The Voice Within

Wind borne,the slender tamarind leaf falls On the open page Quivering,it lies on the straight lines and scribbled words Yellow and crisp,staring at the branch it left naked.

First,A languorous slide off the tip of the paint brush And then a fall into my glass. Now it uncoils itself To writhe down the clear water Unable to stand the slow descent, I pull the glass closer Thoughts unstirred dissolve with the drop In liquid clouds that rise Till the bottom of the glass Is curtained by a mellow whiteness.  (written in 2007) http://englishliterarysocietyssc.blogspot.com/2008/10/drop-of-white-paint.html

The leaves leave the Peepul tree. Baring the branches to the summer heat, the leaves leave. The few that still cling on, seem to fan the trees’ limbs when the wind whisks through . When I ride my bicycle back from college, I can hear the wheels turning in rhythm to a yellow crunch. If you were here, I would first show you the tree from my window. You will have to gaze, like I am doing right now, through the grey wire work , wishing you had blinkers on to block out the dusty water cooler that covers most of the window. You would also perchance yearn for a window sill to rest your elbows on as your eyes ease into that faraway look. In activities such as these(watching leaves fall), it is inevitable that you turn your thoughts inward, and depending on the memories you choose to wade through, you invite either a restful or a restless expression to stroll into the furrows of your face. Then again, you may not be silently thoughtful, you could be speculating aloud about leaves, tre...

Sinking, slow sinking, into friendly conversations, into cotton candy,into a cloud,into rhythm. Sinking ,slow sinking into the grass and morning dew,into floral breaths,into silence. Sinking. slow sinking into questions,into hopes,into twangs of the guitar. Sinking. slow sinking into laughter and into the light. (Oh! what fond memories of chasing the cotton candy man with T)

Sitting with my back to a tree, I look at the birds playing hopscotch In the patterns formed by water running out of a hose pipe.

It has been raining for hours now. As I gaze at the only window in the room without curtains, I see myself. Did you think I was dropping a philosophical firework that is going to whizz and sputter through the rest of this post musing about how window panes when raised to a metaphorical plane can reflect the inner me? why ! of course not! All I am asking you to imagine is that its 12.21 am,(palindromic time !) the rain is pouring into the pitch blackness outside. Try as I may, I cannot see the drops of water as the tube light in the room creates a reflection of me and the room on the window pane.