Early childhood days. He was the one I ran to every time I needed something, some place warm, some place safe. If a bad dream shook me and woke me awake, he is the one I reach out to, his arms protecting me from the darkness of the world. Never once did he raise a finger at me. Never once did he give up on me. Frowns of worry would crinkle his face if I was a little unwell or upset. Never once did he shake me awake. Gentle whispers of my name or dewdrops from the rubber tree that grew outside our house was his way of opening my eyes. French toasts and spanish omelettes, rice cooked with an array of vegetables and spices, these were the things he loves to cook the most. Never once did he say no to what I have asked for, and asked for I have many. He toils, never complaining. Gives up on his dreams so that I can have mine.
Little quirks of his entertained me all through childhood. The way he would finish packets of food in the span of a few minutes much to the anger of my mother. The wa…
And those who barely know me mistake my indifference for calmness,
They marvel at the stillness of the waters,
Not knowing the waves that lurk beneath the surface,
The whirlpool that swallows you whole when the balance is upset.
Like rain, I will pelt you with my wrath,
Wipe away your clumsy scribblings on the sand.
No half hearted sand castles will do,
If you must, I will only settle for concrete structures of affection,
That can withstand the storms of mine.
P.S Not angry at anything at the moment, but with the rains and all, decided to write a water-themed piece.
A hoarder of notebooks, I buy any that catches my fancy. I take them home, and like Christmas ornaments, adorn my table with them. And that's where it ends, my fixation with them. Once a while I stare longingly at the blank pages, wishing I had the garnishing they need to make it my own. But fear sets in, that I will somehow let this notebook down by writing things not worthy of it, and so back it goes, to a soon to be forgotten nook of the house. Sometimes, like a pseudo-intellectual, I doodle quotes on to the pages, all the while feeling like a fraud. Surely I can conjure up a readable piece instead of copying someone else's lines- I think, with disgust and shame and wistfulness. And yet, the moment I see a notebook that catches my fancy, I take it home.