Shelved thingummies, in my world of perfection.

....

pretty eyed and pirate smile,
I hope I will marry a music man
....


Time and time again, something or somebody or both, tutored me to shelve them all. My world of perfect other half. Where faces and images had no prominence, only little instances held the key, in the minute gestures and caresses lay that world of mine. The search for that very single other piece of the jigsaw puzzle, that traces the same contours with those complementing curves, covering up the unfinished edges, and making the story complete – picture perfect.

The one that tinkled in my dreams, like a firefly, twinkling in an instant and gone the next, swerving back in and winking at me, at my hand’s reach the very next. Dreams that teamed with the excitement of the find, and blurred with the realization of a false hint, and yet again, lit with a new hope.

Of the one, who will walk into my life, that unexpected hour of the day, and take me as his, without asking, without even me knowing, without any pretence..

Who will kiss away my infinite sorries and sadness when I have done some non – sensical stupidity..

Who will sense the meaning of my sometimes seemingly meaningless lines and will tell me that he understands, that he can see, and that he senses that which even I was so struggling to portray..

Who will smile fondly and watch me when I try to make that portrait of his, drawing with my inept hands, getting those lines of his mouth incorrect and still stubbornly struggling with my pencils..

Who will put that first foot into the water, and give me his hand, so that we would walk hand in hand, barefoot, slow and savouring the salt smell of the beach wind..


Who will see me when I lie there simply, cuddled up on the bed, and then come and wrap himself around me, to remind me how perfectly our bodies spoon each other, and give me that ultimate peace and safety in the world..

Who will pull me into that shower, to play with each other until we both get tired of the water..

Who will carry my backpack on top of his own for that sec, when I get too tired doing the trecking..

Who will let me read him those favourite lines of mine, and try to fathom the meaning and my fondness for it, even when he doesnt like it the least..

Who will suggest me that book and offer to take me to that bookshop when I say it is a boring evening ..

Who will ask for the second para, when I sing to him at night that favourite song, with a sore-throat, even when I sound terrifyingly out of sync..

Who will laugh lovingly at my childish tears when I cut my finger, while feverishly chopping away those vegetables, making him his favourite dish of the day..

Who will understand my silly and irrational and childish love, and my fear of separation, and my need of wanting to be belonged..
Who will say that he wants me, no matter what, to the end of the days..

Who will not scold me when I let our kids draw their l’l rabbit and the turtle on the walls, and when I'll help them at it by drawing the grass and the forest..

Who will still have us go on for those long walks, that I so passionately love and hold on to, for comfort, and purity of thought, and for the romance, into the dead of the night, or to a silence between the trees, or somewhere with just us, and the world silent around..

Who will know that desire and longing of mine to love and caress every single cell of him, and my wanting to be loved like never before..

Who will play our favourite games together with me, and then teach them to our kids, with the same fondness of a playmate..

Who will sing to me when I so want to hear his voice, even with those made up lines when he forgets the lyrics, and a bad
rhythm..

Who will love me more for asking him to come back home, when he is out on his work, knowing that I'll love, for ever and ever with a never ending longing..

Who will grow old with me, and sit with each other, smiling at the other one’s wrinkled face and to let that beautiful silence that descends between us, to do the talking, to say that it had been perfect, the years together..


....

to come and take me to my world of perfection.

an afternoon muse

I haven’t yet been able to do away with my fluffy, comfortable rajai. It is summer, and the sun suddenly seems to be wanting to show its merciless self of killing heat. Even the slight cold of the mornings lessen, erasing a cozy winter dawn from my memory. Yet, i hold on to my lovely rajai. Give it that quarter of a space on my bed, a fond reminder of my favourite winter weather. And my affinity to still cling to it tenderly or use it huddled up like a self-made diwan’s raised edge, did not let my dear Ambi to have the heart to put her’s away too. Thus lie the two rajai’s happily on our double bed, waiting for me to come and spread myself on them lovingly in my moods of sheer indolence. In its pleasant flowery covers that we both so carefully chose. One with yellow sunshine flowers thrown all about a beautiful purple blue, and other a clear light sky blue colour with a sunny look about it. These are my companions in sloth and sleep, my favourite shoulders to rest on, in those moments of long ruminating thoughts. My mates in muse.


I thus, sluggishly get to my bed, in this lazy afternoon, plump myself a l’l up on one of the rajai’s raised up,slanting on the table side of the bed, with our entire collection of pillows thrown on top of it. And let my body contour itself to the other rajai, my own, ever welcoming one. I then look up at the ceiling at the rotating fan and let thoughts over power me. I let them all come to me, and let myself fly with them like the kid who runs with the kite. In a mesmerized state, I lie there, brooding over a million different things, starting from making a piggy bank, to a picture painting, to a much awaited window-shopping spree, to the problem statement of my thesis, to the infinite no of books that I have been wanting to read for ages, and all the other little happiness of my life. Hugging onto and lying close to my companions in abstract thoughts. Lying close to my love, at this time of the day.

“Smile came naturally to my lips, that my cheeks hurt. My lips got tired of being stretched for so long. But still, it kept coming. The happiness, and the smile thereof. Sometimes when he mentions something, or at some gesture of his, my smile, came again in a sudden gush that I felt embarrassed myself to beam so much. That I thought the lips couldn’t stretch enough, the cheeks couldn’t take the whole of it, coming in a rush. For it was, happiness, from within. From deep down.”

the black wind

I was jealous. I still am. But I realized it only now. Now, I could detach that dirty leech from where it got stuck inside me; sucking blood. Examine its slimy sluggish back, and the killing teeth. The filthy worm of jealousy. The stone that weighed my heart down, the damp cold that crept into my insides, I could realize only now that it was jealousy. For it took me time to grasp what the odd unfamiliar anger that was rising through my lips was. I had to swim across a sea of bewilderment. Gasping and trying to float about, with only emptiness to hold on to, finally to acknowledge and behold that shore of understanding. I swam across, in my persistence to unearth the name of this new tornado of emotion. An undesired thorn that pricked my little rose heart. The surge of protest, that I felt, that war that I wanted to unleash on you for remembering her, any her, for even that split second. If I had my way, I wouldn’t have let anyone, any her, take a tiny space in your heart that ought to have been mine. If I was the wind goddess, I would’ve let my tempest sweep her away, to a far away where you will never see her again. If I was the queen of beauty, I would never have anyone surpass me, for then, you will have eyes only for me. I fumed like a volcano. My lips parted in fully formed angry words, against someone I did not know. Words that I had never said before, took shape swiftly in my mind to thrash the unknown her, to shred her to pieces.


When I reached the shore, all wet and dripping, I realized I had been here before. Innumerous times. For this was the infamous land of jealousy, where I had had to visit when I sulked coz my playmate flaunted her new colourful toy that I wanted. When my eyes welled up with big tear drops when three out of four thingummies from the charming shop was given to the other kid and not me. When the girl next seat’s birthday sweets were tastier than those I had for mine. This l'l villain that attacked me today, was strange but. It dint have the playful innocence of the old childhood ones. And it was not the kind of jealousy when your friend is back from a dream travel like yours and says he just had the time of his life. Not the kind that you have when you see the other girl wearing the midnight blue gown that you so coveted.


I thus searched the land for the real culprit, realisation dawning over me that this wasn't the usual green eyed jealousy. Mine I found was the king of all goons of this land, that sat in the black jeweled throne in the central part of the kingdom. The only one which was blessed by the God of emotions to churn the visitors in its most terrible tornado. The only one that had the power of crushing. For this was the kind of astonishing jealousy deep down in the central part of your heart, that made your heart throb in pain. Yes, that was the key. This jealousy was surprising. Inexplicable. The kind of thing, you want to deny having, to the end of the world, until you found no other way out of it. The kind of jealousy that leaves you spent. And you only had the bitterness in your heart, that you want to unleash at someone. But if you did, you would reproach yourself, coz you are waiting for the wind to go away and then see. See, after the haze from the hurricane is gone. There was nothing that you could do. Only, just wait for it to end, the rough tempestuous wind that is blowing with rocking gusts, making your heart rattle. That makes you weak. And this is where I was. And I still am. Until the wind dies down.

the only one

Like there is only one nectar that can give a new life,
Like there is only one sun that kisses the mountain,
Could it be that, all those poets will praise that only one?
The Poems and proses of the lovely love alone?

Like there is only one season for the flowers to spring,
Like there is only one blue sky for the full moon to adorn,
Could it be that, this handsome man is that only one?
The one missing piece of my long waiting half?

Like there is only one ocean for the river to merge,
Like there is only one rainbow that the rain falls in love with,
Could it be that, today, we are that perfect pair?
The only one lost in the strange tale of romance?

Like there is only one word of truth from an untainted heart,
Like there is only one taste for the sweet sugar syrup,
Could it be that, it is us who are destined?
For the only one ending, of, the happily ever after.

her butterfly story

They fluttered like a set of restless butterflies every time she did her blushing acts. To put him under their power. So that in moments of amazement, he will shower her with more such words of infinite love. She let them charm him, her eyelashes, cause he loved them the most. He loved them for their sweet bloom. For, they were the kind of long, slender flowers that you can touch with your hands and caress. Those which were the kind of charcoal dark, that skillfully formed the borders of his perfect sketches. Dark enough to contain the mesmerizing beauty of her eyes within. To form the backdrop, yet again brilliant in itself to make him marvel at the strokes. A lovely addendum, to the glowing gaze of her eyes beneath. Such grandiose, that he wants to trace the way they rise up from the splendid valley of her deep eyes. To form the perfect arc of a marvelous black rainbow. A thing of beauty, to stand and stare. A real stunner for him to get lost and love.

the delectable you

In the spent of the night and in the start of the day
Even in the spiteful heat of the hot summer sun,
And in the wistful wait for the sweet shine of the moon
I feel fond memories of you flashing about me
And I bathe in the sweetness of that pleasurable delight
Of a time together, of me , and the delectable you.

Fall

Like a tide that fell in love with the lunar light. That took her up the sky, let her flying high in rampant joy. Climbing higher and higher, in her desire to reach him and dance with him. Drizzling him with her warm water, and feeling the joy. Each tiny wave of her twinkling in his brilliant moonlight love. Fall back then, to her mother ocean, after one exquisite love making. Only to rise again and be kissed. Fall, only to reel back in love.



Like a river that fell in love with the lone cliff. That gave her the world, let her dancing in grace, coursing through him. Her many brilliant drops ricketting off her, shining a rainbow colour in the playful sunlight. Feeling his lovely touch in every bit of her movement. Relishing the rush of air seeping through her cells, as she poured down in delight to the deep beautiful valley beneath. Falling in her bountiful flow, caressed by him. To fall, in a lush of love. Only to fall back, in abundant rain drops, showering herself on him. Fall, losing herself, in the maddening hug of his welcome back love.

the new dawn

you and your love for me,
makes me go back in time.
to the faraway I belong .
den I look back to see
that we are miles apart

i love all your songs, your melodies
but today, when you confess your love
in this splendid moment i realise
I had been far too immersed in the rest,
the new, the promising tomorrow’s dawn,
that I forgot the old heart,
the melody of my very own roots.

She might write it better,
Her poems and proses may be sweeter
Stand by me, for tonight I am alone
thoughts full of sorrow, swerving in soft drone
know that when you let my words fall,
that which is left of me be nothing,
but a face ravaged with grief.

the sweet sleep

Yearning grips the wayward mind,
to succumb to sweet nothingness of sleep,
let them dreams take their life.
begone to the beginning of the end,
of today's chores, off the tiresome day,
feel the sweet breeze that caress my eyelids
tempting and wooing and calling softly
shall i go, and rest there,
happily for the day's end?

restraints and reprisals..

times, when we check ourselves, our damnedest desires and dilemmas of life.
relishing in the conquer of the denials, gaily going in the drawn lines of discipline.
times, when the wind changes, and arises the need, to question, these very self restraints
give them to the wind, smash them, upturn them, those patiently counted days
let them stumble, like a card castle, that breaks down in a flutter of light paper strokes
laugh now, loud, in the vile pleasure at the castle's fate, that came swiftly at a single piece's plight
sleep, in the smug satisfaction of undoing, only after reminding myself the onus of reworking
maybe, to remind me, that i still have the control? of doing, undoing, and reworking?
maybe, to remember again the steering is still with me, to go forward, reverse or apply a break.

PS : a thought, on d day i broke an unnecessary diet i had embarked on, only to restore it from the next day onwards.. :D

The night falls; the stars stare,
Moonlight spread like a dull golden drape,
Then the sly wind and the sensuous weather.

the umbilical cord

A friend is writing somewhere. And me, I am writing as well,here. It is amazing, and curious, the way people are connected, by some line of thought, some similar gestures, some dreams shared, or even strangers, by an inexplicable unknown connection. The way I worry about having not met a friend for a year, and keep on planning, when unknowingly somewhere else she says the same thing, and shares the same emotion. The way we pick up the phone to make a call, and the screen flashing with the name of the one we were about to call.


The connection between two living souls, that starts with as real a thing as the umbilical cord. The yellowish-white coloured, slimy and slippery, thick thread like thing, that connected me to my mother's womb, when I dint have a name, and was simply called, an 'embryo' or even dull, a 'fetus'. My sense of belonging to her, sweetly, yet scientifically established and let known to the world, by a slime cord, through a well known doctoral reason of nutrition. My life growing, inside her, through the nourishment, passing to me from her, through that narrow passage way, with all the love and prayers she said for me since the day i was recognized inside her. The cord, the beautiful connection, set up perfectly by the nature, the palpable, long thing, that was cut, the day i was out, but ever since re-established in unknown forms and ways, through our getting to know each other, as life passes by between me and my mother.


The one, that started from her womb, and started growing, like a seedling that sprouts, grows leaves, gets size and spreads outs in infinite branches, making me reach out to the world, and life around - connections, between living souls, between people. I thus believe in them. As, something that passes between you and me, without ever worrying to lay by the rules of the world. That exists, without even a touch, or exchange of any arbit thing, the sense of something that hits the same notes in the mind's music instrument, at two places at once, in each other's hearts. That harmony, which generates the same emotions, pleasure and peace, helping us get a better light in the path to go, or someone to go with. A joy of having found a mirror, that reflects the picture, just the way it is. The relief of having a brother or sister, or having found a friend, or a kin, or even a stranger, a fellow to go with even if only for one quarter of the journey, who makes us feel belonged, even for that minute time.


The things that are afloat, all around us, like a fine movie scene in which innumerable colourful butterflies fly around the beautiful girl. To open our mind and hearts, and see, and accept, as long as we are blessed enough with the fine and refined gift of one of the five elaborate senses. Like those light waves that meet somewhere in the back of your eyes to give you the splendid vision of the splash of colours in front of you. That which you do not always see working its way out, but which was always there, giving you life.


The connections that are unspeakables. Or in other ways, are intricate and unfathomable in ways that it defeats you, in your endeavour to put it in a sunken case of carefully created definition,or of christening. Those deeper connections, which are best left unsaid and are "let it b"s. Those which you acknowledge, in subtle ways, through a quick and awkward hug at end of a term together. Those which had never been justified by the guarded, and slow exchange of carefully chosen words, in a pathetically failed attempt of acceptance. Those which you sometimes, first realize accidentally and learn to cherish for a lifetime. Those which are at times, foolishly gratified by a quick node of the head, a slight fleeting glance, a rough grunt of the throat or a sly smile. The connections, that seemed heavenly and perfect, but had been left to abandon in the way of the world, as you decide that life has to gone on, but by obediently following the strictures. And those promising others, that lets us fly, soaring in the sky.



And as long as we have this, as long as this exists, this sharing, this brotherhood or kinship, and belonging, to anyone and anything in this world, we can't give up.
The connection, that holds us back, like the indefinitely long thread of a sky bound kite,fondly linked to the child's playful hands. The child, who sees the world beneath it that the kite sees, the same world from a view high up above through the kite's own eyes, and who runs on the beach, in his childlike enthusiasm, to let it fly to its wanted unknowns of the limitless skies. As long as I have this child and I can be the kite, or as long as i could be alive in the child's eyes vice versa, the world, is thrilling, and so very beautiful that I can never give up.

the forest, an excerpt.

I get jealous of this glorified thief, when Henry Gilbert writes like this.. "They travelled following their leader through the leafy ways of forest, winding in and out beside the giant trees, across the fern - spread glades whence the red deer and the couching doe sprang away in affright, wading across brooks and streams, skirting some high cliff or rocky dell.....


....Sometimes across the glade a flash of jewel - like light would come. It was a dragon fly, and in the rays of the sun it would hover and swerve before the bushes, like a point of living flame. The forest seemed to wake up, bird called to bird across the cool deep of the trees, the evening wind rustled the leaves, and a great stir seemed to thrill through the woods.."

(- Robin Hood)

I so wish to travel, when i read lines like these, to explore a forest, to see those blades of light playing with the shades and seeping in through the leaves, to listen to those birds, to wet my feet in the brooks, to feel that irreplacable and alluring beauty of nature, to go with that backpack, do some camping, and what all and what not...

About my world of long back.

I was always looked down at home, because of my ‘getting-lost-in-books’ reading habit. I remember amma doing test dose at neighbours’ places, where I would be immersed in some book i picked up. She will ask the neighbour aunty to call my name or ask me about something, which I will neither hear nor reply, thus proving to aunty, how irresponsible I was at times when amma needed me to do something, only because I had this book in hand. I do not remember Deepthu anywhere in the scene, and this one so vividly framed in my memory happened at Ganga aunty’s place when we were at Mamkoottam. So I am guessing she must have been left to sleep peacefully in the house – being so small, and with Rama aunty there to look after her, myself, not more than 8 years at that time. I would recognize the drama unveiling behind the sofa I was sitting on, when I get distracted by some loud noise, of either amma calling my name in a yell, or the sound of laughter that must have resulted from everyone’s reaction to my strange devotion to comic books. I would then feel so awkward, and would get up and give a feeble smile to all, leave the book and join the mainstream activity or conversation.


Thus, I consciously cultivated an awareness for the surroundings whenever I was reading a book. Sometimes I thought it just killed the fun in reading. But it took a long time to develop that. Coz, books were a reprieve for me from the outer world, which back then, at times looked blank and uninteresting. If books make you an introvert, I had all chances of growing up into just that, but strangely enough, I grew up to become the best chatter box anyone could ever find. I loved the sunny, bright and colourful characters more than the melancholic one.


The books used to beckon me from the shelves. I got sheer pleasure just from the thought of me immersed in those books all day long and getting to know the characters more. I imagined myself as a writer, who would someday write books like these, which will come in beautiful and elegant bindings, with penguin for a publisher may be, which would someday line the shelves of a carefully collected library of some book lover. I fascinated more about Penguin books, cos they stood in a neat queue in my book shelf, either when I arranged the Bernad Shaws or the Somerset Maughams or because their symbol stood out the most among publishers. There were strange dilemmas that I had somedays. I could not choose as to which writer I want to become like, from all the people in the shelf. In English I decided to choose between Maugham, Pearl S. Buck and R. K. Narayanan. In Malayalam my choices were mostly M.T. Vasudevan Nair or Pottakkadu. I toyed with Madhavikutty also for a while, but her daring writing in “Ente Katha” gave me jitters, and I decided against it. I knew I could never even think of writing sarcasm like Basheer or Sanjayan did. Those were not just my forte. Or I tried hard at imaginig situations the way they did, and to my surprise I did have an innate nature in me in finding humour in life’s simplest things, but, I just couldn’t understand how or when I will ever learn to put them into words. And that was one of the genre I wanted to try the most, satire. I could never be that poet or writer who would use the perfect alliterations, similies and metaphors to commit a theme to paper. I was never that good.


When I first got the internet, that was what I searched more about – authors. I tried picturing what their day will be like, wondering whether they will be writing all day long or just some time in between. Some stories about the writer – people’s solitary life bothered me. Some said, that they liked to live a life of their own, and never came out into the real world. And I got scared at this. I loved the colours of the world, the people, friends, and my sister and achan amma. There was an article, which I read, which talks about all the background works behind a book. It talked about how one author went in search for a character. I just sat and thought about it and the more and more I thought, it was turning out to be even more alluring. First thing, u get to travel, which was one of number one things in my bucket list, and second, even more than meeting your ‘wanted protagonist’, you will get to see more life and people, which thrilled me. It was just like what I read about the directors going in search for his equal – to – the image – in his mind type of hero or heroine. Amazing, I thought of that journey, as a search for your own story itself, for the soul of your story. I had always been a fan of travelling, though I had not travelled much myself. But the memories of every weekend journeys to Alleppey, had a lot of fun and happiness in it.


Thinking back, we were like Gypsies back then, always travelling, except that the routes were the same, the names of all the places etched forever firmly in my mind. But the people – the fellow travelers were different. Me and my sis, used to remember jokes and used to tell it to the people who travelled with us in train, giving them a hearty laugh. But she missed maybe the early parts of the journey, which we did in buses, before switching over to trains. Those parts had a special quality about them, the rustic buses, the dusty routes of the crowded city roads we passed by, the view of the streetside shops, the different houses with its courtyards and beautiful gardens that I loved to look at from the raised view of the bus windows, and much more such sweet sights. I still remember some of the friends we made, who told me stories of all sorts. There was this girl, whose house was on one side of the canal, and she had to take a boat to reach there. Wow, I was so thrilled and she promised to take me there. But ofcourse, I never met her again, and then I grew up and I forgot. There were these bus stations that stood alone in the middle of nowhere, just a big ground but no buses parked, standing there sadly like a poor but naughty kid denied his fair share of chocolates. There were also others like a chirpy one, where me and dad used to get down for a round of quick roaming about and also to make me go to the loo. Such places had lots of shops with umpteen amazing items, out of which dad always brought me chocolates and fruity. I always preferred bus journeys to trains as a kid, coz it meant more sight seeing in terms of the towns, the roads and people, though my parents would any day prefer the train. And I totally fell in love with the wind then, blowing so relentlessly on my face, making me beam with happiness, looking out from the window seat. I thought, this was the best.


And I imagined I will be travelling a lot if I become a writer – well, I needed stories, dint I ? And again, I dwelled on the lives of writers and their follies, wondering if they had any social life and all those fun times. But none of these reflections ever came to be of any use, let alone significant, as I suspected long ago, I had not just the writer’s block ( ?!, writer’s ? for me ?! ), at making a line –but also, the famous defects of the lazyness, the impotent imagination, the sheer dearth of words and what all and what not! And one day, thus, I concluded, writing, is not for me, and even the diary entries were turning out to be boring, repetitive, and merely documentative. Words I thought, had to come out in a gush, like a flowing river. For me, it came out like water dripping from a wasted tap, a broken one. At times they spurted out relentlessly, that you would think you will be swept off in that bountiful flow, in its sheer force, that it would never stop. You are thus at the height of your imagination, ready to write them all down, and then there is a burp, and a sudden block, and then it stops. Or may be, there will be a final belch or two, and you are done with. They have ceased coming. And you feel, helpless. Your ideas still hanging in midair, or thrown in the violent sea, swimming in alarm and trying to float about, but no vessel on its way to save them and give them life.


Thus I went in hibernation. I only wrote diaries and nothing else. It was then that I stumbled into this thing called blog. I was amazed. A net space where you could put your stuff. A personal web space, to write. Like an abandoned field, fertile enough for those unwanted windswept spores, that wandered around, looking for a place to flourish. And the best part was that, you could choose to either show people. You dint have to tell them. They dint need to know. But they could always find out too. Up to them, or your luck. And you will still get random readership if someone stumbles into your blog.


I fell in and out of love with people who checked my blog. Someone who said some random thing about one word i wrote. I adored them. They were my world. My meaning for existence. When I see people in and around me, publicising their articles, I get jealous. Of the courage. Of their belief in self. Or in their words. Something I lacked. Something I yearned to develop. The quintessential me was always there, lurking in the dark, always doubting the strength of my own words. Or at other times, believing in them much to stand any criticism. I wrote however, once in a blue moon, hoping to write more, only hoping for ever and always.

And if you, random reader, stumbled upon me today, you can forgive me for being disorderly in my thoughts, i'm still learning it, the art of writing it all. Penning down all my fantasies, my strange and funny dreams in the same sensuous way i see them. To tell you them in such a way, that you would feel the tickling sensation yourself, when you live that dream with me. So that, when i talk about butterflies, you will feel their wings on your skin. One day, i'll be there, until then, have belief in me, the way i have found faith now.

The unbuilt tombstones

Tombstones - Erected over the grave, that which preserves the memory of the deceased. But no tombstone is being made here, today. The loath, the detest, is too hard to fathom, to forgive. People here are about and moving. All around me, movement, hasty movement, that I shift my head from this side to that, to be aware. People, my guardian angels, move about, setting things right. Cutting down some strands. Tugging at certain loose ends. Tightening some others. Purging off the rest.

And then, they set to work - real work. Ascertaining that no tombstones are made. That no eulogies are sung. That a memory is being destroyed. In a vain hope to secure me inside a bastion of solace. Checking and rechecking that nothing is left, not even the traces. Not even the ashes to cry over. And I look on, helpless. I had indeed seen the end, before it began. But I had not seen it coming this way. Nor did I expect this deletion. It came abruptly, without knowing, all of a sudden, an emptiness scaring me. And I get crippled along with these little things that are destructed. A part of me taken and send away. Numbed, I simply hang on, by the side.

Your angels - the only other players in the game - acting as deleters. I wish I could delete too, do it myself, just like pressing a button. Twang. Gone, forever. Shift + Del , may be? A photo gone from the wall. A picture card presented, gone. One b'day clue, from all the rest, gone. Precious memories captured, photos, gone from my PC. Into oblivion. Into a dark abyss. Thrown with all mighty force, by the precious hearts that caress mine.

Should I have cared? Should i have worried? Did i want to cherish, and keep safe? Did i even have to notice? No. But mind, is a terrible player. It defeats you, when you are least concerned, when you loose the hold. It takes a jump, in a swift stroke and looks back. And you lose yourself. Is my angst unjustified? Am I being senseless? Did I not deserve the comfort of a talisman?

And I realise, with searing pain, that blood gashes out in a stream from the dreadful wound. At the most uncalled for moments. And i think, I wanted them all. To caress. Pixels of a past that existed. Resting now in a morgue. Sent to the place that was worthy of them ? But, here waits for me, the time that is gone, now nothing more than a strange eternity of nothingness. I stare. I squint hard. But there is nothing to see. Nothing to be felt. So I wish ; Before giving me the cure, before erasing my colour palettes, I wish they had asked me. Once. Only one time, before tampering with them. They were mine - my mind and soul, wholly mine. Memory of a life that could have been. A time that deep inside, even for the most diminutive part, I, knowingly or unknowingly cherished. And now, I am glassy eyed, staring blankly, seeing nothing. I have just been obliviated.


Then again, listening to the reflections of my ambivalent mind, I get undecided. When a minute's agony is turned into spite at the very next,I wonder, can it be cured by removing a handful of reminiscence. What if I needed them to be strong? Or was it, more unasked for omissions that I yearned for to recover? Which ever way it be, there is a reprieve, of what still persists. The thin strands of memoirs that intricately wove around my brain cells. I still have them. If I needed them to relish. Or may be I would want them to perish. And then, again I have my angels to look upto, to do it for me. Sweetly and swiftly.


May be I need a escapade. A merry, cheerful adventure. A funny thing to do. An end to wait for. Desire. Hope. May be erasing was good. And that, Only time will prove.