Monday, 25 July 2011

There were a lot of things that had to be recorded and kept in store, but they seem to be slipping off my mind like the minuscule droplets of water falling on a blank window-pane. There was a visit to my erstwhile campus, and as always, it was a lovely trip. Every re-turn through those paths reminds me about how beautiful the world around us is. Look at the greyish-blue skies on a rainy day, the lush green around us everywhere, and the cool winds that whistle past the ear. Maybe it is only this that is worth recording.
There was the beginning of the 'new look', when my friend decided to experiment on her beautician-skills. She had never cut or trimmed peoples' hair before, and I was her subject. Well, I was the subject for three 'trainees'. Except, there was no teacher. It was the most fun hair-cut I have ever had. And it looks and feels good too. Because my hair has been cut short, I finally feel the wind brush past the nape of my neck sending a fuzzy chill through the entirety of my being.
There was a train ride in this lovely monsoon clime- with the music in my ear, and the wind on my face. The train ride was an insanely joyous one. The loneliness, the company of nobody but my own voice in my own head.
And finally, there was a re-visit, and the talking and the conversations amongst pals. The remembrance of days gone by, wondering whether they will be again, and the hope that they will. The re-turn was a psychological one this time. Where are those friends we had made, and then lost? Where are those days that we so cherished? And now we all work. Does that mean that we ought not to take that re-turn or make that re-visit? I hope not. After all, trees are for the climbing, branches laden with dew are for the pulling, and the world around us is always humming a mellifluous note. I hope you are listening, for the notes of nature are most vital to our living, breathing and being.

Tuesday, 12 July 2011

It's Raining Again

It's a cold blue dawn,
As the crystal tear-drops fall,
A grey pavement wait,
and a dull train's call.

It's a brown, muddy walk,
and the crunch of the grains of sand
on sharp black shoes,
and the call of the sky to hear his song,
to set eyes upon the beauty
of puffs of dull grey
and the crunch of brown mud
and the bland wait on pavements.