Musings ....

Each idea that sprouts It runs and jumps about don't let it go easy an idea sprouting isn't easy Find a base beneath rational about it a logic to defend it build a wall around it Save and think each day don't let it go astray don't hush or throw away let it grow and pray Conjure a way if needed water its need, breed it the seed if potent will grow an idea comes rare, don't throw Slow germination process takes breaks energy and thought boggles the mind and grinds but fruit may finally be sought Each thought precious that arrives enclose, encourage feed it it calls, hear and listen it says, " I'm an idea", heed it.

The house at the end of road, by the wide lake is the most beautiful home I have ever seen. The red limestone rooftop with blue grainy walls and porch in front give an excellent feast for eyes to feed on and one can never tire gazing at it. The adjacent glade, with pine trees and laburnum tops, with daffodils and Gulmohar flowers beam a red and yellow light that grazes through the branches from the sun. A house of single story, with an attic on the top that has a small window. One might guess it had no more than 4 rooms, but he would be surprised on seeing it up close. The sheer structure is built in an intelligible way, that a hut from outside transforms into a palace on the inside. It wasn't a surprise when the man who lived in it was keen on inviting guest more often, as he had no family. The house would be bustling with cheers and merriment of guests that could be heard from afar with constant blaring of horns of cars jostling for car space to park.The amounts o

I love her, she does too i know, i don't have proof her tears were real, i felt emotions filled each drop She stood silent, hands at sides alone in the dust i wasn't with her, i couldn't be weren't meant to be together then my sister, she sits there myself alone here i message her, dilemma what to say i switch phone off, and finally pray evening Aazan of the mosque reminds me her presence when we used to speak and talk laugh and cook and eat, Oh god! her essence she forgot, to take along with her aura the house is silent, a mortified den, it seems it turned without her scent Now when I sit on her chair it stands like a spare I dare not sit on it as only she is meant to sit on it Her aura makes my heart heavy a drop sheds now and then a boy of 10, i am not still i cry like them What would it take to console me a pat or a hug, i think i cried my heart out when i hugged my mom it didn't suffice the inner storm

She awoke, startled by the sound of parakeet perched on a parapet of the balcony. "Late!? oh shit", subconsciously scared, she jumped, leaving the warmth of bed behind onto her feet and ran towards the bathroom. She wasn't late. It was her first day there, and like any new resident in a new setting, wasn't accustomed to the schedule of the day. Her roomies, both of them, still slept at 7 in the morning, while their new companion harried through her closet searching for a brush and the tube of paste so just she could arrive in time before the ferry bus honked near the hostel gate. The building stood, not on the 'outskirts' of the Bangalore city; if one must say a solemn measurement of the distance could subtly be described as that between the fringe of a miniskirt and the knees. "It would be a blinder to miss it, and a disaster when she'll reach late at the lab, her workplace for next 2 months. Her new kurti-pajami, a bag on the shou

"Lonely?get lost!, i wouldn't feel any such thing, whatsoever" , she had said at home when her brother teased her, on how she would feel after her parents would leave her in hostel. However, now, as she sat in the room, on the bed, her eyes were droopy and her body exhausted she remembered that chat and felt the sentiment. She plugged in her computer laptop, in order to distract her thoughts, she viewed an episode of friends and silently dissolved the time, passing time slowly, swiftly.

She relaxed, as she settled in her room after her parents went away. Three beds, all occupied and one of them hers, would be her abode till two months. "It was all I had imagined, even bigger, in sorts, and pleases me too", she thought and said to herself. A table, a lamp with a perfectly snuggled suitcase in her wardrobe formed her hostel room.

What would a person do to have a mango? Step out of the house, go to a store like a mother dairy or a sabzi Mandi and buy a kilo or two.  He was a boy who sneaked onto a farm, climbed up on a tree and plucked the fruit. He climbed, well enough for a boy of 9 and always scolded by his mom about his need to feel the rush. "Why do you climb and pluck the fruit beta when I bring perfectly good ones from a market", she would ask concerned that he may fall one day and hurt himself. "I'll bring a mango mommy, taste it, the answer will come from you itself", he laughed and said.