Wordsmiths we all

 

Today's post is an ode to us writers who are in this challenge to savour the joy of putting pen to paper or should I say fingers to keys. Words make and break, words hurt and heal, words scatter the silence, words are how we feel. And to think we can get better at our craft by sharing this invaluable treasure, that's exquisite. 

I have been reading blogs from across the spectrum and what a delightful month this has been. I think of us writers as weavers who dig deep into the recesses of our minds and climb into pockets in our hearts to pull out the threads of vivid emotions and lace them with words. I'm amazed at how each of you are sustaining through this rigor and putting out such delightful reads. I have been blog-hopping just to experience the smorgasbord of ideas and their infinitude.   

Writing is a meditative process no less. One has to shut out the chaos (mostly within) and turn the volume down on all outer distractions for words to discover their way out of those creative veins. Writing also means a lot of groundwork, seeking beyond the obvious, sewing up plots, building narratives, tying up the loose ends and adroitly plating a kaleidoscope of perspectives.

More than the spoken, I have always been a fan of the written word. Little wonder then that I'm here writing. Written words are endowed with patience, a virtue otherwise in short supply. You are free to interpret them as you may and when you may or just move on. You could keep revisiting them and yet never outstay your welcome. They know no offence, don't come back to bite you, nor judge you for how you feel.  

To all you incredible wordsmiths out there, I find myself richer discovering you. More power to your pen. Happy writing!

Image by Monfocus from Pixabay

 

 

 

Vibe check done

 Rusha parked herself on a three-seater waiting chair with a book spread on her lap. Her suitcase occupied the remaining seats. It was her first time travelling alone and her senses were wide awake. At high noon, the railway platform wore a deserted look and Rusha could feel the throbbing silence. She had purposely turned up early to avoid any misadventure. 

Her parents had insisted on accompanying her to Delhi, where Rusha was to pursue higher studies. But the teen rebel in her firmly refused. So much so that she embarked on her solo trip right from home. At 18, she was confident she could do it alone. She had done a couple of train trips to Delhi with her parents and didn't think it was a big deal. Otherwise too, a family friend's son, who was also Rusha's school senior, was to board two stations later. 

The train was scheduled to arrive at 3pm and depart in half an hour.  As boarding time neared, footfall at the platform increased and the bustle grew. The train was on time and Rusha was glad there was no nasty surprise. She wheeled her suitcase, lifted it up the two steps and into the train, found her seat by the window and slowly settled down.     

A woman and her chirpy daughter occupied the opposite berth. Rusha set her book aside, pulled out a sandwich her mother had packed for her and took a few bites of it while looking out the window. The train had left the station and was just about picking up speed. Rusha's eyes drifted towards the little girl who was stealing glances at her. She smiled.

As the wheels chugged, Rusha's body set into a rhythm and her thoughts drifted to a point where it was all a blur. Her eyelids heavy, Rusha slowly placed her head against the window. A few hours later, she felt a gentle pat on her shoulder. Neev, her senior from school, stood there with his backpack strapped on his shoulders. 

Rusha took two seconds to gather herself. It was time for another vibe check. Just like she had done at the desolate station and on finding her co-travelers. Neev tried to study her expressions but felt lost. Seconds later, Rusha stood up, leaned forward and gave Neev a hug. "Always do the vibe check, my dear," her bestie had told her just the previous evening. "And veer with your vibe." Rusha smiled to herself and made space for Neev.         

    

Undermining the present

Undermining the present - It's one of the most pronounced ironies of life. We either live in melancholic wistfulness for a past that is nothing but a chimera now, or our worry lines stretch thinking about a future that could literally end in the next few minutes. And still our thoughts gallop back and forth, but refuse to make a halt.

Between this surge of craving for the days behind and the ceaseless pursuit of that which is unknown, the present yelps for a chance to be acknowledged but finds us too occupied. To pause and relish the here and now is a rare gift, only those with heightened awareness get to experience.

To give an immediate example, I publish the day's A-Z post every night after putting the thought factory into an overdrive (on most days). But once the task is accomplished, I'm barely able to take a moment to sit back and feel good about the process and the outcome. The mind swiftly pivots to 'what tomorrow?' Some say that's how the human mind is wired, but isn't that weird? 

Come to think of it, every tomorrow is a today and yet today finds little currency. The mind loves to brood big and we tag along - physically present, mentally absent, like they say. Life often expires between how things could have been and how things should be. May be also the reason why happiness seems so elusive?

 (Your thoughts? And what do you do to stay anchored in the present?) 

Tale of two tails

Brandy was a woolly tomcat, Coco an adorable furball. Size-wise the two were no match, but Coco was always up for a game with frowny, browny Brandy. It was the quintessential love-hate relationship and their little antics kept the Branson family in good humor. 

The two felines were brothers from different mothers, or so thought the Bransons. Coco loved to tinker with Brandy's bushy tail. It was a toy he fancied, one he thought played along, even if Brandy growled under his breath. Brandy had figured that Coco scampering around meant mischief in the making. So, he'd often curl his prized tail and neatly tuck it under his soft, cushy legs. 

Cats love belly rubs and both the members of the fur family got their staple every morning during breakfast, first from the daddy and then from the toddler twins. Coco being the junior one would be served both food and cuddles first. Brandy had to wait his turn. 

But here was the thing. Coco loved interrupting Brandy's two minutes of seventh heaven. Whenever Brandy would sprawl on the floor to savor his share of morning indulgence, Coco would crawl up from behind, set his impish eyes on his favourite 'thing' and start stomping all over it, flapping it right, flapping it left, at times trying to flip it even. Eyes clenched, softly mewing, Brandy mostly preferred to ignore but there would be days when Coco would get a good whacking - a flurry of sharp slaps to be precise.

And then came a day when it was Brandy's turn. The big brother caught Coco unawares, wedged between two cushions and heavily purring, oblivious to the happenings around. Unforgiving, Brandy climbed up the sofa and lodged himself right on top of the furball. The little fella squealed and squeaked from underneath. But it was revenge time. The toddler twins who were around playing saw Brandy but could hear Coco. And when they went up close, all they could see was Coco's puny tail frantically wagging from underneath Brandy's slouching tummy. Scores settled, once and for all!     

Image by Pexels from Pixabay

Stumbling on happiness

Stumbling on happiness - That's the tile of the book I'm on next. I don't know what the pages will reveal but I'm curious. Authored by American social psychologist and writer Daniel Gilbert, the book is a gift from a dear friend, someone thoughtful and sensitive. And for starters, the cover has a nice appeal. 

Books as gifts are rich and here's why. First, it's heartening to think someone has taken the time and trouble to scan through titles to settle on something, especially for you. Second, it's the kind of gift that can happily change hands and spread the unalloyed joy of reading. Third, with every book you read, you evolve in some way, there is bound to be a perspective shift. A book then becomes much more than just a gift.

I'm the kind of reader who pulls over at many stations while journeying with a book. It's like a slow burn, a book growing on you and you growing with it. But I mostly desist from reading reviews. Why approach it with a clouded perspective? I'd much rather prefer a clean canvas for new vistas to open up. There are times I'm stunned to meet my deepest thoughts seamlessly coursing through words weaved by a total stranger. Thoughts, which until then, craved for expression. It's beyond amazing.  

Books have this uncanny power of revealing a mélange of feelings, sometimes even playing them up against each other. That's why there are pages that make us squirm and then there are those that make us believe in the mysteries of the universe, after all. I imagine no two reader can feel exactly the same about a book. For, as readers, we too bring our baggage along.

Coming back to Stumbling on happiness, I'm eager and excited to the turn the pages. Reading is a consuming process, but something every reader willingly succumbs to. I'm no different. Happy reading y'all!  

(How do you approach books? Would love to know.)

  

Rainbow from oven of heaven🌈

Puzzled, Mindy's eyes scanned the open box of crayons on the desk. Some pencils were blunt, a few broken and the colour white was missing. Miss Gomes had set the kids buzzing like bees with her instruction for the class. "Children, draw anything that's part of nature and that which you love. But you will also have to describe whatever you draw."

Mindy's tubby fingers grazed against the violet crayon pencil and she playfully picked it up. Her eyes darted to the blank page in her drawing book. The pencil in her right hand, Mindy unmindfully brushed aside the unruly curls tickling her left cheek. What was she thinking? What would she come up with, little Mindy just shy of six...

Next, she stretched her hand and pulled out the colour indigo. Together she pressed both the crayon pieces between her thumb and index-plus-middle fingers. Bent over the page, her head slightly tilted to the right, Mindy started drawing. Over the next twenty minutes, she flitted between the page and her box of crayons rather purposefully for someone her age. Strings of golden curls covered her face from the right. Miss Gomes strolled by a couple of times but couldn't quite catch a glimpse of what Mindy was up to. But she let her be.

After a while, Mindy raised her head, her small frame still bent over the page. "Miss Gomes," she called out. "I have finished. May I come and show you my drawing?" "Sure darling," replied Miss Gomes. Excited, Mindy sprang up, took a few quick steps and then almost made a dash towards Miss Gomes. "Here it is," she said stretching her hands out.

Miss Gomes took the open book from her and in seconds her face lit up. Little Mindy had drawn a giant rainbow. And the words below the colorful display read: A RAINBOW FROM OVEN OF HEAVEN. Miss Gomes turned to Mindy. "It's beautiful, sweetheart. How did you come up with that, Mindy," she asked.

Mindy smiled a naughty smile. "The sandwich in my lunch box that mama has packed came from the oven in the kitchen. This, Miss Gomes, was prepared in the oven of heaven."

 

Quill parked in pages

Image by Karen Ewald from Pixabay

The pages were her home, the words her neighbours,

she was more than a drifty little quill;

She wafted through emotions high and low,

nestled in tales that gave her her fill.

Wild and woolly, she rolled from stone to stone,

till a throbbing soul took her in her fold,

saved her for the tomes, parked her in stories,

folded her into sleep when the day'd grow old.

She'd slide in and out, travel light like she always did;

Save the tears, glean the smiles, know her seeker's  every whim.

Pile to pile, cover to cover, page to page, hurt to heal,

the quill savored the unsaid yarns, the plot twists and their every wheel.

Happy she was to find a spot in the world of all things real and reel;

Placed between pages of yesterday and tomorrow,

a fantasy ride she often could steal.