning yet satiated, Like fireflies in the dark. Like a wanderer's homecoming from the dark, like a sparrow in sweeping strong wind, like a moth draw...

The castle had seen its days of glory. When the days were splendid and nights beautiful. It was one such beautiful night that Radhini's first cries echoed in the mansion. Radhini, the princess, ruled the hearts. Her melodies filled the corners of the palace. She was the spring, summer and autumn of that place. She was the smiles and joys of her father, the king to the civilians. She was heart and soul of the village. Then Radhini, who ruled the hearts, lost her heart. To a civilian. Who did not belong to the royalty. Who was a common man from common lanes of village. And that was not unacceptable to those who formulate the rules and ordinances and decrees. In the name of honour, swords were drawn. And blood was shed. The village was swept away in red streams. The melodies were silenced forever. Radhini became the winter of the mansion. Perpetual, everlasting winter. The castle and its territory weathered the dark nights alone ever since, robbed of its glory. Wanderers and passers...

Did you just see what she was wearing? Actually, it is only a little short. What time did she get back last night? Actually, she did not. She returned this morning. What is it with her and her phone? She rarely leaves it alone. Actually kids these days like to stay connected. All the time. Night stay with friends? Actually, its just a night stay. A Boy friend? At her age? Take a chill pill. Seems like I am raking against a wall. Seems like we are growing old. Don't worry her roots will stay tangled in our little web. Courtesy: Friday Fictioneers Linking with: Friday Fictioneers

Funerals were commonplace in the valley. And it was not suprising. The gunfires and bombings heralded their mornings instead of temple chimes and prayers. The evening dusks came with tears and cries. Goodbyes were said often to the loved ones. That was their price for living near the border, those manmade boundaries on paper that distinguished where their terrains and territories ended and where the others began. Yes, funerals were commonplace in the valley. No massive rituals. No waiting for distant dear ones. Swift quick prayers whispered in the soft winds. You don't need echoes where silence is in abundance. Linking with Velvet Verbosity : 100 words : Chimes

So, I stared, Too long, That She looked up. And In that moment, I drowned eternally, In those Caramelized deeps. Never bothering to return to shore. And right there, In that coffee-shop, I redeemed, I retrieved, All of myself, From dark abysses.

Dear Monday, Its finally winters. Not the average, mildly sweatered, bright sunny winters. But snowy, shivery, dark and damp winters. They have finally arrived. With lots of snow over the weekend. The very thought when penned down gave me goosebumps. So while the world gears up for Christmas, the people back home are gearing to face power cuts, freezing water and freezing temperatures. I have been strictly warned to assist and not to call on landline. Because it is placed in the corridor and it is numbingly cold for them to stand there and talk. The markets are full of veggies, colorful, nutritious bounties so lacking in summers. And groundnuts, walnuts, cashewnuts, chilgozas ... Mouthwatering, delectable treats. Not to forget the woollen wardrobe that has so much to offer. Now that I think of all these things, winters suddenly don't sound gloomy at all. And I guess I am running out of my measly minutes also. I have to splash cold water on my face. Hey, can we stretch...

To hem their blessings with thank you. To pray, not just with mouth but from the depths of their hearts. That was their plan to herald “The Big Day”, the day the Good Lord was born. The Big Day – when the weather would turn and the days would begin to lengthen again. Or rather used to. The days were changing. So were weathers. And what were the mortals to make out of the ways of nature. It had never been so cold before. The rain mixed with snow was numbing. Snow at merely 3000ft above sea level. Now who could have thought of that. So the winters would stay. It was just the beginning. And so they layered themselves up, wearing literally thick blankets, while trying to hasten about their daily errands and while trying to be in time for the holy get-together. Amidst the numbing cold, the township was bustling with festivities. Gaiety and merriment turned the somber dull winters to bright bubbling arroyos. … Their choirs are singing, Till the air, everywhere, now...

Every time the trucks come and dump loads of urban wastes. All sorts. Plastic. Metal. Dirt. Paper. Thermocol. Biodegradable. Non-biodegradable. Anything and everything imaginable. Week after week. Month after month. Annually. Perennially. The heap accumulates. On the banks. On the hill side. On all sides. The heap enured to additions. The heap enured with time. The humans enured to heap. And then it rains. It rains for days. It rains heavily. Persistently. The rivulet fills up. The stream becomes river. The river floods up. Violent. Turbulent. Enraged. Infuriated. Washing everything in its wake. The aftermath cleansing. The backwash purifying. Ablutionary. Punitory. Absolvitory. Courtesy: Friday Fictioneers Linking with Friday Fictioneers

The water in the kettle simmered. Raji looked intently. Beyond the kettle, beyond the window. Beyond the barren brown spread. Into the vacuum. She had just returned from the Bank. Her fifth round after her husband's death four months back. They had sent condolences. And they had doled out paltry sums of money like handouts to beggars. But the ex-gratia, the lumpsum of 6 lakhs, they just keep denying it to her. Keep telling her she earns exactly Rs.6.66/- more than the cutoff. Like its her fault. Rattling kettle-lid brought her back. Had to get dinner ready for her kids. Linking with Velvet Verbosity: 100 words: Kettle

Somber infinities Versus Legions of Sempiternal Blest, Beatified Moments together. Entirety of being Pitted against Zeroed souls. One question. One answer. The stakes, high. Breath, bated. We can take the risk and fall. Or Live with wasted souls. Either ways, we lose.

Nobody's tomorrow is guaranteed. You. Mine. Nobody. Yeah! Nobody gets a promise of "afterwards". It is right here. Right now. It is the breath we inhale. Or exhale. The vice versa, well ... that is a huge question mark. We live in piece meals. Postponing living. All the while waiting for a tomorrow we have not seen, we are not sure of. And the present is crumpled and consigned to shadows. The hands wipe a layer of dust from the windows of yesterday. A lifeful of regrets peep through. Trust me, it does not take time for time to become a memory.

Dear winter, So long. Am I glad to bump into you. Your cold caresses make me feel so loved. Snug and warm. A wanting that exuberant summers do not satiate. Nor do the falls of autumn. May be because I am a hill girl. And wherever you take me, you cannot take that away from me. The smoky evenings, the air laden with earthy aroma of burning coal, The hushed eventide arriving swiftly and urgently with sunset, The freezing water And amidst it all, The perseverance To herald summers with vigour and spirit. Winters, It is time for me to be home. Linking with Five Minute Friday: Dear

It would be a head-long fall. Treacherous, Precarious, Unruly dive, In Ring of fire. With Gravity deluding, And flames rising Higher, My best bet Would be to Fall. Without looking back. Toppling dominoes, Shifting sands, Yielding heart. An unwavering Leap of faith.

Nearly midnight. The wedding band is playing in full swing. That is what Punjabi weddings are famous for. They are lavish and loud. Trying to sleep. But the band is keeping me awake. My roommate has already fallen asleep. I guess so have other girls in other rooms. But I am wide awake. The beats die down intermittently only to resume with gusto. So many thoughts, some conflicting some condescending. Earlier in the day, I said goodbye to yet another association. Farewells have become a part of life over the years. Occasionally I cry but mostly I am able to control the tide. Every person you meet becomes a part of story, a chapter in your bestseller. You learn. You share. You grow. Happy trails to all those who have played their part for the time. Until we meet again, may God keep them all in palm of his hand. The band has stopped playing. I guess I should catch some sleep too before succumbing to the monotony of morning. Welfare unto all ...