About Her

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Little Moments Of Bliss is a silhouette of a feeling that resides in my heart. A software engineer by degree, a writer at heart, and a teacher by profession, I'm all that I never thought I would be. Pretty pictures,a poem that blatantly refuses to rhyme, a text from a deranged friend, a sudden gesture of love, its these little things in life, that matter and sprinkle bliss. Grace the couch and share a cuppa!

April 25, 2012

A thought.

This is the thing about thoughts. You can't control them, even when your whole being rests upon them. Modesty flies out of the cage as soon as you think about doing something nice for the people you love. In order to realize that your worries aren't even the tiniest fraction of their sorrow, your mind needs to learn that they have suffered more. In a way, you seek joy in their sorrow. Tittle tattle, life works that way.

A pure mind is a myth because every saint sins.  

April 21, 2012

Sweet Oblivion.

She woke up to an unrealized dream untangling itself in her sub-conscience. She decided to give it some more time and lied there for another hour, drowning herself in her furry bed covers. The alarm snoozed with a shrill noise and she lazily searched for her phone under the pillow. She called office, two long impatient rings, a silent click and she left a message informing about her sick leave.

Her purple brazierre peeked through her over-sized t-shirt, and revealed all her flaws and scars screaming in the submissive morning light, but she couldn't care any less today. She wore them with an indifferent pride. Her eyebrows looked like little sleeping worms and she woke them up in one fine sweep. The air was filled thick with such delirium; she could cut it with a knife. She looked at herself in the mirror and touched her left cheek, 'My God, I'm so fucking beautiful'. Her ears couldn’t believe what they were hearing. Her modest alter-ego never let her believe this but today was a new day. She twitched her nose and licked her dry lips. She swore she wouldn't tell anybody, but that smile in the mirror told her that it knew what she was upto. She stared at herself smiling a good long while before waking her laptop up and logging into her blog.

I’m not sick, I’m almost never sick, I don’t know why I’ve taken this leave but I have a feeling in my chest that says it’s going to be a beautiful day. Fingers crossed.

(Saved to Drafts).

She pulled her hair back and secured them in a bun, she hadn’t tied her hair this way in years. It gave her such silly joy, she could hardly contain it. She poured herself a glass of wine and sipped it like they do it in  the movies. The very taste of it burnt the inside of her mouth but that made her gulp another sip. And then another one. She put on a green maxi dotted by little flowers at the hem and walked over to the book-store. Every profile on blogosphere said they’d read and loved ‘A Thousand Splendid Suns’, it made her feel like a clown in a ballroom filled with sophisticated people. She bought the book and happily smiled at every stranger who as much as glanced at her on her way back.  

She spent the day devouring the scent of the pages and rummaging through the contents of the book. Her phone was switched off and she promised herself she wouldn’t switch it to life, no matter what happens today. She googled the recipe and baked herself little coconut cupcakes. She did not put on any slippers for the rest of the day and her dirty feet had never felt so good.

I was right. Today was such a joyful day. Niyati says I hardly return a smile to the ones I know, but today I spread it amongst sweet strangers. It was sheer pleasure. That beautiful maxi adorned my legs with such uncalled beauty, I couldn't recognize myself. The wine tasted sour but I drank some more because the real me would’ve gagged. 

I’ve been myself for too long.

I read, smiled, drank, baked, walked bare foot and called myself beautiful today.

I feel liberated.

She titled it ‘The bitter-sweet agony of being me’ and published it.

The next day fell into routine but it too felt special under the shadow of yesterday.

April 1, 2012

Sculpting a Shadow.

There are times, when you fall for somebody's talent, so deeply and so intensely, that you're never sure what to say when asked 'Why do you like them so much ?'

Sameera at Life in a Jiffy is one such person for me. She is a balanced writer and a beautiful human being. She is getting married to a lovely young man on 28th July 2012. Shower her with all your best wishes and lots of love. Just like me, Sam too was a little skeptical about guest posts, but I'm so glad that my first one is from her pen.

Thank You Sam :)

The air was still. The floor polishers, hammers, saws and drills that groaned throughout the day rested silently like tired young children who had played longer than what they could endure. The wooden support structure that served the purpose of enabling movement up and down the partially constructed building creaked as I bent forward. About three storeys high, I was inclined at an impossible angle.  Achieving it by resting my hands alternatively on the wall each time I scraped out the extra cement on the wall. My eyes squinted in the flickering light to observe the protruding portions of the wall. My hand followed the vision and a subconscious nod titled my head as my fingers felt the asymmetry of the surface. With a tiny metal piece that was strapped with sand paper on either side I started my chore. Blowing away the chipped off excess cement in a practiced manner after every screeching stoke made on the wall- yes that was my job.

It is thrilling to know that a slight imbalance could cause my body to be converted into mashed red lump on the ground way below and liberate my soul? I carefully shift my feet to the next portion of the wall.  I pass a window in between. Too early for its glass to be fit, but I see a faint reflection on it. My black hair appears grey with dust and rough carelessly grown stubble gives me a rather grotesque look. Big white eyes bulge out of skull as I stare at my own reflection.  I think that’s what happens to most of the boys when they become men, built bit by bit into a figure which is an accumulation of fragments of dying hope and rumble of dreams.

I dare not think of the dream with which I had left my village, my home and my people at fifteen. Three Rupees tucked in the inner pocket of my underwear; I had the world to take over. I starved, I crumbled, I stole…I regretted and corrected. But, I never cried. It was the dreams and the hope that kept me from weeping. You know that hop in my walk and belief in my mind that tomorrow I will be big man?  That was that tender age when I had the fate in the grip of my fist and hope in my heart.  I smile and brush away those memories and gaze back at my reflection one last time before I slide ahead.  I start grinding the sandpaper on the wall. I don’t realise my movements are faster and the pressure of the rub is greater till my hand aches. I don’t want to pause. I don’t want to think.

But my mind walks through a boulevard of dreams abandoned dreams. “Amma I opened a small puncture repair shop today.” That was the first call I had made home in the two years that I had been away. No response was received from the other end just faint sobs of joy and sadness - joy for having heard from me and sadness because, perhaps she knew what I didn’t know back then. I never called her back apart from a drunken call in which I just wet my eyes but didn’t speak a word. It was the day my shop was rolled over so that the road could be widened. Not a word of warning or hint was given. I just came one early morning to find my assets broken. Worse I had to pay for customer’s cycle that got damaged in the event. My little margins accumulated over time vanished into thin air leaving me with nothing but just three rupees like three years ago.

Failures followed chipping off my zeal to fulfil my dreams little by little and I stood near the labour market as the last resort to earn money. Pick me up for any work I’ll do it. I just didn’t want to go back home to the faces that would mock me, “Didn’t we tell you, it will be a waste. City Boy eh? Big man…? You should have tilled fields here, married a girl and taken care of your parents.”  I wanted more than that and when I chased it, it left me with nothing? Life is unfair. “Will you work in construction, Rs.100 per day?” I nodded, my head had jumped into a truck occupied by many men, women and children.  Over the years I shifted from cement mixing, laying bricks, and painting walls to anything and everything that makes a building.  I have lost the track of time three, four I can’t tell how many years have passed.

Phoo, phoo, I blow of the scraped cement and bring my mind to the present. I catch my own shadow on the wall I sculpt to make it smooth. Shadow-a black contour of man, a faceless, unidentified man.  I continue to grind on the surface, slowly – meticulous, smoothing my hard memories with the action and fading away into the night sculpting the dreams of what that man in the shadow could be. Hope, I guess it still resides in me somewhere.

The End

Written as a part of Captured Writings.