A Dreamer's Destination

Picture Credits: Sheela Pillai She dreamt of the ripples that mirrored every word in her heart, she dreamt of the memories that kindled the past with heavy brushes, she dreamt of love-struck flowers  that yearned for shadows of the sun, she dreamt of all the wreckage the meteors had showered over her soul, she dreamt of the fingers  that burnt the fire, she dreamt of the voices that seeped through the rustic winds. She dreamt of him. She dreamt of her. She dreamt of everything the universe would never understand. She dreamt of you.                                                                    -Vasanthi

Rowing through the spirals of memories that stalk my life, I squish, swirl and stumble as I see myself flipping through the pages  of the million people I remember. One of them was a woman, who grabbed a random kid  running in the corridor  and said “I loved the way you laughed today”. A minute later I saw that kid walk away with a smile on his face. A teacher, she was. Handled none of my classes but taught me something that was way beyond books, chalks and blackboards. There was a young girl the other day who wouldn’t take her eyes off the window. “Is it the chocolate shop that you’re looking at?“ I ask and she says “no, I’m looking at that raindrop that is yet to dry”. and all I could do, was smile. Yet another day  I saw a guy run,  as though he was running a race, all alone. But later I realized  that he had seen an old friend, walk across the road and all he wanted to do was make up for the time he lost. These are just a few among the many who I’ll remember for a reason

www.flickr.com Heavily pre-occupied faces rush in and rush out of varied cemented structures, holding inked papers, that demand answers for  curious questions and one among these interrogative lines is your, Nationality.  A  doctor  delicately places the sheet on the wall,  and holds the pen like an injection  and writes 'I' “I know for a fact that lying beneath you, are a million morals, habits, legends, myths and miracles that you have been fed with by your native society,  after all you were an Indian child” he says to himself and smiles as he writes the very first letter of his nationality.  An artist  blooms colourfully, and holds the pen like a paint brush to write 'N' “Now that you are already grown up and you have seen Muslims, Hindus and Christians mingle,  you are sure that beyond conflicts, your country still upholds unity in diversity” she whispers as she paints the second letter.  On an old desk, an excited hand

As I enter a coach packed with busy women, whose hands tightly grip, sandwiches, hand bags, papers, pens and some anxiety. I find an empty seat beside a woman who was intently caressing her mobile screen, so I slipped in, unnoticed. Her thumb swipes through photographs, one after another, slowly, back and forth. And all of them showed three kids, with positions flipped, emotions mirrored, costumes flaunted and all smiles. She smiled along and so did I. ‘She must be going  back to work, a Monday morning ritual’, I thought. But I knew that she wasn’t back from home yet and I know she never will be, for a mother, she must be...                                           - (c) Vasanthi