Mind Matters

I don't ever remember reflecting so deeply as a child. The carefree and fleeting thoughts seem so desirable now, but the grown mind can't find its way back down the convoluted path to that pretty candy cane home. The mind was a safe and clear place back then; but now having realised its infinite capacity, it gives the owner a sense of travelling down a black vortex for every thought that seeps in from the outside. Its spaces are both lonely and scary to venture into, yet ironically, equally gravitating. Sometimes it feels like there's a fuse that could blow off without a red sign. So I try sleeping it off, because when I wake my thoughts are either empty or busy calculating dreams.

Silent Screams

When she emerged from her mother's womb, they shed tears. Tears of joy, for it was a child they had all longed for. But slowly as they uncovered her and did not see in view that manly shaft, they got angry. They glared and groaned, shattered her mother, if only they knew that X chromosome came from that wicked father, they might have loved her more. Devoid of care and love, she grows strong within, fed enough to survive, sheltered enough to rise to the world that never really cares. They don't know what she's capable of, they undermine her faithful heart. She still carries on with the hope that one day she will rise like a phoenix from her remains of what they left of her. But then comes in another of their kind, forgetting that he ever left a mother and sister behind. He gives her that look which she knows isn't right, but despite struggling with all her might, her screams go unheard. He has the demon vested in him, his mind hosts thoughts that emanate from sick desires, half-knowledge and only given impetus by current predicaments. Her humble heart that screams, her infant face that shrieks, none are enough to make him change his mind. He believes he was born to own her, destroy her. It is our silence that makes him think so.

Up For Grabs?

I'd write, if I could. Write about it all. All those feelings. All those moments. All those desires and needs. About high mountain top expeditions, and staring far out at the clouds, wishing for a drop of rain and hope. The heart knows not what it wants and all the soul wants is to reach out and grab what it knows to be its own. That which has always belonged, but never really been possessed. A changing season, a skipped heartbeat, the union of souls, the heightened spirit.

Soul and a Wrench

A heart as cold as stone, that wrenching feeling refuses to cease. You wish it would take the life out of you but every sobbing breath you take goes against you. Every face reminds you of one that was yours, one that this heart held close and whose smile would be all one could ask for. If only consolations were enough, if only words could mean, if only death could take a leap. The hollowness is an unending abyss of pain and regret, emotions just aren't enough to release this pain. So we start seeking comfort in memories; they make a better present than what is. The pain and cognac blend well on these cold nights. Tears become meaningless, for the one that consoled can't make you feel warm and loved, and all that engulfs is the cold mist and loneliness.

Sipping Thoughts

I open my eyes to a sanguine sunrise creeping in through the shutters. The ringing of the newspaper boy's cycle bell reminds me of a day ahead that must be made worthwhile. Pulling the blanket over I slip into my chappals and head to make myself a cup of chai. Sipping on the hot concoction while sitting in the balcony and surrounded by the chirping of birds awakens my body and soul. I breathe in the fresh morning air in between sips.  It gets me thinking. There happens to be a lot more to the old lady who sets out at dawn after having prepared the days meals, washes the laundry handed to her the previous day and returns in time to drop her grandson off to school. The millions of things that race through her mind, while she constantly puts her thoughts to action or reflects on them. When her eyes first open, it is her high sense of responsibility that makes her jump out of bed and sets her racing around the house to get together a meal that will keep her grandson healthy while she judiciously cooks with what is available to her from her meager income. She must then gear herself up for the physically daunting task of washing every customer's garment in her possession until it gleams brightly and set them out to dry. She then heads to the vegetable bazaar and collects her day's wholesale buy to resell. Customer's from all strata of society  approach her; the gleam in their eyes on seeing fresh green vegetables itself lets her know that her customer is half won over, all that remains is for her to sell her product like a smart pitchman would. The bargaining begins its onslaught and goes on till both parties decide they've reached a consensus. The lady is happy with the deal and sets her eyes on the next customer who has been analyzing and might just be moving over to the next vendor and she can't allow that. Around dusk she packs up her belongings and heads back to the ghaat to collect the dried garments. Once picked and neatly folded, she ties them in a bedspread and sets out to return them and collect her returns. After a long day, her fragile, bent body heads home. No sooner she enters she receives a warm hug from the child that makes her lose all trouble and give a wide heart-warming smile. I smile to myself and step back into the daily chaos of life.

Parked in an Alley

Parked in an alley, she lay on the tattered seats of her '69 Chevy. The rain cleverly matches its tunes to her sobs. She searches for reasons and the lack of them is frustrating, it never seemed so difficult before. Suddenly everything had changed, she had been thrown into something probably a lot more than what she had asked for. Trying to hold on and stay put is what she just about manages to work with. The rain gradually reduces its decibel and as dawn seems to break, along with it comes the dread of more. But the pain is now a habit which has metamorphosed her physical being into an aura of light and divinity. 

Another Place Out There

The joy makes her feet spring and in leaps and bounds she merges into a whole new being, a transformation that she’d been looking forward to; a new journey, a new beginning. The intricately woven fabric of fate is now embroidered with a new patch, one that gleams and outshines the old threads. The ragged threads of wisdom, however old they may be, provide her with a motherly canopy just like that withered, old blanket in the winter.