Birdcage

How would you like to celebrate when the birdcage ceases to exist?
 Maybe a dance in the rain on your balcony where your pet plants also bend to breezy rhythm?
Maybe a walk to the nearest bookstore and get drunk on old books smell plus a coffee.
Having a football match with the neighborhood team where you swear no matter who wins you will never scream 'FOUL'.
Visiting granny's house just to pamper yourself,  returning home with a pocket full of blackmails for your mom.
Maybe a trip and trek to the hilltop, screaming your lungs out, a promise to discover back the lost year.
Maybe a walk to the countryside to soothe your aching heart with shades of green?
A window seat on the train, you sit there sipping tea, the pulsating air unlocking your braided hair; not without your consent.


More than a year has passed, when living and staying alive started to feel different. It seemed like living the same day over and over again. A year of change; change in perspectives; change in self-judgments.
The same uncanny roads traveled by seeming so different now. As if you want yourself to be surprised by the most trivial thing. As if your present is an oasis, one blink and it is gone. A mirage or a cobweb, you can't seem to decide.
You get the same feeling of going to school alone for the first time; parents assuring you they will be outside the whole time.

Venturing out after so long seems like Jet Lag. Overwhelming over functional personality to take control of everything that you once owned surfaces. The emotion, the anxiety bubbling inside you is trying to find a vent.

But let's promise one thing. To be true to ourselves. To be kind, first to your anxious self, then to others too. Because each and everyone, you and me, even seemingly the happiest person in the world is puzzled right now, trying to get their lives back on track.
Let the matching gears find one another so that we set sail smoothly in our journey.

Life in Clouds

Clouds come with many hues and patterns; just like human emotions. On sunny days, it's the purest form of white. But the white fluffy one, given time, cumulates rain. When dark, it pours its heart out, blinds us with lightning.
My grandfather used to take me on a walk to the rail station. We spent most of the time on the railway over the bridge. Beneath the sky, looking over the trains. The train stations always emanate a sense of departure and arrival to me. Students coming home from college, grown-ups getting on board for their 9-5 job. It's a game of love and loss. On the contrary, looking up was easy. There was not much to look at, only the clouds, seemingly steady; a green band of trees at the horizon and some couples of birds. But it delivered a sense of infinity.
I always tried to imagine what it feels like to be amongst the clouds, the white one. They just float around. Can I make cotton candy out of them? The one they make in fairs? When the sunset was about to drop the veil on earth, I tried to distinguish between the shades of red amongst the pallet of cloud. Or have they been yellow?
I wanted to ask grandpa, can I hop on the clouds, with a trampoline? Can I just grab an airplane and go land on it? Can I get a little closer if I climb over that telephone tower? Maybe the birds were a little closer to the clouds. We should keep a bird to exchange news with the cloud castle.
My grandpa used to laugh at me, a laugh from the heart. Maybe he laughed because I was a dreamer like him. Parading about the weird theories in my head. His big palm hovered over my head, making a mess of my hair. He used to tell grandma about my shenanigans when we returned from the cloud-castle.
Now that he is gone, every time I'm near a railway over a bridge or looking at the clouds, I wish I could ask him 'can you see me from up there, grandpa?', 'I hope you sought out my questions with them even if there is no way to let me know the answers'. 'Is the cloud palace treating you well? Don't let them serve sugar in your dishes.'
But now I understand the white, pure, fluffy ones, they may be slow but they don't stop, they float to their destinations. And I don't have much time looking away from my laptop. The coffee gets cold, the sandwich gets soggy and dust sets on the white garland on your picture. But know this, as long as I look at clouds and tragically fail to take an artistic picture of it, we are good. Your little dreamer hasn't forgotten her storyteller.

A Sudden Rainfall

A lazy Saturday afternoon, sunny enough to bleed your plants dry, humid enough that you can't take your 'bhatghum' properly. Suddenly you hear murmuring of clouds,far away. Tiny wavy movements in curtains tell you maybe there's a storm coming. You get hopeful enough to pick up all your half dried clothes from the balcony . You never know when you have to rush to close the windows; you keep your guard up.

 

The storm comes indeed, but just not the intensity you've imagined. It levels up the sultriness , the humidity.

Heartbroken.

You can't Decide whether to hang the cloths again or not. Melancholy takes over. You decide to take a walk on your roof with a cup of tea. Maybe everyone in the neighborhood feels the same way.

You go to your roof, look up to see if there are any more rainy clouds, only to get disappointed.

Instead, a pair of crows brushing water off their wings catches your sight. A way-too-late-for-its-season cuckoo starts it's melody ,hidden from plain sight.

And you cannot feel unhappy once your gaze finds your Bougainvillea sparkling with raindrops, wearing it like a crown.


The sight of bro-sis duo playing football, two roofs away; a mom's soothing sound as she tries to put her crying baby to sleep . You give a faint smile and come down to your room with the empty cup.

There are evening chores to be done.......