Whispering Loud!

There are days when you wish; you were out of work and without a roof over your head. Because, there are days when it is spring and it rains too. On such days, I am starry-eyed. And, on such days I wish to be on a hillock, wandering like a mystic. No people, no noise. I and the desolate blossoms. I and the virgin breeze. In addition, a few sips from my coffee mug and my tattered Anna Karenina in my lap should be enough. With these bare necessities, amid the spring serenity, life surely will be something like what they call ‘forever’.   There is more to this romanticism. I hurt myself last evening. During my evening walk I bumped into a guy who was so busy on his phone, probably with his beloved, that he couldn’t care less about the other mortals around him. I tripped, quite ridiculously fell on my fours and hurt my left knee. It’s bad and now, I can’t walk. So, basically, I am such a waste right now that all I can pull off is being dreamy. I can’t wa...

Symbolism. Bags of it! Like all you gorgeous ladies out there, I too woke up to many sugary sweet posts on social forum, today. A few blush-worthy messages in my inbox would have made it a divine morning if only the water-tank of my house had chosen some other day for its drying up ritual. O, yes, of all the days, today, we had no water supply in the morning and there I knew it’s my God telling me; We have scarcity of things ,theoretically as well as figuratively, so, don’t expect much from the day, Darling!   I didn’t. I never do. It is rather chic to speak and write all first-rate stuff on public forums and every dumb head has a word or two to add to join the fashion band. No harm in being good but Illusionary righteousness is sickening because the moment you step out of your house, the paradox begins to mock at you. Our reality is ugly. No skin of sham civility can change it. I was at a gov’t office today. Not a good place to be at, if you want to celebrate but, w...

Spring it is! Bouncy and crisp. Sunshine, cheerful and sparkling. The almond blossoms, as pretty as pink, Why mustn’t Cinderella dance again! Out of bed from one more winter, Her bosom rises to the sinless breeze. Pensive yet lavish like a dream, A born Eden, she fancies one more ball. The tales of oppression are no fable Her rags are real and sorrow acute. Beset with a curse, dyed in her own blood Every spring, she wakens to live some more. It is time! Tulips bejewel her emerald frock, And the falls frame glass slippers on her feet. A snug shikara is her golden carriage, And the depths of the Lake, her loyal coachmen. Ah! She dances like she has never danced before For, who knows, how distant the next spring is! Her summers are timid and autumns cold Thus, she dances like she has never danced before. Her moves in meadows, firm and tireless, Cinderella waltzes like a Queen of resilience. Her pace through Boulevard , smooth and ...