Anjali stood in the balcony, feeling the cool morning air and
looking at the white topped building that was almost invisible just like her
future according to her family.
“Do you even have an idea about what you are trying to say ?"
"It’s a hobby, limit it to a hobby, don’t dare to make it a profession. Diverting
your way from the traditional paths is not going to help either of us in any
way” she remembered her mom spelling out
those stern words.
“I know it wouldn’t be easy, still it would be worth the risk”
she thought as sun rays splashed colors on the faint blue sky clearing away
clouds of inhibition.
" Take A Step Towards Creativity And A Journey Would Start "
# Day 1 Write Tribe Festival Of Words #4 It was there. In the corner. On a white colored ceramic tile
with few blue stripes. It remained there. Unmoved. Undisturbed. As if born to
be forever, together. It seemed as if an undeclared bond has been created.
Between the both. Like the gum and the paper.
I had no idea what it were thinking. But definitely I was. About
the owner who abandoned it, unknowingly may be. How she had hurried yesterday
night. Before leaving for her home.
The sweat drops that settled on her nostrils attracted me
more than anything else. Her purple colored pendant matched with her watch. The
watch which somebody had gifted, on her birthday she was telling to a friend. She
wasn’t able to talk much in the beginning. Surprisingly the opposite happened
as the evening progressed. Her laughter tinkered across the room. As if it was
only she who was present. Or it was just me who felt so. The music, the
cuisine, the chatter, the dance everything made the party so special.
Particularly for her, being her first. Also for me. Being my most adorable.
They say if lady luck starts smiling she doesn’t stop. She giggles.
And that’s what had happened. The party has been long over. She has left. So have
others. But something remained. That only I could sense and feel. Luckily, all
alone. It dazzled even now. As it did on her. Through the entire evening. Making
And it was there. On the ceramic tile with few blue
stripes.Beside the mirror.
Letting me relive. The moments. The thrills. The attraction.
The longing. I smiled, thinking how silly we humans can be. Ignoring people right
beside us and remembering ones from their left overs. But what can we do. We
are helpless. In the hands of emotions. That ties us even with remnants, if it
wants to. And here it was something very unique that transformed me back into the
evening of yesterday and let me bath in her aura again. What if it’s just a small
I stood there.
Feeling grains of sand and their moistness, watching the red crab hasten it's way leaving a trail of it's footprints. As the salty waters dashed across my legs, wetting the borders of the blue colored dress, I remembered those evenings I had spent with them, my cousins way back decades ago.
Evenings which tied our palms together letting us hold each other to feel the vastness of the sea, running on the sand, jumping with the waves and chasing these red crabs that still ran.
Today, I was alone and so was the vastness, spreading tranquility, bringing back memories of times that have flown, along with the winds.
Writing is a piece of art. It expresses. It beholds. It
infers, wanting to be inferred too. It questions. It answers. It seeks
questions again. Preferring some to remain unanswered.
Writing is like a breath of fresh air. It heals. It cures.
The hidden and also the forbidden scars. It nurtures. Our dreams. Our hopes. Our
aspirations. Though in an imaginary way. Building an illusionary world.
They say writers are thinkers. Day dreamers. Yes, they are.
That is how they live. Hanging on to their world of imagination that can be
painted on a piece of paper. Inscribed with words.
Writing is the humane form of our thoughts. Expressing the
unexpressed, even the expressed. Speaking the unspoken, even the spoken. It’s a
solace, a panacea that soothes the soul and also the heart.