Canvas of memories

 

Unsure but willing, she gingerly lifted the paint brush. And on cue, little Clara went up on her toes to offer Mrs Martini the palette of colours. Life is not always palatable, but that doesn't mean you don’t taste it twice, thought Mrs Martini, as she paused to pick out from a splattering of blue, green, red, orange, white, and yellow, all streaming into a puddle of hues. 

The octogenarian had gathered with her 5 grandchildren -- Kevin, Robbie, Stella, Stacy, and Clara – for an evening of musings and banter. The kids had planned it all and granny's time was blocked days in advance. No other adult was allowed in the room. There were only five tickets to 'Grannyverse'.

It was the Sunday before Christmas. No sooner the clock struck 5, Stacy and Clara appeared to receive granny in her room. 'Granny, drop whatever it is you are doing," Stacy affectionately ordered, turning Mrs Martini towards her. Clara held out a satin sash with glittering gold borders. 'You Are Our Grannyverse', read the words in cursive. Mrs Martini bent forward and Clara draped it for her, albeit with some effort. The sisters together led Mrs Martini to the room where the others had already gathered.

Kevin, Robbie and Stella had meticulously worked out the details of their date night with granny. A petal shower, followed by a round of storytelling -- ‘oral memories drawn from the lofts of time’ as granny would put it – a cake and cookie binge, and finally a dabble with colours, each one in the room leaving an imprint on the ‘Canvas of Memories’ placed on an easel.

And now it was Mrs Martini’s turn. What could she draw? “Come on, granny. You have got to do this. We aren't saying goodnight otherwise,” said Robbie with a toothy grin. Stella put an arm around Mrs Martini’s bony shoulders and whispered in her ear: “We love you, granny and how much!” Planting a peck on Stella's cheek and ruffling Kevin's hair, Mrs Martini smeared the brush with red, a small amount of orange, and a hint of white and lifted her hand to draw a wobbly heart. "My fading but throbbing heart," thought Mrs Martini as she completed the strokes and slowly put down the brush.

 Turning to her grandkids, she drew them all into a giant hug, little Clara squashed in the great huddle. “You, my dears, have a home each in my heart. And thank you, honeybuns! My heart will pulsate with memories of this evening fondly and forever,” said Mrs Martini, her eyes glazing with tears. 

(This post is part of the A to Z Challenge) 

Bambi and his bestie

Poppins could feel something tender and moist sniffing at her toes. It was Bambi, the adorable mess of a pup, who’d mastered the art of pawing his way into her room, no permission sought. Bambi would wait no more than a minute or two before getting on to the bed to wake up his bestie. Why it was already time to play fetch! 

The pawsome friendship began one summer noon. Poppins had just finished school and was tarrying at the gate, waiting for aunt Suzi who’d walk her home. Glancing at her watch, Suzi paced up to Poppins and greeted her with a quick cuddle. She removed the bunny bag from Poppins’s shoulders and took her little hand in hers.

It was a Friday, and a visit to the ice cream parlour was due. Aunt Suzi had promised Poppins her favourite gelato. A few steps out of school, something spritely bounced up behind the two. The little fella had clearly picked his favourite. Who else, but Poppins. Bambi circled around her, stomping at her feet, tailing her at every step, tripping her even. Poppings dodged for a bit, but Bambi snuggled around. The pup wore his heart on his forehead, a strawberry-shaped white patch right between two googly eyes. His body was all brown and the four white paws looked like he had the booties on.

When Poppins and Suzi entered the ice cream booth, Bambi parked himself at the door. He was happy to rest for a bit, his eyes pinned on Poppins. That afternoon he followed them home. And just like the gelato, Poppins’s heart melted. “Mumma, meet Bambi. Bambi meet mumma,” declared Poppins. The new member had to be formally introduced. “Bambi? Did we not meet him only an hour back? You’ve got him a name already,” exclaimed aunt Suzi.  Bambi stood there looking distracted, a little flustered and sheepishly meeting eyes with the adults in the room.

Bambi had to do little to impress. Poppins was adamant on having her new fried home. That evening, mumma and Poppins sat together to make Bambi his first toy, a colourful rope ball. 

(This post is part of the A to Z Challenge) 

Attu’s umbrella

 

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Attu’s eyes constantly flitted to something she’d placed underneath her frock that spread around her in a little circle. A smile played on her lips, even as her mother fed her morsels of the day’s last meal, a mash of watery lentil soup and coarse rice. It didn’t matter to Attu what she was eating. When Amma fed her, every bite was delectable.  

Amma thought they were Attu’s favourite stones with which she and her friend Guddi played tic-tac-toe on a dry patch of land adjacent to their hut. They’d draw the grids with dry stalks plucked from a  mango tree nearby and frolic around till sundown. Attu had painted the stones in bright yellow and red and took great care not to misplace them. But no, they weren’t the stones. Something else had caught her fancy.

Amma and Attu locked eyes across a mischievous silence, the ember glow of the dying woodfire on which dinner was readied, taking the space in its warm embrace. It had been raining all day and the clouds looked unrelenting. “What are you up to, Attu? What do you have there beside you,” asked Amma. Attu squinted in glee and even let out a giggle. But she wouldn’t utter a word. It was her little dinner time secret that would pop out only after the last bite. Attu again sneaked a look to her left, this time with great love.

Amma’s eyes suddenly swelled with tears. An evening storm followed by heavy rain had brought down the electric pole. Their modest dwelling had descended into darkness and Amma was thankful for it. Sitting across each other under candle light, her little girl wouldn’t have caught her tears; she quickly blinked them back. Attu gulped down the last bite in a hurry and squealed, “Amma, see this.” She pulled out an umbrella and Amma immediately recognized it. It was the same umbrella her employer had given her earlier in the day, a worn-out piece, torn in many places.

Attu had only known banana leaves for umbrellas, available in plenty all around her hut. This one was a big deal. She flung open the polka-dotted brolly, jolting Amma out of her daze. “Amma, can I take this to school tomorrow,” she asked with pleading puppy eyes. “Attu, this has many holes in it. It won’t save you from rain, my dear. Let me first stitch it for you,” replied Amma. Attu peeked out of the open umbrella, flashed a broad smile and gushed: “Amma, just how I can see you through the holes here, I will have the sun streaming down on me when it stops raining. Wouldn’t that be awesome?”

Filled with despair, Amma smiled. Her six-year-old heartbeat had learned to fend for herself the little joys of life. That night Attu went to bed a tad too excited and even slipped out a little prayer. Amma gazed out the window at the night sky; the clouds rumbled. She pulled a sheet over Attu and kissed her goodnight.

(This post is part of the A to Z Challenge)

 

 

 

Zoom out on life

When the breath feels heavy and the day seems dense, zoom out on life; 

When the flight is solo and the heart is hollow, zoom out on life.

Beauty is in the big picture, victory in those valorous scars;

Darkest hours are also when brightest shine the stars.

We break a little every day, we build a little too;

We drown a little every day, we swim a little too.

When doubt shrouds faith and the soul sinks in despair;

Smile into the mirror and say this too I shall repair. 

Not all chapters can be grey, not all memories sour;

Sweet feels the bud today, bitter the wilting flower.

It's but one life to love and live, one chance to fight it all;

How do we rise and piece together, if never we fumble and fall. 

When the clouds gather and the storm brews strong, zoom out on life;

When dreams lie shattered and hopes look scattered, zoom out on life. 

---------------------------------

PS: And with this it's a wrap. Thank you all my fellow bloggers for the visits, the exchange of thoughts and the words of encouragement. I managed to stay afloat all through April :)      

Yellow nostalgia

The day was young and Dorothy had committed herself to her to-do list, determined not to get tripped by anything this time. She had at last gotten a Saturday all to herself. The husband and kids had set out for a weekend camping and for once, she wouldn't have to slice and dice her time. Tickle, the family's most adored member, of course stayed behind to tail her. He always had a secret access to his hooman momma's heart.  

Dorothy took a long last sip of her morning coffee and put the newspaper down. Tickle, sitting at her feet, lazily raised one eye and immediately sunk back to basking in the morning sun. Dorothy petted him and stood up. First she'd head to the grocers. She had promised the boys a cake on their return, but was running low on unsalted butter and vanilla essence. At 11, she had an appointment at the salon and at 3pm, a routine visit to the dentist. She also wanted to make a halt at the new nursery, just a 15-minute drive from home. The veranda, she thought, could do with some more potted plants.

Mentally glossing over the list, Dorothy stepped into her bedroom. The curtains were still on and the room felt extra dark. And bam, she stubbed her foot against the desk, a spot she was so familiar with that it seemed utterly ridiculous. Dorothy plonked on floor, holding tight her baby toe. The pain was sharp and she was irate. One Saturday after so long, and now this. Not wasting any sympathy on herself, Dorothy pushed forward to stand up, when something lying on the floor clutched her attention. 

It was a photograph and she immediately knew which one. But how did it even land there? Dorothy gently pulled it out and turned it over. It was a moment captured in black and white, Dorothy with her mom from countless summers ago. Age had crawled into the picture and it had acquired a yellow tint. Ever since her mom's passing, this one frame travelled with her, a place of warmth she'd turn to in her darkest hours. Dorothy sat staring at the picture, the pain in her toe felt nothing in comparison to the sudden sting of tears. 

The yellow tint alluded to the vast stretch of time she had been a motherless daughter and, suddenly, it was a deluge of yellow nostalgia. Did the photo ride the morning breeze to find Dorothy? Sitting with an aching heart and a hurting toe, that's how she wished to imagine. 

Image by Ruiterlijk from Pixabay

 

   

'X'cuse me, please!

The letter X is an invader, or so must be the rancour in the world of lexicons. It may be a tailender in the ABC hierarchy but in modern-day vocab, it has neatly attached itself to many words starting with 'ex'. And no one seems to be complaining, certainly not the new-age kids who in any case prefer the Afk (away from keyboard) and mos (Mom over Shoulder) language for alien-like transmissions. 

'Xchange' for exchange, 'xtraordinary' for extraordinary, 'xplore' for explore, 'xtra' for extra, 'xtreme' for extreme, these and many more similar iterations are mainstream today. To it's credit, X is a handsome letter and carries an air of elegance which makes it stand out even if it's at the bottom of the heap. Placed at the start of a word (a favorite of ad creatives), it brings an extra swag or should we say an X factor. 

It's like this letter does a side hustle. I suppose we will all agree that X isn't an inherently rich alphabet. Take 10 seconds to think of as many words as you can with X. Repeat the same with say letter A or S. It will become obvious who's the deprived cousin. It's like to stay relevant, X had to reinvent itself. Survival of the fittest!

Language nerds might very well sneer at the audacity of X. But popular culture seems to have accepted this reinvention and probably doesn't mind 'xperimenting' further. Breaking away from linguistic conventions, this alphabet has dropped the axe on many long-established words and how. Slaying all the 'exes' in style, shall we say. 

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

 

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 incredible. 

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, dreaming up characters, 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