A Dreamer's Destination

Credit: Sheela Pillai You tell me you have to go. After travelling all the way to steal the ecstasy from my eyes, you tell me you have to go. "Why?" I ask. Will some more time hurt? I wish I could freeze the moment when sliced the wind into pieces of tranquility, I wish you never left. What is it so enchanting that's drawing you back? Tell me, I won't be hurt, for I am not telling you that I am enchanting enough for you to stay, I am but a wanderer, too enchanted by the legacies of all the racing clouds and the bleeding sun, but again, do I have to be enchanting for you to stay? "Tell me" I ask again Tell me what is that you go back in search of, the very second you meet me. You tell me you are lost as well, in between all the slithering memories. You tell me you have to go back trudging along those limned locks of life, You tell me you have to go back to make sure that the five-year-old understands that going back sometimes means going home and somet...

Friendship factory Cherry-dropped cakes stacked across glassed counters, my tiny pony tail dances in excitement, friendship oozes out of my eyes, as a 5-year-old, chocolate was my best friend; 19 years old now, nothing has changed. Yet again, like closely knit sweaters, it was family that taught us to share these cakes, it was family that taught us friendship. As the clock strikes four, door bells also ring. Our badminton rackets giggle at all our wrongs shots, the cars that we framed as our hiding spots might still want our fingers to run over its glasses to trace random patterns, I’m sure our cycles have heard our voices more than mobile phones, dear childhood friend, our friendship always rhymes with joy and innocence. We make all kinds of friends- that “When is the next train?” friend, “can you edit my picture?” friend, “I don’t understand this!” friend, “I now want coffee.” friend, “what is life?” friend and “Can I not wake up today!” friend. We are also friends with a ...

Sailing through her gasps, those fireflies, trespass the boundaries of heaven, to find her soul, dance recklessly, and her arms, move vividly, making pristine patterns of her eyes, that shelters the ecstasy of dissolving into a heart that bleeds poetry… (C) Vasanthi     

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 w...

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. ...

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