Life of a Shadow

I arrived out of nowhere.

Hazy and formless I flitted over the surface,

Racing over fields and streaking over rivulets.

It was a wriggle, a walk, a sprint and a swim,

My personal kind of marathon.

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Gradually but surely I was gaining form,

My lines became clearer and my steps became wiser.

I learnt to tread lightly on water,

But place my foot firmly on land,

And hold my breath while climbing tree tops.

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With time, I turned dense and unyielding,

My heartbeats struggled to keep up.

But the last leg needed the best I could give,

I raced on,

Bearing witness to my emerging form.

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Chasing and running away,

It was when I took my last breath,

When I finally met my creator

And was laid to rest.

I became myself.


The journey from nothing to something to everything. Life is not a circle – it is the most curved straight line one can think of. Inspired by a dancing shadow of a cloud.

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Moondrops

img_1866.jpgHues of pinks dusted the branches,

As the dusk melted into a moonless night,

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Tiny buds unfurled their blossoms,

As the soil shimmered under the starlight

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Moonshine sprinkled on the blooms,

As the enchantment weaved in flight.

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The earth spun on its edge in joy,

As the apple blossoms glowed bright.

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Like pearls, they blushed and twinkled,

As they demured under a touch so slight.

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The sun shined brighter by the day

As honeyed petals glided featherlight.

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Like moondrops on a carpet of green,

They never failed to arouse delight.


I lost track of the number of apple blossoms I saw during my Kashmir trip, each more enchanting than the next. An ode to the happiness!

Design

I trace the perimeter of the blossom. The petals are wrapped lovingly together as if conducted to a waltz. The partners have frozen in time, forever entangled in their embrace. The sunlight on the morning dew sparkles as chandeliers of their universal ball.

I follow the trails left by the droplet of ink through the crystal goblet of water. How it floats and sways, leaving behind a pattern I liken to a music note that hasn’t been heard. It cuts through the dense path with a calm assurance of its beauty and lazy in its power.

I grasped for the desert sands flowing down the dune with my bare hand. There is a smooth ripple to their fall, like the mouth of a waterfall breaking and surrendering to gravity. There is a rush to break the unwrinkled carpets of sands – a rebel without a cause, it finds respite at the curved bottom.

I focus on the edge of the damp canvas touched by the tip of the paintbrush. From a singular point, the colour spreads like a blossoming flower springing free from the locks of the bud. Even inanimate, it follows the random uniformity otherwise impossible to replicate.

I blow at faerie dust and watch the particles pirouette in the lonely ray of the afternoon light before landing on the polished wood. The gold and amethyst cloud forms patterns that reflect the midnight sky with starlight twinkling solemnly of promises being made across the world. 


Even when you break patterns, it leads to an inconsistency so perfect that it becomes a part of the perfection.