I close my eyes and try to sleep
but at times,too much peace can also keep one awake.
I seek out a sound, a flutter to peg my thoughts on,
but all I hear is the rhythm of your breath.
I touch your arm and wonder, where are you right now..
To a forgotten hiding spot in the old neighborhood
or a snow covered peak dipped in silence,
where have your dreams taken you today?
Would you have a story to tell me when you come back,
or are we writing one together in a half-imagined, half-real world..
There’s a shadow of a smile on your lips that reminds me
of the whispered iloveyou, just before you fell asleep.
Would you say it again when you wake up?
Or is that what you are doing right now,
in your dreams…
I met the U.S. in winters, made friends with it in Spring, had long conversations in Summer, but love? Love was waiting for Fall.
There is a certain poetic feel to Fall season – maybe because the air is just the right kind of chilly to make you want to hug someone tight; or maybe it’s the incredible colors around! Or maybe it’s because we know that these unbelievably beautiful leaves are counting their last breaths. Soon, they’ll all be gone. Their bright orange and yellow and pink and purple will soon be one with the brown of dust. And yet, they spend their last moments not complaining or mourning, but making this world a more beautiful, more lovable place for the rest of us.
It was a room full of possibilities.
She could be anyone in that instant, end up anywhere.
She spent an hour or two in Chekov’s Russia, flew over Rand’s utopia and finally settled down in Murakami’s Japan.
They wondered why she spent the whole afternoon huddled up in forgotten corners.
Prompt: You find a letter on the path. You read it and it affects you deeply. Write a short story (50 – 100 words) about it.
Inspiration: Bollywood movie Finding Fanny, in which a man goes in search of the love of his life after a letter he sent to her 46 years ago comes back to him.
“But he wrote this letter 46 years back mom!”, Ronnie argued, her voice shrill with desperation. “What if he is STILL waiting for a reply? He doesn’t know the letter didn’t reach her! What if SHE has been waiting for him?”
“46 years, darling, is a long time, enough to forget anyone.”
“No it’s not. Not if you truly love someone.”
“True love is like Santa Claus dear, only real till a certain age.”
“Why don’t you believe in love mom?”
A long pause ensued before Jennifer conceded, “Go post it.”
Some lessons can only be learned first hand, she thought.
So i am supposed to scribble the flow of my thoughts for 20 minutes to unblock my mind.The trouble is that at any point of time, there are so many thoughts pulling me in different directions that it’s difficult to hold on to the thread of one thought for long, but I’ll try.
The first and foremost thought, obviously, is ‘what should i write about?’ I currently have 3 most pre-occupying jobs at hand: taking some steps towards the novel swirling incessantly in my head, finishing the multiple short stories in pipeline and send them out to publishers, and decide whether or not i want to start a part-time job along with my writing. It’s been more than 6 months since I left my job in India and moved bags, barrels and all to the states. Until now, getting used to a new country, traveling to and exploring the places around and not having a work permit had been my excuses for not taking any concrete action in any direction (indecision has always been my nemesis), but now I am running out of excuses. The truth is the only thing I really want to do is write a novel and tell the story breathing and living in my head and get it over with. I know I can’t give my 100 percent to anything else until I finish this task. But every time I sit down to pin these thoughts to a piece of paper, I feel like i am drowning in the sheer volume and force of these thoughts. I find myself coming up gasping for air every half an hour! Yes, that is my attention span these days. This happens continuously for a few days, and I am so drenched in the rains of self-doubt, that I start looking for a shelter of blogging or finding a part time job or getting some poems/ short stories published. Then one day the clouds clear up and the Sun of hope is out and I can see clearly again, only to be lost after a few days. This cycle of insanity and lucid intervals, goes on and on and on…
निर्बोध खड़े हैं उसी दोराहे पर
जहां तुम ‘आता हूँ’
कह कर छोड़ गए थे;
मुड़ के देख लो एक बार जो अगर,
आँखों से तुम्हारी
जाने की इजाज़त ले लूँ|
I’m still lost at that fork
where you’d left me
with a promise of returning back soon;
If you would just turn around once,
I’d bid you farewell
and finally move on.)
you painted a picture for me
of a house with purple walls
somewhere between the city and the beach.
I had closed my eyes then
and heard you sing
of a love found and lost.
I tried to find it again, but
it was gone
that fleeting look of tenderness in your eyes,
so was the picture
and I thought it to be
another one of my reverie.
And yet, months later
here I stand
on the threshold
of that figment of your imagination.
How did you make it real?
When did you show me the way to it?
I think I know the answers deep down…
But, what I don’t know
is the way forward from here.
Should I knock on the door
or should I just walk past it?
Would you smile when you see me,
would you let me in?
and if you do
would there be a way out again