Whispering Thoughts

Rhombic paper-mache of dreams Dancing aloft in wind currents. Undulating in the infinity. Conquering the crested iris. A distant silhouette Tasting the skies, Inspiring to look Further and higher. Tangled reins Locked in trance. Behold! Their rhythm, Ceaselessly goading. The unruly stringless wanderer Scaling the silver skylines. Skilled hands mastering The string, now loose, now taut, Willing it in to a smooth glide, Urging and encouraging the flight. Wide-eyed innocence Mesmerized, Their young beating heart, Reaching for stars, Untiringly, chasing the kites. Linking with : Alphabet Salad

Slender fingers, Held my tea-cup. Purple voice Poured prophecies. Something would hit me. I kept thinking car. But Cupid's Arrow! Cagey, Christine. You didn't tell me that. Or perhaps you did. But the voice died in jangle Of bangles on your wrist.

The cans were all empty. Three hungry stomachs growling and not a grain to feed them. It had been raining for three days now. And she had not been able to make her daily rounds, exchanging utensils for old, worn out clothes and then reselling them for paltry amounts to villagers and even poor. But she was not poor. She was beggarly. She and her three kids. It had not occurred to her husband in the moments of his physical wantonness to worry about providing for them. He had planted his seeds in her life and drunk his way to an early death, leaving her alone to fight daily battles of survival. And fighting she was. With every single fiber of her being. A relentless daily fight to win over the hardships. The pitter-patter rain drops harshly reminded her of the hollowness of food cans. Rumination could wait. She would have to forage first. She picked up a torn plastic bag and wrapped it around her head before stepping out of her lean-to. She drew back the bright blue patched tarpaulin ...

We fall, like snow flakes. Crystal wishes blanketing. Melting and blending, The firelight keeping us warm. Winter leaves a blazing trail. Courtesy: Friday Fictioneers Linking with Friday Fictioneers

Cackling chaos. Jokes Rattling in tiny footfalls. Withered souls, blooming.

My last tele-conversation with Laddu*** happened in May. The five year old nuisance has been pretending to be too busy running in the unpaved alleys between his house and ours, ferrying his Hotwheels collection alongside. So today was a definite surprise. An innocent hello of fresh-from-sleep chirpy nephew was last thing I expected to hear when I called mom. "We have come over to stay for a few days. Am sleeping in your room". Is Noddy there, too? I ask. "Yes, and ..." "And who else"? "Your Laddu!" pat came the reply. I melted. He kept up his naive yabber. ***Laddu is an Indian sweet and because my nephew loves eating Laddus, he is our Laddu, fondly. Linking with Friday Fictioneers

Every inhale, each Single exhale, rhythmic beats, Buried in your scent.

From the recycled quire, Fresh, clammy, and Heady with Wood and bleach, A blank A4 sheet Posed au naturel, Shivered slightly, Restive, yet patient. Teasing caresses Of my quill, Pregnant pause, Brazen coquet, Relenting gradually. The osculations left An indelible inky-blue trail.

Durga ran through the clutter of rickshaws ignoring the splatters of mud staining her soiled and frayed frock. In her rough and dry hands were wads of money, her reward for having slaved for a month in that palatial residence, scrubbing floors, dirty dishes and laundry. Finally, she would be able to pay her brother's school dues, long pending. But first she would have to hide this bundle from the bleary and glazed eyes of her wasted father. Drunk as he stayed, he had this amazing talent of sniffing the green currency from three houses away. She closed the door ever so gently, hastily and soundlessly making her way towards the attic where she slept. The plan was to hide the small parcel beneath her mattress before attending to her father. She was barely on second step when he called her out "lil princess ... Got a lil present for your daddy dear, have we, eh?" Firm and resolved, she shook her head, hiding her hands behind her, crumbling and crushing the crisp currency. B...

Not the roof above, Or hills yonder; roots nowhere; Home i take with me.

The faint fragrance drifts, Pears and coconut oil, Chiffon draped across her skin, Still moist from shower, Streak of fair waist Glistening against crimson red, Her umpteenth attempt to wake me up. I pull her in my embrace, The cooler, Buzzing somewhere.

A tiny drop, resting for a while, on your bare shoulder And then travelling down your soft and supple arm Leaving behind a moist trail And a growing rivulet of unsaid desires. Oh! The burning ache of the pleasure Allowed to that aqueous pearl. And as if I wasn't ablaze already, Another bead followed the lead Melting teasingly over the undraped cutis. One more and yet another, until they poured torrentially Enveloping you in their bedewed embrace. The sun relenting, Cedeing to the enticing invitation of The first showers of monsoon.

My prisitine icy gush from mountain snows Refining, smoothening the roughened rocks, Oft running past the perimeters, the untamed, savage surge Embracing and accepting all that you offer: Largely devotion and veneration Defying sciences, preferring rituals; Mostly refuse, muddying my being, While cleansing yours for eons and generations. Just the way it was destined. I am your salvation, A little murky now, but I will survive.

Quiescent whisper Trembles. Footfalls of Your Grace. All my yearnings yield.