Back in the old city
Down the memory lanes
Treading the frozen times of yesterday
Remembering our dances in rain
I can almost feel the touch of your hands.
And smell the lost scents of your laughs.
What dissolved those moments of love?
When did one shadow abandon the other?
Why did the sands have a single set of footprints?
No vows of staying close.
No conditions to walk together.
No binds to name the relationship.
Yet cold winters later
These glorious summer storms,
Find your name as a sigh on my lips.
Memories are funny, indeed.
Ever felt so stifled by a life jacket?
That the one thing keeping you afloat,
is also the hand choking you.
It compresses your lungs, on and on,
until you cannot scream or draw in a breath.
Your hands itch to scratch and tear free
the suffocating grasp of the jacket.
You are ready to chance drowning
just to take one fervent gulp of pure air.
Darkness and silence of the void beckons more
than the ringing of your conscience,
than the shine of the blinding sun,
than the last fire of burning lungs.
I am not quite sure about the amount of hate I may generate with this post – but let me get it out anyway.
I am not a fan of babies. I have never been a baby person. I have never gone “Awww… So cute” when I saw a baby except a few that I really thought were cute (Those few I can count on the fingers of one hand and still have fingers to dip in the jar of Nutella to lick). I am that person who can simply ignore when a baby is being too cute and vying for attention.
I am also not mean or cruel or cold. It’s just that the attraction of a baby never reached me fully. I am more likely to be attracted by a GIF of a chocolate fondant cake than the hundred pictures of a baby. I am in that age-group where some people have started having babies or the baby-talk has entered their life. At this point, I am not sure what I can add to the talk. Neither do I know much about babies, or am interested in their activities or have any inclination to have one in the near future. (Near… Far… That will take another 10000 words to express)
My friend took it upon herself to melt my heart and bombarded me with the cutest baby photographs and GIFs. I admit, there were some really adorable ones that did squirm into the corner of my heart. But the one that caught my eye had a puppy in it and then I was lost. I spent the next one hour looking up videos of puppies playing with babies then progressed to puppies playing with other puppies and finally to puppies playing with kittens.
When I meet a baby, I cannot fawn over him or her! I just cannot. I will play (those feet are so cuddly!) and smile (those gurgling noises are cute!) and make faces (those laughs and shiny eyes!). But they don’t really become a part of my universe. It just does not happen.
I think it is fine. I know I make a cool aunt… the babies who became pre-schoolers and young adults will vouch for it. I have also been awarded the favourite aunt by three of them. Not too bad eh, for someone who is not a baby fan?
Written for Daily Post Prompt Baby
Late afternoons often found her sitting alone, still and straight. Her mind would travel years back in time, when the house was full of children’s laughs and echoing footfalls. In a flash, hours and days had molded into long years of cooking dinners, attending PTA meetings and finishing yet another load of laundry.
Now the house sat quiet, reminiscing of a din long gone. The children had moved out and her husband was indulging yet another hobby. One evening, a sliver of sunshine happened to escape the curtain’s stern guard. Through the dance of dust mites, she happened upon her reflection. Her eyes and her face told stories of the years gone by and the errands they had seen through.
There were no stories of her own. There was not even a hint of the flame that once shone bright in her eyes; it was extinguished long ago.
A muted glint from a hidden corner caught her attention – somehow her old ghungru* had managed to dapple in the last light of the setting sun. It had been so long she had seen them – she had almost forgotten how they felt tied at her ankles. With trembling fingers she handled them delicately, more precious than any gem in the world.
What if….? Dare she even dream…?
The next afternoon saw her tentatively clearing a space and dusting out her old dancing clothes. As her feet slowly became accustomed to the once-familiar weight of her ghungru, the years melted away and she fell into a rhythm that was as natural as breathing. On days when she was not at dance school, the curtains were firmly drawn back as she conducted personal concerts under the sunny spotlight.
She was not a daughter, a wife or a mother then. She was a dancer. She was an artist. She was her chosen form. She was blowing at the cool embers, re-kindling a fire that had almost blown out. It was never too late to spark it back!
Written for Sue’s prompt – Flame. I took it as a metaphor and ran away with it! Hope that is okay…
*Ghungru: is one of many small metallic bells strung together to form Ghungrus, a musical anklet tied to the feet of classical Indian dancers.
You work for it. You sweat for it.
Shoot a dozen wishes to make it happen…
Yet it keeps getting out of your reach.
You chase it to a point and almost give up in exhaustion
Maybe you pause and breathe.
Take in the beauty of the low tides,
Of how the sun and its shine is a lot closer to you.
As you take in the warmth, you feel the softest touch of the waves
Swirling designs around you in the sands
The tide has turned… When it was the time.
It is coming in your arms,
All at the right time,
When you were finally ready…
Written for Thursday Photo Prompt at Sue’s.