Summer

Like a bright light
You came in through my
permeable window-like heart.
I opened it all for you
For flowers to bloom
And darkness to fade
But too much of something
Is bad, they say.
The heat burnt my skin
The flowers wilted
The home of amour I offered you
Was filled with hot air.
Guess you were like summer
Seasonal, transient
Leaving raindrops as you depart
Washing off every trail
But making a promise to come again,
Making a vow to come again.

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Nostalgia: Part 2- Spring.

While most people have summers or winters as their favourite seasons, spring is equally admirable to me. An underrated, yet a beautiful time of the year, it is associated with colours. In summers you’ve yellow, sunny days. Winters are all about white and grey. Spring starts with yellow leaves, eventually transitioning trees to green, while I watch the orange flame-like flowers bloom under the blue sky.

Spring brings me memories of childhood. It’s the time of year when I used to have a short vacation before getting upgraded to the next class. I’d walk on the yellow path that the neem tree at my house adorned with its leaves. I’d also regularly observe if the mango tree bore any mangoes, because collecting raw mangoes was definitely one of my and my cousins’ favourite pass times. We have always been enthusiastic about plants, due to which we sowed numerous of them during the time. Before the vacation ended, we’d start preparing ourselves for the summer break. We’d take out our ludo and carrom boards after a year, and start having demo games to be skilled enough by the summer vacation.

Upgrading to the subsequent class during spring makes perfect sense to me. Just as the nature starts fresh with spring, I’d begin a new chapter of my life simultaneously, every year.

She.

Draped in white,
She,
Born in hospital
With all the glee
She bloomed like a flower
Away from thorns
A daughter, a sister
Cheeks, red and curls, brown
Embracing red as she marries
Discovers a life
That’s not about fairies
A brunt of home
She, a wife, a mother
Eyes glisten bright
Hiding all the trouble
She grows old
A stick, no teeth
Her soulmate has died
She’s all bleak
When end comes near
God, they see
Draped in white
She.

The story that wasn’t

Twirling to the song,
I giggle endlessly

Trying to plie and flip
As I open my arms
Not sure if
I should move along
To this catchy beat
That’s taking me away
To the world of happiness
As I go on with my sway

What was that phrase
In the ‘Kite Runner’?
“They only let you
be this happy
When they’re preparing to take
Something from you”
Well let’s just risk this once
I will see what to do
So I take a leap
To get in to that place
But guess I’ll fall
And break my legs

Jittery, I close my eyes
Waking up to realize
I was dreaming all along
Of the things that I want
But what’s the harm
To give it a try?
Let me play the song
And live the dream
In real life

So now I’m twirling to the song
And I’m giggling endlessly.

The Song

You wrote a song for me
Said it entails everything
From what we had since the beginning
You added tunes and jingles
Took all the efforts you could
And presented it to me
On a sunny day, in the woods
I didn’t like it
It broke your heart
Disheartened, you went away
Somewhere far.
Turns out the song
Got imprinted in my head,
I listened to it everyday
Till my death.

Nostalgia: Part 1- Durgashtami

As I sit with a cup of tea on my balcony, I realize it’s my favourite time of the year. With my birthday and Diwali approaching I could sense the festivity in the air, except that this air isn’t something I’m familiar with. I’m habitual of a much higher frequency oscillating in the air, the frequency of the enchanting music playing in durga pandaals in every nook. That’s the difference between a metropolitan and a town. The euphony fades in the noisy, busy city. But it persists in a town in different forms.

For some, it is a religious belief; for others, it’s an awaited celebration filling excitement in the hearts of people. No points for guessing, I was among the latter ones. Every Ashtami, I and my cousins would plan to visit every single pandaal in the town, a sort of tradition that was bound to be followed. Surprisingly, I never came across such a tradition in 3 years of my life in a metropolitan simply because of a busy life stuck amidst clubs, malls and highways.

To be stuck in the crowd and wait in a queue for a glance of the idol is a memory I’ll always cherish.

Routine

An old weighing scale, probably rusted; a mat; notebooks and pencil: That’s what she carries everyday when she leaves home for school at 8 in the morning. As the school bell rings at 2 in the afternoon, all the kids run towards the gate barging each other. She is calm. She wouldn’t run. She has a brunt on her shoulder; not of the weighing scale but of her siblings, her senescent mother. So she can’t afford even a single scratch on the scale lest she falls. She marches to the same spot she’s been sitting on for last 4 months, earning whatever she could with that old machine. She sits on the mat she brings with her and keeps the weighing scale in front of her. Her elder brother sells balloons. At 9 in the night he picks her up and both of them return home.

This is her routine. She didn’t choose her life to be this way. She has dreams. But she cannot curse fate for where she is. In fact she’s glad that her destiny isn’t worse than this girl she was friends with, who was abducted and never made her way back home.

She sits beside her weighing scale and finishes her homework whenever she is free. She is dedicated to studies. Some days she would see customers, some days she wouldn’t. Strange gazes caught her, some of pity and some of sympathy. Some try to help her by offering food. She doesn’t like to accept offers for free, for that makes her feel like a beggar which she doesn’t approve of. She may not have money but she has self-esteem. Sometimes she has to keep her dignity aside for the sake of her family. So she keeps the offerings. But ever since her father abandoned the family she has promised to herself that she will stand on her feet to see her family in a position better than ever.

Apart from pity and sympathy, she receives gazes of lust as well. Shady lechers would pass by, sometimes even brushing up against her. She’s 12 years old but is mature enough to perceive the secret abductions going on. “Who knows what’s on the other side of this veil of expressions the random strangers have covered their faces with”, she thinks. Is there a cliff of ‘child labour’ one can be pushed off to? Or even a worse trap from which one is never coming back?” She’s alert and conscientious. That’s all what she can be. Life’s not easy. But she has faith that one morning when she wakes up, this routine of hers will end forever.

This is not just her story. A huge population is vulnerable to poverty and illiteracy. Many kids are under the risk of child trafficking, child labour and sexual abuse. Unless an effort is made to educate them and spread awareness, they will continue to suffer due to their state of naiveté.