The door opened, I saw my years running back.
A little walnut, still brown and hard, rested
on my hearth. Days of laughing childhood,
transient but fresh, joined the run.
Tiny promises, tiny dreams, tiny wishes,
and tiny nothings lost in a wilderness.
Little joys packed in hard shells, lived in
hiding. Treasure boxes locked in promises
never to be found again. Spring matured
to autumn, the leaves turned red. I stood
on the shore watching the white surf
carry my childhood away.
The child in me, wizened now, watched a life unfold. For life is a color, one from…
The little one sat in the balcony.
‘Pour water on me. I’m waiting,’ and he sat hiding his head between his hands.
A lovely sunny day gave the eight year old the sudden idea of getting wet in the balcony. It was an impulsive thought and he just played along with his impulses. He wanted to get wet in his track pants and tee. The idea spurred my parental instincts for a brief second, but I agreed. Since swimming is a thing of the past (merci Covid), for him, this was the closest to having some fun.
First, I sprinkled…
We steered our wooden oars in boats
gently floating on unchartered waters,
Brown oars etched with age, the constant
touch of blade against tide.
Moments rippled in soft notes, we lay silent
swaying with the music of time.
We know not how long our breaths lasted
Hopes were effervescent, the waters benign.
White surf played on, and nights returned,
pregnant with days again.
An unending cycle led us to waters birthing in
an abyss of time.
The dawn writhed, aching in the womb of sky. We watched silent nights ripping through the horizon; a fiery orange and a russet red…
The piercing whistle of a pressure cooker early morning. Breakfast is getting ready in my neighbor’s home. Not in mine yet. I’m still savoring my first chai of the day.
The whirr of a blender. My mind bets its a smoothie. Safe bet.
The sweet tinkle of hollow metal chimes in someone’s balcony. It’s only the breeze, no spirits are involved.
The musical end of a laundry cycle. The washing machine is calling. The music is the same as in my home, and it makes me smile. We’re still here, all of us, living and still doing laundry.
My country, India, has been in complete lockdown since last month. Schools shut down abruptly, offices were closed, exams cancelled, and life suddenly found itself squished under the burgeoning impact of a microscopic pathogen. While I reeled to brace the sudden impact of a shutdown, I must admit the hard times helped me embrace minimalism in areas of my life I would have otherwise never really paid attention to.
In an endeavor to have a near-smooth sailing of the family especially since I have an eight year old at home, I learned that in times of global distress, it is…
My heart almost ripped out hearing the strange silence around me while I walked on the stony path leading to my home. The patch of green before me lay still, lifeless and morose. I turned to look around at the park where kids play. It was weary and lifeless and missed little feet which truly belonged there.
I had stepped out of home for essentials after about a month since the lockdown due to Covid-19 and almost shuddered at the eerie silence around me.
Aren’t these strange times we are living in that one submicroscopic pathogen has paralyzed the entire…
‘The coronation of virus Virus is finally here since virus Virus is the most viral and the most virile ‘Virus of viruses’ among all viral, virile, non-viral and lamely viral viruses but a doubtful question arises if there exists anything at all like a non-viral virus because IF there is a non-viral virus, why call it a virus and that too non-viral since the virile and viral essence of all viruses is to be viral and never to be non-viral because it ceases to be a viral virus if it is a non-viral virus and actually it defiles the term…
Nida waited for the impulsive evening to mature into night.
Once darkness set in, she stepped out in her dusky arachnid glory. Sashaying through the forest with her slender appendages hardly touching the ground, she made sure her hourglass spot was vivid. Oh, how she loved herself.
The mating season was in full fervor, and she had to look her sultry best.
Her senses straight, her eyes wide open, her body a ravishing black, she walked ahead ripping apart the darkness of the night. With her mesmerizing black beauty, she put the black night to shame.
Suddenly, towards the corner…
Lori did not walk down the steps; she slid on the handrail instead. Well, only when Mrs. Heckleson wasn’t watching her. Neither were her cats.
On such fortunate mornings, when she left for work, Lori would lock her door silently on the third floor, sit atop the newel cap of the staircase and slide down the handrail. While she slid, her robust ringlets of hair swayed gently and landed softly on the side of her high cheekbones as soon as she set her feet on the concrete landing. …