Inklings from Turmoil-2

My blanket is not the only terrain of turmoil. I look around myself and I see an absolute expanse of walls narrowly containing a universe longing for lost touch of its freedom, drained and dissolving, reciting rhymes of supreme domination and then a sudden destruction. These walls arresting me and my universe, now proudly govern life, unfazed by pains and prayers of their captive, culprit, convict world. Draconian and despotic, just when these heartless walls stand firm, drowned in power, my eyes trace humble origins of a new life setting to rise. I see a crease of desquamating flakes crawling and climbing the surface of these walls, in silence. Eternal dust, immortal earth in little particles of sand, grit, cement emerge along the line of this crease. And all of a sudden, they are everywhere, appearing from all edges and corners of room, some too faint, some with frightening extensions, turning into crevices, fissures and cracks. They all appear to be merging into each other in embryonic attempts, uniting their asymmetric strengths as if to defeat the repression of these walls. They represent just another frame of rise, rebellion and ruin.

For a once- tremendously thundering world brought to its knees by a submicroscopic entity with cosmic possession, where the prominent resplendence of human presence has been reduced to a deserted quarantined existence, where commerce and capital erected on ashes and shreds of other life forms have been overturned by unimagined renaissance of nature, where the monstrous establishments of human life have been dismantled by molecular clusters of carbon- mere protein, RNA creations that govern our lives and deaths today yet which are, so ironically, neither precisely living nor dead themselves; a virus has unmasked long denied and discarded realisations.

The universe that grows emptier, slips into a void with human existence dissolving into isolation, piece by piece, layer by layer, word by word. It liberates the spaces it had curfewed for other creations so far and whispers some of its hard-hitting revelations. It speaks of a vibrant explosion that it was borne from and a dynamic course of evolution that followed, during which countless species of animals, plants and microorganisms flourished, diverged and perished. Their natural ecological niches were well marked and put into a self-sustained unbroken continuum of energy exchange with environment.

Important to learn that the essential substratum of universe had always been in a constant state of Darwinian “turbulence” that balanced all life forms naturally and impartially. The “impermanence” that underlined this flux of universe had generated a harmonious relation, where “differences” and “diversities” were blended into a syncretic coexistence until the race of evolutionarily most advanced humans arrived. Equipped with supreme level of speech, sense, language, consciousness, emotion, art, culture, civilisation, mobility, we soon snatched the imperial sceptre of power from the undisturbed nature and assumed an unrestrained dominance over universe. The very inability to accept the foundational core of universal “impermanence” and “mortality” made humans intolerant and predacious in their attempts to homogenise all creations of nature into commercially profitable investments, natural habitats of viruses and microorganisms were plundered exposing them to look for new hosts, trees and wildlife were razed, ecological cycles collapsed, religions were bankrupted by hatred, terrorism, pollution, climate change, nuclear warfare, global warming, oppression were installed as norms, destruction became a culture and thereon, humans evolved into pernicious and hazardous biological fascists.

The Covid- 19 crisis looming over us might just be a nature’s attempt of “Malthusian” revenge or reclaim– that remains a thing of subjective perception, but to me, it is an insight into what the wounded nature screams as it walks me through forgotten truths of good old times. It teaches me how things should have always been, through all these metaphysical intimations and poetic manoeuvres. These are evident lessons on “turmoil” and “impermanence” relevant to these times when the allocated boundaries of our existence had been broken.

Moon and stars shining as rulers of night are overpowered by waves of dark clouds. The arrogant thunders of these clouds are silenced by rising rustle of winds which inturn are defeated by absolute spread of silence. The usual chaos that ruled the roads is now replaced by a lifeless calm. The violent noise on faces is now enslaved by fibres of mask. The succession continues even in my room where silence is overturned by sounds of breaths which are then drowned by racing beats of heart. Threads printed on my blanket are rendered useless by strands of wool. The firm cemented dominance of walls is shaken by creases and cracks. Grains of earth and particles of soil arising from these cracks remind the mighty walls of their disremembered elemental origins as does this virus to all of us. This, constructs and confirms the universal contrast of dynamic existence – a life juxtaposed with a fall, a creation coexisting with a completion- all commanded ultimately by supreme nature. But what still begs our attention is- “Is this enough to accept the possibility of our own extinction?”


Inklings from Turmoil- 1

The crescent tonight is surrounded by a fearless ring of light that battles the grasp of clouds. These clouds hunt ruthlessly in dark spread of night like fragments and pieces of earth ripped apart. The sky is drowned in a sorrow, deprived of its usual sparkle of stars. These lifeless stars are curtained under disappearing shimmers of their pride. My attempts to create a delusional demarcation are defeated by restless thoughts, as I stand in my balcony, tonight- my usual staircase of escape into the fields of heaven.

The picture on earth resonates mysteriously with the celestial histrionics being staged in sky. The streets here are abandoned in forgotten taste of human footprints. I see solitary vegetable vendor with unmasked emotions of despair on his poorly covered face, dragging the wheels of his unsold market, making final attempts to battle emptiness in his pocket. There are feeble chants of prayers and abandoned whispers of helpless minds in houses around me, where survival of life is signalled by only a streak of light. In this loud silence of world, with no thunder of war cries, no cheers of power, no slogans of pride, only a flagrant rustle of winds scratches my sight.

Resting on bed, in a colossal castle of my diminishing presence, detained under the rule of an absolutist silence, the universe around me, caged in walls of my room, suddenly assumes a hyperrealistic dimension. The contrasting limits of my consciousness are erased and an ambush of terrifying emotions encounters me. Turmoil rules the domain. A calm universe silently melting, dripping and leaking unravels its unspoken truths and unseen realities as it dims and disappears into lifelessness.

I find myself enslaved by a revolving state of thoughts, arrested at the precipice of reality and deception, held at the brink of truth and perception, when I feel trembles in my chains. I witness ages changing into fractions and years defeated by seconds. There are crumbles rising to rule and empires collapsing to rust. I see revolts turning to revolutions and rulers torn to dust. I see despotic pride of silence plundered by power of my breaths and breaths finally nearing their ends. I see tectonic mutations of rise, fall and rise again. The rulers of my universe are overturned by endless expansions of their own existence.

These convulsions end with my growing heartbeats now finally claiming the throne. With silence cornered to one end and breaths imprisoned in chains, these heartbeats hold the acoustic whips around me, racing and rising in dominance. All my senses are fettered, a damp freeze covers my skin, sweat rushes to my rescue, tears are arrested in eyes, words are siezed by fears, lips conquered by feeble prayers and I feel helpless. Walls fence me inside bars, windows open to a scattered dark, of a lost, fallen, torn world where liberation has become a lethal incarceration and enslavement has turned into a safe refuge.

In the frosty stillness of my universe where rash and reckless humans are now defined by elemental truths of silence and stagnation everywhere, an inherent expression of dissent is presented by my moving eyes which carry waves of my kinetic thoughts, gliding on things surrounding me. The minimal intricacies of my routine universe have magnified to prominent proportions. The essence of life seems to have abandoned its usual somatic dwellings in human bodies, leaving behind a fiction of uncertain breaths. Life has instead seeped into modest things around that had  always escaped my attention. Beautiful patterns embroidered on my blanket are the first victims arrested by my eyes.

There are vibrant red threads sewn on it that intersect and fuse into beautiful floral clusters. They sail across the blanket in rigid lines as if adhering intimately and blindly to monochrome vision of their craftsman.
But flanked by strict patterns on all sides, there also exist some fibres and wisps, different from others as if filled with resistance and dissent, setting them apart from rest of crowded mob. Closer I go and I find them damaged and disfigured, alienated and mocked. These fibres seem to have had no desires to be woven into dictated tracks of their lives, to submit to commands of their master, to be sealed as voiceless servants, they weren’t born to twist and travel to serve purpose of someone’s charm. I pull out one such strand and immediately, as if in a fluent succession, much of the fabric gets untangled, patterns unlashed, all commercial grace destroyed as more wool separates out. In the capitalist universe of these threads, where their existence had been employed for narrow trends and desired profits, these neglected strands- “disdained” and “discarded” finally breathe in liberation as the whole blanket, held by these minor wisps and wool, sheds its lavish pride.

To be continued…

“A Paradox of Pains and Joys”

Something in me has changed. Every breath of mine is smiling with an indescribable emotion. I push my way through hordes of strange faces who look at me, in this white coat and a stethoscope enwrapping my neck, with hopes and expectations. The world seems to have shifted its tectonic frames of presentation to me. The sky, the trees, the wind, the sun- all seem to nurture the supreme mark of motherhood- resigning peacefully to innumerable pains for joyful frolics of others. Like sky that parts with her shine of stars to fondle our souls with a newer warmth, like trees that hold off piercing thrusts of winds for our eyeful of pleasant charm, like these winds that whirl and constantly abandon the peace of their unknown abodes, like sun that burns her breaths and melts these winds apart, such blessed is the virtue of motherhood, a cradle of purest emotions, few and far between, where melodies of pains and joys bloom and co-exist.

I wade my steps through the corridors of Hospital ward and I wonder how much have these lanes been relentless witnesses to weeps of sorrow and tears of joy and to feeble moments that blink between death and life. These have heard the fading breaths of fallen lives and the first tender cries of births with chants of prayers embracing both together. These have harboured stories of hopes and despair, yet they stand firm, inhaling all emotions of life. I too will have to be like these corridors , I will have to encounter emotions from all extremities of life. And today, the flection of stylus has decided the inceptive margin of life for me to begin with.

The preoperative preparations are done, operation table is set, anaesthesia administered and the mother is laid for a Cesarean Section. It takes a lot for me to comprehend the nature of emotions in the pale streaks of her face. They are inscrutable and indescribable; like her love for a soul she has never seen, she has never touched but whose every rush of blood and movement of mischief inside her, she has only felt and silently nurtured with utter gleam of joy. I strain to turn my eyes away from her face as she voicelessly endures the first incision on her skin revealing the subcutaneous tissue with erratic gush of blood from innumerable sites. One following the other, her dermal raiments are cleaved and rudderless blood vessels pouring out blood from their enclosed nests are clogged and electrically cauterized. A breathless chill spreads over me for a moment. By now, my eyes have abandoned the view of her face and have submerged in the flumes of a lot of wasted blood on the table. This wasted blood, freed blood, that has performed to perfection its task of nourishing the feeble breaths of a yet not unlocked soul and that now flows in bloom of liberation after nine months of pleasantly savoured enslavement. And then, curled up and coiffed in a delicate poise, distended and enlarged as if to embrace a soul with incomparable warmth, watchful and firm as if to defend against any torment and tough turn of outer world, sits the sheltering cradle of every life – the uterus.

Thus, as in and beyond the sweeps of physical and abstract worlds, the uterus- this meta-embodiment of supreme motherhood, lives through enormous pains as it endures another final incision that severs and splits its bleeding margins apart. It thus falls with still unflinching perseverance and matchless resilience in this exhausting battle between proficient hands, surgical instruments in the external unfamiliar world and this maternal uterine shelter that protects the residing soul inside it to the last flecks of its strength, perhaps unaware of the welcoming hopes and boundless love of other relations that await the child outside. And as it falls, it bleeds- not as tears of its dignified defeat but again, with another facet of symbolic motherhood- it bleeds in sorrows of parting with the soul that it imbibed and implanted as a speck of life within its embrace of endometrial tissue when she conceived for the first time and then nurtured it with love and largest share of her nutrients as it grew, with her numerous unexpressed discomforts-all of which were erased by the gushes of a joyously flowing blood in her; that not only carried the air and nutrients that she shared with this new bit of soul but also the pious sentiment of motherly love for more than nine months.

Amniotic fluid flows out copiously and finally, one part after the other, cutting through the finely spun nest of its mother, the baby is delivered and my eyes reflexively move along this delicate newborn creation that sleeps in an unbroken and unconcerned peace as strange cold whiffs of new air glide into cornices of its newly functioning lungs. It sleeps and never looks back, like my eyes, at face of the mother whose blood and soul filled it with life. It sleeps and breathes oblivious to countless, unheard pains it has caused and perhaps I realise why. The moment I turn the arrested view of my eyes over to the face of its mother, I see all my assumed accusations absolved under the greatest amount of ethereal happiness and sublime joys that flow from every curve and corner of her eyes, there are tears, there are pains and emerging from both, is her love for this new life.

The abandoned womb, weakened and wounded by now, attempts one last time to clasp and hold onto the child it bred for nine months with a tangible bond, but the determined designs of nature prevail over and the umbilical cord is cut between two clamps. The placenta which was formed when tendrils of child interlaced with maternal tissue and weaved the first connections of love, is now extracted and discarded. The bleeding brims of uterus are then sutured as it absorbs and gathers its fragmented ends over the time to prepare itself for more marvels of nature to follow. Abdomen is then closed in layers and as the effect of anaesthesia subsides, inspite of extreme pains that set in, happiness and contentment fill her soul. What is this joy that arises from unbearable throbs of pain? The answer hides in the love of a mother.

The table sets again as it awaits another beautiful event of abandon and arrival, another glorious paradox of pains and endurance for joys and happiness, and another unheard tale of a mother and her womb.

May 23: Memoir of My Moments

Untouched silence of night is shaken into sudden chaos by a hail of fireworks and crackers that thursts mighty forces of darkness and radiance into an unspoken combat. The curtain of sky shines with an effervescent brightness on the surface, but the chaotic noise trembles peace out of pleasant stars sleeping deeper within.

Another innocent victim of this electric voilence in the sky seems to be my poor grandmother who is abruptly nudged out of her deep sleep in a similar way. Confused and flustered, partly in land of nods still, she mutters to herself faintly, “Must be an India-Pakistan cricket match!” and plunges into her disrupted sleep again. Her words, though uttered under spell of sleep, carry enough wisdom to hover around me for the rest of night.

Prior to this, nation had beheld an exhaustive and eventful day with the counting of electoral numbers happening in festive swing. By the end of the day, I had interestingly been a witness to several manifestations of the country. The first version of my India presented itself on TV screens, now for several days, lying agitated in rise and fall of exit polls previously and counted votes presently, dissected by dominant emotions of extravagant festivities on one corner with despair reeling on the other. In the light of this significant day, aroma in the morning therefore seemed mysterious.

The second version of India unfurled itself in fellow students of my college who, to my surprise, had suddenly risen to a mammoth welcome of hibernating nationalism that had visited them after half a decade. Until now, I had usually found them glued to their mobile screens, relishing on delights of their social media accounts and periodically distressed on statistics of their Instagram followers, least acquainted with the proceedings of nation. Surprisingly, today, they were weighing on votes and not so unexpected results and were occasionally banging the benches in impulse of their excitement too, as numbers turned to their favour. “Big day indeed”, my mind whispered.

On my way to home, I come across little girls with babies lugged on their sides, selling goods in scorching heat, their rights to education and opportunities robbed by inabilities to amend their accidental births, old men and women asking for alms while failing to make the ends meet and children employed as easy aids on shops and grocery stores. Diseased and debilitated, the third version of my India, I see in these destitute people surviving the trials and troubles unwaveringly on roadsides, untouched and immune to overarching prominence of politics. They probably cannot name the Prime Minister of the country, let alone know the significance of the day yet that must not deprive them of their rights to envision and dream a better country to live in. “How useful has country’s turbulent politics therefore been to them?” my mind wondered.

Having run across diverse manifestations of my country on this significant day, I finally repose to peace with tides of clashing thoughts sprouting and erupting in my mind, thus incubating the final version of my India in me; one that is agreeing to ask and eager to listen, that is build on acceptance of thoughts and mutual assistance, that debates and dissents to construct better paths of progress for the citizens and where results of democratic elections donot divide us like outcomes of a cricket game. Clustering these random thoughts in the nest of my brain, with sleep painting my eyes already, I welcome the fireworks of night while dreaming of a nation that is beautifully united with the colourful amalgam of diversities, differing shapes of moon and always a vibrant sunrise.

A Year obliterated, Pains left impaired…

Voices echo from the pulpits,

banging ballots in my name.

Random noises creep my way,

painting darkness under my fame.

Smiling eyes chisel scars,

assuring ‘its just a game’.

Pains all past, buried and left,

still putting me to shame” .

The election month of April brought to light a tumultuous upsurge of noises that suddenly drummed our nation-faithful sentiments out of slumber once again after five years. The discourse of this season rushed at such a pace that loftier issues took over our cognitive reigns while the poorer ones that failed to make it to the corners of headlines were ousted from our conscious domains. We rested in comforts of abrasive dinner table political conversations while insidiously, several scourges continued to blot the moral fabric of our humanity.

Exactly a year ago, an incident that ushered in a nation wide awakening was Kathua Rape Case, 2018 in which an 8-year old girl was brutally sedated, raped for days and murdered and following it closely was Unnao Rape case. Across a half-tinted spectrum, we united to demand justice, trembling the expanse of horizon with our protests. The flames of candles fought the gushes of darkness. Empathy and the pains afflicted on humanity sewed us together again. The forensic proceedings in the aftermath revealed horrifying details about the case. Parallels were drawn with Delhi Gangrape Case of 2012 that had similarly sent the shivers of realisation cutting across all bounds. The country had then suddenly rose to precarious conditions of women safety.

In a milder contrast, this time for Kathua Rape Case, venomous sentiment of communalism also pounced into the picture crippling the connecting threads of our moral conscience. However, little had we known that our voices which reverberated as unwavering alarms and as roars for justice then would struggle to find even fading murmurs today, a year later. Little had we known that flames which rose to set on fire those acts of blatant moral ruins would sadly flicker as feeble sparks today. Blood that curdled and thundered as a wave of change would rest dried and dead in extinct waters one day. The silence surrounding the incidents brought along countless cries of cases that have followed. Each cry, enfeebled and exhausted, yet attempts to scream into a hollow of darkness- a darkness which grooves on decibels of ignorance and oblivion instead.

These shocking cases had spiralled me into numerous questions a year ago, which only add on a year later, unanswered still. Why do we need Delhi, Unnao and Kathua Cases as clarion calls to awake us from sleep of ignorance? Why does humanity need to get its facade smeared with shame again before we begin clanking our throats in protest? Where was the uproar of our sentiments targeted at? Judicial proceedings or the suffocating ideologies? The protests have bitten the dust in either case.

Sooner, as these rape cases marked a unified upsurge, I began resorting to a hazy silverlining hoping it might spark off a greater fear amongst the potential perpetrators of such acts in future or atleast might stand eminent as a watershed in the demolition of rape culture. Today, utter refusal clomps my thoughts today as it growls from several corners of country. #MeToo wave last year had unveiled a slew of tormenting experiences and painful darkness under fame of countless victims. The cases of child sexual abuse and assault involving people from family, within the circle of trust have witnessed a manifold increase. Juvenile delinquents are pulping in full throttle. With such acute rush of moral disasters, we are we as a society heading to?

Judicial trials and legal proceedings that could have proved an effective deterrent, languished into indefinite delays. Deficit of appropriate reportage clubbed the final nail in coffin by brushing any progress on these issues out of sight and resultantly, out of minds. Our ideologies still remain enmeshed within clutches of patriarchy and regression. Rapes and atrocities reshash themselves today again in different pockets of country. Change therefore remains a far cry.

For the victimised families of Kathua and Unnao cases, a year has passed silently and their pains have been dismissed from our minds, and for all these delays and denials, our humanity still continues to pay the price.

And the colour bled…

Taking the bait that the entire intrigue and acclaim around recently released movie Kesari had sprawled, I went in expecting a grandeur of visual excellence to come my way since the theme of the movie was a leaf out of a legend, The battle of Saraghari, one that scribbled its forgotten mark in one of the earliest voices of freedom that tore the tarp of suppression. But it touched me much beyond that and a gust of beautiful emotions that I usually root for, welcomed me off guard.

The short lived moments of tender love between the protagonist, Havaldar Ishar Singh and his deceased wife, Jeevani Kour, whom he fondly remembers only in flashback conversations, infused into me a jovial relief when keeping eyes glued to screen seemed afflicting. This interlaced with painful realisation of what separation implies to a soldier and I strived to hold back the gush of tears in my eyes. As he braces to step into the battlefield, she appears in her charm, grumbling about whims of his mother and yet with a heavy heart, conscious of his improbable return, she affirms she doesn’t ever want to see him flinch.

Subtle emotions breezed into my consciousness again with the scenes where soldier sikhs help the localites in building a mosque. An old Afghan woman with a staggering gait, stooped spine and a smile effusing happiness, walks over to them and out of her love and blessings, places in their hands an ort of almond; purity and richness of love encased within it. This visual, in particular, incited tears staggering in the arrest of my eyes to sail in the airs of liberation. My memories were painted with rejuvenation as I recalled several moments when on birthdays and celebratory occasions, amidst all lavish, a beautiful 10-rupees note from my grandmother’s little purse tucked close to her bosom, was what my palms awaited at the settling dusk of the day.

Thirdly, the visuals glared to me in the light of mustering the wounded sentiments to roar for the freedom of expression. The theme boils down to this core notion. The turbulent battle ensues an incident when the protagonist chooses to hold his values above the dictatorial commands of his British Army officer and follows his heart to save a woman left at the mercy of a mob. Its the same fight for freedom of expression that he wishes would someday metamorphose into a struggle for freedom and liberation from colonial power.

Kesari, a colour that in the literal sense is an emblem of sacrifice, glossed over my mind a myriad of colours in its magnificent depiction on the screen, each with varied and deep emotions. The colour flows through the veins of the slain soldiers and trickles in the splashes of water which wounded men are humanely helped with. Besides annealing the respect for a legend, it filled my senses with a breath of freedom and kindled the spark to cherish it again!

“Unleashing Emotions Unheard”

Beautiful fusions of thoughts find their way as I share moments of recollection with dear Grandmother, who has visited us after a year. Subtle hands pull me along to the realms of her rusty lands that reside untouched, deeper to her wrinkled skin and by now, a weakened strength. The shine in her eyes turns into tears as the fragments of her thoughts sewn so far with silence, find the airs and ears. With a calmer outer emotion, a deeper sadness overcasts me as I attempt to feel her part of world, a world that had long been forlorn, yet never forgotten.

My grandmother was wedded off at mere eleven, shortly after she lost her father, something that ridded her family of their gravest fears; to get a fatherless girl married. All this, at a time when she had not known the meaning of either marriage or even death. She smiles with a poignant heart, as she recalls how she cried incessantly believing she was lost and stranded in celebrations that her family dressed her up for. She was happy for she shone like a thousand good gems in a scarlet dress until when she had to make peace with the realities that her family had graced this girl with, in a new home. She believed she could still hop around with mangled sole of her shoes collecting pebbles at the sands or skid back into her mother’s lap everytime after a yard’s run. Time progressively taught her everything.

Destiny had handed her out a large family to serve and five children to rear. Pain in her life came following by.
Obligations arrested her heart everytime it dared to speak. Words, explanations, justifications were all embraced by her heart when there was everyone she couldn’t speak to.
Persistent in her efforts, she knitted slivers of her brittle marriage, when her husband married another woman. She was emotionally crumbled because she realised, this time, in her capacity what it felt like to be ‘fatherless’, probably once again.

She served her family to the core of her soul with the veil of silence. The sight of her children held her strength, that surrendered at times. She taught herself to read, mired in several chores to do and several pains to bear, all for the five children where her happiness now emerged from. Jotting down letters on blackened slates, learning to inscribe the alphabet from the texts, sweating herself within fumes of chulhas all went hand in hand.
Family had to manage with little resources they had. Cereals from their own land to maize loafs her abraded hands made – poverty that fused with already much grief turned life tougher. But melding seamlessly with the ways of life wasn’t tougher for her anymore.

An aroma of silence weaves its sparkle as she takes a deeper breath and rests to sleep in no time, her lips still flickering to share the memories left behind. I sit beside her calmly reading the stories that run along the extent of those lines on her face, some defying lines of fate and others curving to surrender, some converging into emptiness and yet others spreading out like fainting rays of warmth. With the peaceful sun settling to sleep outside, an evening casts it’s charm. I lean over to smoothen some of those lines on her face with my fingers when I realise how deeply entrenched they are and how beautifully has she embraced them for solace. My fingers glide fluently over to her eyes, meeting every feeble breath in the way that whispers peace, only to be greeted by a perfectly shivering drop of tear that has trailed a way out of her sleeping eyes.

This is when the epiphany in the evening here pierces into me the charm of her essence; acceptance- of situations and of realities of human life; some inescapable and others invincible as I am pulled along in the lanes of this darker realisation of unspoken and obvious truths, through jagged turns and sharpened ends that leave me thoroughly saddened. The silvered veil of cataract in her eye masks her own perception of twitching nerves and aching joints, which her stitched heart flinches to unravel to her world outside and it masks well, countless other pains that arise not from a bleeding bruise or a throbbing vein, but from shreds of soul she sews some days due to rashness, procrastinations and anger of her own world of five outside. And I sit still, by her side, weaving every breath of herself that my mind counts, with a prayer awaiting her next. A little longer gasp freezes my heart with fears unexplored. Everyday that I see her, the bend of her spine haunts larger, her arms appear more shrunk and brows more drooped, yet I dive into scuffles unknown; between my helpless heart that fails to accept what my eyes and mind command; her breaths fainting and fading every moment.

I can’t say how many moments more will I have, to lend my ears to her memories from past. I don’t trundle towards the lanes of these thoughts because my heart respires, unfinished, awaiting more lessons on acceptance still and more so, because I have learnt from her to carve a little world of joys yourself when the world outside fails to relent and let the nature wade you to the realities it wants to. I have learnt to pick memories along the path spraying the delight as I move on. I have learnt to relish the touch of her hands everytime I come back and the prayer on her lips everytime I step out. I have learnt to cherish the moments we get than staring at the moments left and to knit them into memories before one day, without her, in a lonely night, I would have to sprinkle them into the darker ocean of stars

The Journey Begins!

A student of medical sciences, as I floundered to wrap the brains around intricacies of human life, I realised, sans the magiqué of emotions, even our systems failed to function in unison. I dabbled into pouring a bit of same as written transcriptions of my chunk of life. With an augmented perception curated by charms of words, life now presented itself as a nascent fusion of such emotions, with a tincture of sarcasm, a smile of irony and at times, a poignant reflectance of inescapable realities.

Thank you for putting on my hazy naive lenses and discerning this amateurish realm of my little random emotional concepions!

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton