Silence speaks

Silence speaks in the quiet ruins of life,
In the rustle of the autumn leaves;

Silence speaks when promises run dry,
When a fragile heart the world deceives;

Silence speaks through shattered dreams,
When tears roll like flooded streams;

Silence speaks when the lights go out,
and the lone candle shivers in the wind;

Silence speaks when fears feast,
When dread shreds the core to bits;

Silence speaks when the map's lost,
When paths colludes to hurt not heal;

Silence speaks when the sun goes down,
When clouds are stolen of their silver sheen;

Silence speaks when every voice is doused,
but for the leaping flames of chaos within.

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

Peekaboo with Ruli

Out of breath, Namita dropped her bulging duffle bag on the bench, pulled out the water bottle from her daypack and emptied it in a few long swigs. Beads of sweat lined her forehead. Twenty more minutes and she’d have missed the train home. The traffic jam leading to the station had sucked the life out of her. 

Namita sat on the bench and was about to grab an energy bar, when another wave of panic washed over her. Hope there was no change in the platform number. She’d checked it online and it showed the train to Howrah, West Bengal would depart from platform 6. But what if an announcement was made that she missed? Namita’s eyes wildly searched for the digital display board.

There was one to her left but a short distance away. Namita hastily walked up to the board and matched the details on the screen with the ticket. Reassured, she returned to the bench where she’d left her bag only to be greeted by two twinkling eyes and a set of high pigtails tied with yellow bows. The instant Namita made eye contact, the little peanut broke into a disarming smile. Comfortably perched on her mother’s lap, the sweetpea was all playful. Namita adored children and here she was getting exclusive attention.

Initiating a little game, Namita placed her hands in front of her face to cut the view. And then to a count of five, she removed them and called out 'peekaboo!!' The hazel-eyed beauty burst into a torrent of giggles. She was so cute, Namita could eat her with a spoon. It was joy unalloyed. After a few rounds of hide and reveal, Namita couldn’t resist asking the toddler's mother, who'd just got off a phone call, her name.

Ruli had dissolved all her anxiety. The energy bar, thought Namita, could wait its turn to come to her rescue.    

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

Noodle Doodle

I love food art, especially the kind where the kitchen ingredients discreetly come together to present a surprisingly pretty picture. When the pandemic put a pause to our ever-swirling lives, I was delighted to discover many little perishable artworks in my cooking hub. My senses suddenly had more time to soak in the surroundings, to catch beyond the obvious.

Home alone, I was probably looking for signs of life even in the inanimate. Veggies chopped at certain angles looked like a parade squad, while a bundle of coriander leaves propped up against the kitchen counter mimicked a drooping tree. One day the spread resembled a party on the plate and on another, an offering of chaotic comfort.

On a balmy afternoon, I just couldn’t take my eyes off a handful of baby corns sliced into little circular coins. Against the bright red of the chopping board, they looked like a scatter of tiny yellow flowers. And then the tomato that opened its strawberry-shaped heart, like literally, when chopped into two.

Here’s another of the pandemic musings on my plate.  I captioned it ‘The Noodle Doodle’.

ART IN THE ORDINARY: The Noodle Doodle

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

Memories cold

Shaili sat by the light of the reading lamp, lost in Motherless Daughters. Every page was like a dagger to her heart and yet she wouldn’t put the book down. She was convinced the book had found her to untie the knots of her raucous thoughts that’d so often turn monstrous, defeat her, drown her and then savagely fling her ashore to go figure another day without her mother. It was rinse and repeat for ten searing years. No, the words did not clam the storm within. Maybe, just maybe, they gave the tempest a course.   

A gentle zephyr rushed in through the window, as if to check on her, offer her a healing hug. Why was she so cold tonight? A lump or two rose to Shaili’s throat. But no, she couldn’t fall apart. She had to turn another page, no matter how hard. To think a book could blow her into smithereens and yet offer solace like a shred of sunlight breaking through the darkest hour? Shaili was stunned.    

A college-goer, Shaili always had a title or two on her, especially when in community spaces. They were her smoothest escapes from all kinds of fluff. But never Motherless Daughters. The title opened her wounds without permission. The world didn’t have to see her scars. There could be no cracks in the strong-woman façade.

Only the night knew her plight. Only the night could keep the world out of sight. While Shaili stared blankly at the empty wall facing her, a short burst of wind turned over a few pages. It was sign that she’d shattered enough for the night. Shaili placed the bookmark, a postcard from her mother, in between the pages, closed the book, and gently kept it aside. Blanketed in memories cold, she crawled into her bed. The book didn’t hold answers to all her questions, but she dozed off in the arms of dream knowing her feelings were no less valid, that others too had fault in their stars. 

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

Kind to all kinds

An army of ants paraded in a single file dodging two shiny little shoes. Frothing out of a burrow at the foot of a golden shower tree, the mini marchers hauled food crumbs, insect parts, seeds and grains, and plant fibers on their inconspicuous shoulders.

Fascinated, Siri watched in rapt attention. This was among her favourite activities in Miss Hope’s Friday sessions, Tattle with Nature, under a canopy of trees in the school’s rose garden. The bugs, the bees, the birds, the butterflies, all flew in and out of the open-air class. The crawlers found a seat too, and the squirrels appeared in short bursts.

Perched next to Miss Hope, Siri’s mind went out on a stroll. She had seen similar ant cavalcades at home too, around the potted plants on the veranda, probing the sugar and jaggery jars in the kitchen, trying to invade the confectionery boxes brought in by guests. “Like me, do they also have a sweet tooth?” she paused to ponder and grinned under her breath.

In Tattle with Nature, Miss Hope simply let the little explorers be. The children knew how to busy themselves. And certainly, they had a thousand things to relay back to their teacher. However, every session ended with a lesson. And today it was on kindness. “Children, always remember one thing. We have to be kind to all kinds. If you see a stray pup, feed it some biscuits. Leave a bowl of water in your backyard for the thirsty birds. And yes, don’t just pluck a flower, pet it gently and let the blooming beauty be,” said Miss Hope.

Though engrossed, Siri was all ears. As the ants soldiered on, she finally budged and cautiously moved her shoes to the left, making an easier passage for the ever slogging six-legged workers.

“Be kind to all kinds…” Siri just showed how it's done.

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

 

Jessi’s lunchbox

It was the first class of the morning. On other days, Jessi would be grouchy, her cheeks bloated like two ripe tomatoes, brows scrunched, and eyes dozy. But today she looked like a tiny human version of the sun, her face gleaming with a naughty smile. She was unusually active, though least attentive.

Two rows away, her besties, Tia and Ziva, could barely sit still. The three fleetingly locked eyes and gulped some giggles. Miss Wormwood, their class teacher, had caught the mute exchanges. Peering over the glasses placed on the bridge of her nose, she thundered: “Attention girls!” Jessi, Tia and Ziva promptly straightened their shoulders and looked at the blackboard, their thoughts bobbing all over.

By the end of the third period, the girls could barely contain their excitement. When would the bell go off? Why wasn’t it break time yet? “Don’t forget to eat well, sleep well and finish your homework. Right, class!” Miss Diaz’s honeyed words wafted into their ears. Miss Diaz always spoke with affection and her class was Jessi’s favourite 45 minutes in school. But today she wished for even this to fast-forward.

And, finally, after what seemed like an unending hour, the bell rang. Today, Jessi didn’t mind the ear-ripping 10-second shrill trill. As soon as the other kids trooped out of the classroom grabbing their lunchboxes, Jessi, Tia and Ziva rushed to form a huddle.  It was time for the big reveal and out came Jessi’s minion-print lunchbox. She carefully unclipped the box and placed it at the center on the floor. A heart, a dinosaur, a bunny, a monkey, and a fish, all stared back from the container! For a few seconds, Tia and Ziva gaped in wonder. And then, without a word, the three spilled over with laughter.

“See what else I have got here,” whispered Jessi. “Mummy's cookie cutters. I grabbed them when she wasn’t looking and pressed them over the sandwiches she’d prepared for me,” she chuckled and picked up the heart. "This, I will take home for mummy."

The box was emptied in the next ten minutes, the bunny in Jessi's tummy. 

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

Invisible ink

Even the sun goes to bed hoping to rise and shine again

Destinies, I suppose, are dyed with invisible ink to give hope a foot in the door. Each day thus opens as a blank page and closes with the script revealing itself a little more. Yellow to grey, the palette changes every day.

What if at birth you got a precap of your time under the sun? Would that make you happy? Would that even be fun? Would then the cinders of hope ever stand a chance?

In the ocean of pain, it’s always hope that frantically waves from the shoreline to say things will be fine again. Like the baby that fumbles and falls but never tires of standing up anew, hope too walks in the same shoes.   

The invisible ink has already put a fullstop to our stories somewhere. The day, the hour, the minute, the moment, it's all been put together.  But till we get there, we are all just surfing on hope. 

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