On Silence Within Silence

These days I often find my words stopping... They stop before I start to speak, they stop before I start to write and they stop before I start to feel. I'd always let myself feel through words. I'd admire the beauty of scarlet sunsets or the charm of nebulous notes through words. I'd think them in my mind and feel them in my heart. And yet, these days I feel bits of myself slipping away with no words to describe this silent despair, this dreary desolate death.

I don't have the urge to write on most days. It's funny because there used to be days when I'd be driven to live out each day just so that I could let the words flow freely. Life has not been particularly sad, it's been quite good, I daresay, in a few areas... Still, it's as though I'm no longer possessed by the spirit which drove me. I do what I have to do everyday, but "my soul slides away".

I suppose it is a kind of numbness: one that I've allowed to become a habit through sheer force of routine. I know I should stop myself before it gets out of hand. But where is the inspiration when my eyes have been deadened to the sights of life?

Caught in the same pattern repeating year after year, I'm struck by how much I've let myself be bound... Me, a free spirit who'd rather die than live with clipped wings! Spring moves much slower through my footsteps and it seems that Winter has set in. Again, that's funny, for I'd always loved Winter and the cold that it brings.

On Pippi Longstocking and Other Things

Although I am fairly certain that there are others who do the same thing, I've been told that I can get quite obsessive when reading a book. The thing is, I've always preferred reading an entire book at a stretch. Whether it is a fledgling in terms of pages or a massive tome of over a thousand scrolls, I am happiest when I can read uninterrupted, without pausing for life and its requirements.

And that is precisely what I was doing last night. I'd been a little late in catching on to the Millenium bandwagon, but Stieg Larsson's posthumously published trilogy gripped me as much as it has many others. Last night, I managed to steal away the last book from my mother (who wanted to read it before I did. As if!) and had already finished about fifty-odd pages before she noticed what I'd done. Thus, the book lay in my possession for the rest of the night... And I had to make the most of it if I did not want my mother to steal it back during a weak moment of rest!

It was quite a remarkable amalgamation of stimuli! Here I was, sitting by a window late at night, running through the events of the story as they unfolded. And beyond the translucent glass was a performance like no other! Being Navami night, the para puja had to be resplendently raucous. With a few singers, a hired band and a tiny makeshift stage, the people of my locality could find no reason for anything less than "aatmosht aynjoymaint". There was this Lady in a Green Dress (if it could be called a dress in the first place) who had a decent voice. Sadly, it would not have made any difference if she had only trilled to the tune of the song without trying to enunciate the lyrics. There was also a gentleman who sounded like a foghorn and another lady (who I did not care to peep at from the balcony) who had a very healthy pair of lungs. Both of them spent the greater part of the night enthusiastically egging on the crowd with emphatic cries. Not surprisingly, the crowd got egged, repeated chants of "Yeeyh! Yeeeh! Byaaaapoook! Yeeeeeehhhh!" bearing testimony to the fact!

Now I usually find no trouble in noticing these quaint details and carrying on with my work at the same time. So it was quite an enriching experience indeed to follow the trail of a constitutional conspiracy and, at the same time, mull over the anthropological aspect of boisterous behaviour late at night. It was extremely enlightening... Lisbeth Pippi Longstocking Salander as well as wannabe Himesh Reshammiyas both gave me much to think about! (In the latter case it was a case of philosophical resignation... there are people in the world who should not be allowed to open their mouths but no law of Nature can stop them from doing so).

Finally, it was in the wee hours of dawn, (I suppose 6 a.m. does count as early dawn to me) that I turned the last pages of The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet's Nest. Thankfully, nine hours of sitting in fairly the same place hadn't been all that uncomfortable and I was able to hobble over to my room and take my lenses off without collapsing into a heap. Following this, I promptly made my bed and slept till twelve noon.

Tonight does not seem to show signs of being any different. It's quite amusing to see how a night-time train journey has happened to give me the symptoms of jet lag. The trip to the hills, however, was well worth it! But that,  again, is another story...

Order, Structure and OCD

The last week in college has been absolutely arduous! All those of us in the Design team of the Department Magazine would agree that we never noticed when Monday turned into a Friday, as we were all attuned to the many whims and tantrums of Corel Draw. There were a few "inexplicable, incorrigible and illogical" circumstances... Owing to these, we had to complete the page settings for over 70 pages of the inaugural issue within four days so that all that the printer would have to do is press "Print". 

Nevertheless, it was quite an adventure! All those late nights and attending classes the morning after, yawning through the lectures, the phone-calls exchanged every few minutes to be told the latest "bad news", squeezing work into the meagre lunch hours and rare off-periods, and for me, working all night and stopping only when my alarm rang the next morning to go and brush, to make the rescheduled deadline... they're experiences that I am not likely to forget! I'm also fairly certain that my friends won't forget how the sleep-deprived me started humming the Godfather theme really loudly while plodding through the last-minute proofreading, or how I suddenly started laughing hysterically and wouldn't stop, or how they actually had to drag me away from the laptop and restrain me so that I'd rest for a little while.

Funnily enough, I found it all quite fulfilling. I mean, I know that I get obsessive compulsive about margins and measurements and the alignment of borders, yet, it felt good to know that I had had a hand in creating something that represents our years in the department. And it also felt great that when all of us were put to test, we succeeded. Now the rest is up to the printer and whatever power makes the world tick. We've done our job, in spite of it being impossible!

Right now, it is time to catch up on some lost sleep and stop dreaming of being choked by pages of the magazine. And perhaps, to recall ridiculously hilarious auto-rides through the narrowest of lanes, where we narrowly missing having blobs of meat flung at us!

Piano Cat!

It’s feline o’ clock on a Caturday
The regular crowd shuffles in
There’s an old cat sitting next to me
Makin’ love to his catnip and milk

He says, “Cat, can you play me a miaowmory
I’m not really sure how it goes
But it’s sad and it’s sweet and I knew it complete
When I wore a younger fur coat.”

Meow me-meow, meow mi-miaow
Meow-meow me-meow, mew mi-miaow, meow meow

Chorus:
Mew us a song, you’re the Piano Cat
Mew us a song tonight
Well we’re all in the mood for a mewlody
And you’ve got us purrin’ alright

Now Chesh at the bar is a friend of mine
He steals me some milk for free
And he’s quick with his stroke while he makes a mouse croak
But there’s someplace that he’d rather be
He says, “Cat, I believe this is killing me”
As the grin ran away from his face
“Well I’m sure that I could be in Wonderland
If I could get out of this place”

Oh, meow me-meow, meow mi-miaow
Meow-meow me-meow, mew mi-miaow, meow meow

Now, Tom is a real estate strategist
Who never lost fur in alley strife
And he’s talkin’ with Tabby who's still very flabby
And probably will be for life

And the felines are practicing paw-litics
As the ArtistoCats slowly get stoned
Yes, they’re sharing a fat rat called Loneliness
But it’s better than gnawin’ alone

Chorus:
Mew us a song, you’re the Piano Cat
Mew us a song tonight
Well we’re all in the mood for a mewlody
And you’ve got us purrin’ alright

It’s a pretty good crowd for a Caturday
And the Top Cat gives me a smile
’Cause he knows that it’s me they’ve been comin’ to see
To forget about dogs for a while

And the piano, it sounds like a carnival
And the mouse-hole smells full of fear
And they sit at the bar and pour milk in my jar
And say, “Cat, what are you doin’ here?”

Oh, meow me-meow, meow mi-miaow
Meow-meow me-meow, mew mi-miaow, meow meow

Chorus:
Mew us a song, you’re the Piano Cat
Mew us a song tonight
Well we’re all in the mood for a mewlody
And you’ve got us purrin’ alright

~*~

Parody rights 2010: $hohini $engupta (me) and Rudrayudh $engupta (co-written by bro and me =D) with all due respect and the humblest of apologies to the brilliance that is Billy Joel.

Enjoy!

Grey Lady

Poets over the ages have remarked upon how the weather has mirrored their mood... how the bleakest and grayest of days have invariably and irrevocably coincided with the darkest of moments. 

It has been raining almost incessantly in the past few days. From the early grey moments of Monday to the torrential showers of today, it almost seems as though Nature is doing her best to convey what we already know (and fear) in our hearts.

I visited my grandmother yesterday. After a whirlwind (bad) romance with exams. She was tubed and sedated and well, thankfully, patients in the ICU are allowed only one visitor at a time for I don't know how long I just stood there and cried. It feels funny to think that my only fervent hope during the exams was that she not go before I get to say goodbye. And yesterday, seeing her in the state she was in brought back memories buried deep — of stories and swings, of flowers weaved into my hair and distant springs. Of afternoons gone by watching the world as it walked past an old verandah that is now no more, not knowing that two pairs of eyes, one brimming with youthfulness and another, with wisdom, were watching it in keen amusement. I remembered the books with beautiful messages inside, the letters that would come by post, those happy visits during the Pujas, all the times when I'd be told repeatedly to go "shushu" much to my annoyance...

She used to call me her "paakhi" which means 'bird'. To think that it has been over ten years that she hasn't lived the way she was meant to. And now... oh how I wish my gut felt differently!

Maybe, in a parallel universe she stayed well and got to grow old and grey with dignity. Maybe in that world she'd have been able to watch her little paakhi blossom. And maybe...

I Am A Rock

A cyclonic circulation is what is responsible for the city being held hostage by rain.

The stock market has showed an uncharacteristically uplifting upward urge for a Monday.

Claude Monet is set to be finally given a major exhibition in Paris.

Those are just headlines. This is my life. I find solace in Simon and Garfunkel at the oddest of times, in the oddest of songs. Not that I am feeling particularly petulant, but a certain train of thought set off a certain flurry of emotions and swept me right off my balance. It is rather peculiar how something that you don't normally think of at most times suddenly pops up inside your head and dictates how you feel for the rest of the day. I'd say that it's as bad as how uncomfortable you get when you suddenly remember that you've forgotten to brush and squirm wondering whether your breath stinks.

Funnily enough, I am feeling far more flaccid in terms of thoughts. Yet, there is this strange pull tugging at my consciousness and making me want to sit and brood. Do we all go through phases when we want to shut out those we love and just stay isolated, like an island? I'm not sure whether my own responses can be considered normal. I've almost always been the loner, and liked it that way. Nevertheless, recently at least, I haven't really felt the urge to shut shop and withdraw all that often.

Today, for some reason, I want to let all the sarcasm out, all the nastiness, and most importantly, all the feelings of sheer sordidness that are still trapped somewhere within. Then again, it could also be that I'm hungry... and too hungry to realize just how much.

The mundane part about it all is that I'm in the middle of exams and all that is frustrating about life is suddenly doing a bold tango before my eyes. It's only a few more days, but although the rational side of me is patiently waiting for the next Act to unfurl, the more human part of me just wants to jump out of my seat!

Perhaps it would have been better if I had indeed been a rock. "A rock feels no pain". Neither does it have to sit for sinfully squalid semester exams (or Mid-semester ones at that). I presume things are building up since I've been purposely starving myself of things I love doing (and even I don't know why I do that). 

Or maybe I just need to switch to another song.

Thoughtful Ties

When bitterness becomes stronger than even blood-ties, the slightest gesture showing some thought behind it moves you strongly. I had long stopped hoping for such thought to be directed my way. Yet, I was touched today. Maybe it is rather sad that I was. Perhaps those who take certain kinds of love for granted will never understand why. Still, it felt good. I really hope that in the moments when I am almost paralysed by angry despair, I remember this moment and feel heartened, however slight that feeling is.

Shy Words

My world is no longer a flurry of poems
Or songs sung sweetly to many sunny Springs
’Tis neither a lark’s lore of furious flight
Nor the spiralling heartbreak that descent brings —

Although pale pages lie waiting for sorrow,
Tearful outbursts and laughter to fulfil them,
The Sun shines on, unmindful of tomorrow,
Its beams sewn surely to Eternity’s hem.

The rains claim their place amidst parched pliant ground,
My heartbeat echoing every raindrop’s sound,
Yet as panes grow misty and my senses numb,
My soul stiffens slowly and the ink stays bound.

Within and without, with grief or without doubt
My lips rest their case with an unuttered sigh —
Drifting clouds pass by, the sun scorches the sky,
Leaves glisten with dewdrops, yet my words stay shy.

Verse Fest

So last night, as it is quite obvious from the posting time of my last post, I had trouble sleeping. Not surprisingly, I wrote of my plight as a status update on Facebook. This is what ensued:

Silver Skylark I write haiku when I can't sleep. :P
{17 hours ago via Mobile Web}

Tito: {Name changed for security reasons}
..Reading that, it makes me weep

Counting seven, must it be
You've one extra dont you see? :P
{16 hours ago} 

Silver Skylark: {that is me, LD}
Hark! What sound goes there?
Of sixes and sevens you speak!
Curled in darkened lair. :P
{16 hours ago}

Tito:
that was random..that you know
did i get it?..dont think so..

but pardon you..that i may
sleep doth come by end of day.....
{16 hours ago} 

Silver Skylark:
I could not count, so it seems
Outside, the silver moon gleams
Retire, friend, as day comes
Morrow's song, another hums.
{16 hours ago}

Tito:
Now that torrent downloads done
New moon shall i gaze upon

Vamps and werewolves shall i see
So with this rhyme, off i'll be :)
{16 hours ago} 

Silver Skylark:
Lycans rise as darkness falls
Gaze upon unguarded walls
Yet may sleep set your mind free
Of dangerous poetry. :P
{16 hours ago}

Tito:
lol..im watching a movie! :P
{16 hours ago}

Silver Skylark:
Go watch it, you Edward Cullen fan! :P
{16 hours ago}

Tito:
HAH! i made you break your count
While I secretly kept mine XD

And I watch for Jacob Black >.<
{16 hours ago}

At this point I must say that the 7-syllables are maintained if I remove "Edward" and that "lol" cannot be counted as a single syllable. :P

Silver Skylark:
I did not hear those words sad
Lest the Heavens strike me mad
For that sword thrust I'll get back
While you drool at Jacob Black.
{16 hours ago}

Kaz: {a.k.a. Prince Kazarelth}
You two are crazy.
There's no haiku that I see.
Sleep or New Moon, guys?
:P
{9 hours ago}

Silver Skylark:
These aren't the haiku
That I posted in my blog...
For Facebook to show. :P

That was a haiku...
The rest, seven syllables
Of a Rhyming fest. :P
{7 hours ago}

'Nuff said! xD

A Dream

Wings brushed shut my eyes
Wondrous pearls gleam before me —
Silver pierces night.

Dead Poet's Honour

Is poetry only about the structure and meter of verse? Is it only measurable by the importance of its objective? Or does it have a deeper meaning, or a deeper purpose — which is the true expression of the nuances of the poet’s soul? Throughout the history of the written word, there have been parallels drawn between life and poetry. And many have argued that poetry is, in fact, a watercolour painted in honour of the iridescent hues of life.

And life is more than following the herd. It is more than speaking the minds of others instead of yours – it is more than passing judgement upon your fellow souls if only because others before you have done the same. Life is yours, and so are all the perceptions, beliefs, thoughts, fears, prayers and joys that come with it.

Today, I watched “Dead Poet’s Society” again. I would not go as far as to call it an “intellectual” film, mainly because my mother, who falls asleep while watching all “intellectual” movies does not do so for this one. However, the central theme reflected in this bittersweet tragedy — the struggle to find one’s own voice amidst the raucous roar of conformity, is one that is truly understood in all sincerity by very few indeed.

The honour in keeping one’s word, in fighting for one’s beliefs and ideals until the very end, being true to oneself — these were qualities cherished and admired greatly, until even a few years ago. However, I do find myself asking if that is still the case today. There is such a thing as a “false” code of honour, wherein one can simply claim that one is ethical and sincere and get away with acts of stealthy treachery as long as enough people get swayed by the glamour and grandeur of those claims. The trick is to convince enough people, through words alone, that you are honourable, and they won’t notice it when you are all but that. As long as the crowd is with you, it hardly matters whether you stay true to your proclaimed ideals or not.

It is here that those old notions of honour come in conflict with the new. The truth is that we are compelled by the strength of life within us to survive even a shark tank... or at least try to. So can those who go with the herd to achieve the show of strength necessary for survival truly be condemned as shallow? And should those who adhere to their ideals and ethics of honour and principle regardless of the herd be admired for their depth of character or be dismissed as simply stupid?

What would your answer be?

Unfinished Tales

Oh indeed , I have been there and back again several times in the last year, but as my days are marching ever-so-steadily forward, I have been ignoring this little spot in cyberspace which provided me with much comfort and solace during tumultuous times. It is a pity that I have almost grown out of the very thing that let me hold on to dear existence in the past.

Nevertheless, I do promise to those of the Old Glorious Penguin Army Days who still come by that I will finish my unfinished tales. There shall be little fillers once in a while, and when I am inspired enough or have the time to write down all the images I see, there shall be posts: proper ones like there were earlier. Although now, hopefully, they will be a lot less angst-ridden and speak of my many blossoming interests.

I have been meaning to bring about drastic little changes to this thought-nest of mine... The first of these would be a link to my Twitter profile. Anonymity isn't as important to me now as it used to be, so I might as well be known for what I do. :P I tweet a lot. So stalk me... oops! Sorry, follow me if you'd like @LucidDarkness

Now for a few good updates on what I've been upto:

1. Salt imbalances make me sick. Seriously. And the summer heat is not helping one bit, oh no!

2. W.B. Yeats has become a constant companion at bedtime.

3. Chocolate cakes are the very best! I have taken to baking them with much enthusiasm!

4. Songs from Anime soundtracks are currently on my Music HotList. Jappo pop/rock songs are actually amazingly addictive!

5. Turning Two is Terrific!

That's all folks! For now at least. :) 

Agony

So picturesque was the Durney house and the scenery before it that onlookers felt as though nothing bad could ever happen there. 

The Durneys were a family of three — a pair of working parents and their angelic little son. So sweet was his face and so cherubic his temperament that Nature felt it to be an abomination for him to dwell anywhere but in Heaven. The Durneys, however, spent ten whole years without any knowledge of this.

The wind would whisper loving words to the treetops it caressed and miniature dust-storms would waltz silently for the watching fronds, and yet, the joy and peace of the Durney home lay undisturbed, much to the envy of their neighbours.

“Oh, they are the luckiest people living!” Mrs. Rahn would exclaim, observing the Durney homestead as she did her dishes. “Have you seen their darling little boy? He’s a constant source of pride to them!”

And yes, little Tuval certainly made his mother proud. This sensitive little boy had the soul of a ripened poet trapped inside his small frame. He saw vivid beauty in the most commonplace of sunsets and his mind would soar high and free with every breath of life he drew in. He took whatever he saw and created poetry with colours. Perhaps, deep down he felt the insistent pull of life calling upon his soul to live deeply in the moments it could stay earthbound. It is a pull that so many of us, jaded by the harshness of life, have become impervious to. Yet, for Tuval, it was what let bright wide eyes stare out in wonder and delight at what they saw everyday.

“Come now, Tuval,” his mother would coax, “You must show me what you painted today!”

The boy, brimming with the modesty becoming of a bashful bride, would lower his eyes and curl his lower lip before shyly pulling out his latest masterpiece. His mother would smile widely at him, and this small symbol of motherly commendation would be enough inspiration for another day.

Leaves would change their colours and their abode, from branches to a dusty ground, and Tuval would paint their changing expressions for his beloved mother.

However, Nature preys upon the innocent, and none can save such from its unyielding grasp. Tuval Durney had not long before Nature added his soul to its collection.

It broke his parents’ hearts, especially his mother’s. A child can know only so much love, but with Time snatching the hours away, Tuval’s parents showered an anguished burning love that only a soul smoldering with sorrow could understand.

Raindrops worked their magic weaving coloured lines across the sky. Sunlight filtered through leaves making little rivulets shimmer and dance. Spectacular sunsets graced the evening horizon. Birds flew back and forth, chirping with the urgency of life — the life that cancer stole from Tuval. And the boy, who loved the world more than the world could ever love him, was too weak to hold a brush.

His mother sat by him through those long dark hours. She would cradle his frail frame and hold his head against her heart, wishing desperately that there was something she could do to lessen his pain. Sometimes, when Tuval’s breathing evened out, she would let a tear or two slip through her tight defence. The time she had to shower a mother’s love upon her precious child was limited and so she would spend all of what she was given filling his days with the sweetness she had hoped to endow all her life.

Night had fallen and the darkness had surprised them with its early arrival. The soft but still audible beating of Tuval’s heart was the only sound that could be heard. Mrs. Durney had been resting against Tuval’s bed, when she was suddenly stirred into speaking.

Tuval had awoken and was staring intently at her. The child’s body, already being devoured from within had taken further beating from all the strong medicines and futile surgeries. There was a turn for the worse that evening and his father had gone off in search of the nearest doctor.

“Mother?” he asked.

“Yes, my love? Is there something I can do?”

“Yes,” he replied quietly.

“Tell me, darling!”

“I’m ... scared. Hold my hand please? I think — I think it’s time.”

The dawn found Mrs. Durney standing near their boundary gate, staring blankly through tearless eyes. It was here that Mrs. Rahn found her when she stepped out for her morning walk.

“Lara! What happened?” she asked, worriedly. “Is Roy back yet?”

“My baby... my baby...” was all Mrs. Durney could murmur.

Heart Song

Kiss me as gently as you would the morning dew
Hold my head softly with your palms,
Contentment never felt so free from qualms…

Contempt of Love produces the finest of verses,
But I would sooner have my art be hurt
Than have the song in my heart be curt.

Raindrops on my Soul

Last night the wind sang loudly and gaily blew notes of rain into our lives. The roaring chorus of thunder defied the darkness and gladly welcomed the illuminated sky. And with the earth smelling divine, heaven seemed just another raindrop away.

My day had had its ups and downs, its laughter and stretches of silence. There could not have been a better manner in which it blended in with the morrow. 

It is moments like these, stolen furtively from the hands of Time, that show me how beautiful life can be. A few moments earlier that night, I had been regretting the clumsiness of my tongue. The sudden shower showed me how a torrent of pure emotion is often all that is needed to put one's soul at ease.

Tonight, as I recall the drenched glory of midnight past, I feel that I may find expression again. My words may yet reveal what my heart has been longing to disclose, and I may find peace once more.

Duty

The clock read 4 o’ clock. Lei put down her book and got up. It was time to go. She drove to the hospital, her mind unnaturally calm, unexpectedly clear. It was ironic, perhaps that a dying man, who deserved nothing but the loneliest of deaths would have the one person he hurt the most during his lifetime by his deathbed. But that was how life was to be and Lei had learnt a long time ago to stop questioning why things happened the way they did.

It did not take her long. It was as though Fate had cleared up her path to that final chance of a confrontation.

The old man was lying sunken and shriveled in bed. It was almost as though the bed had begun its task of swallowing him whole but had decided that he was unpalatable at the last moment. And yet, the sight of his broken body, already halfway there on its journey into the next world, was enough to make Lei hesitate for a moment and compose herself before she walked into the room.

Her father stirred at the sound of feet which were driven by his blood.

“You’ve come,” he stated simply.

“You had asked for me,” she replied.

“Yes, I had. But I never expected you,” spoke Lei’s father, snubbing her even with his last few breaths.

It took all the composure and resistance built up over the years for Lei to not react. She had expected as much. The old man had never bothered with much affection in her case, reserving all his love for her younger brother. Again, she ignored the irony of her brother canceling at the last minute saying that he had to stay home to make his son study for tests – the same brother whom the old man doted upon, and spent all his evenings teaching.

“You had asked for me,” she repeated, a little louder this time.

“Well, you will have to do,” he said.

“I guess I will,” said Lei.

The old man sighed with all the strength left in his lungs and said, “I’m dying.”

Lei kept her voice as steady as she could when she said, “I know” although her eyes almost betrayed her.

“I may not even last the night.”

The doctors had told her as much. They had even added how the cancer that had spread from her father’s lungs to almost all his major organs, had miraculously spared his brain, leaving him lucid enough to speak and endure all the pain. Yet, he did not have much time. All those years of smoking had ruined his body and it was fed up of putting up with the abuse.

“But you are here, so sit by my bed. Sit by your dying father.”

Lei was already there before he had asked. Perhaps it was the haze brought on by all the morphine in his system, or perhaps it was only that he was blind to all that Lei did, but he seemed to not have noticed. His first born held his frail hand firmly but gently in hers. It was how he had held her when she was born, but the roles were now reversed and his life was at its end and not beginning.

She stayed silently sitting while her mind returned to the past. She tried not to, but she kept thinking of the times when the old man had blamed her harshly for the most trivial of things. He had called her the worst person imaginable, a selfish and despicable human being when she, as a ‘responsible’ nineteen-year-old had given in to temptation one day and single-handedly finished that chocolate bar in the fridge, meant for the whole family. Her brother, on the other hand, had been let off with the gentlest of rebukes when he had stolen the money given to him to buy medicines for his mother.

Her father would always make his displeasure known whenever she, back when she was financially dependent on him, had to spend his money. He even disapproved of her spending the money that she earned the way she wished to. He had refused to speak to her on the day she had moved out of the house. She had lost the phone-number that he had asked her to write down – an act which could only have shown how disrespectful she was of him, and he had been upset. 

Her father had always denied the possibility that he, who was always fair and always just, could ever have hurt her in any way. And after all those years of steadily weakening ties, Lei had learnt to live without his love and with the hurt. 

But for all the times she had vowed not to be there when her father died, here she was, holding his hand, waiting for the end to come.

“Why was I never good enough for you? Why did you hurt me so much?” quivered Lei, when the silence became unbearable.

“Why! That’s not possible. You were always hurting me!” he croaked.

And those were his last words to her.

Her husband was waiting for her at the hospital entrance. She was pale and wan and he only had to look at her to know that the old man had passed on. They were both quiet as he drove her back home.

“Why did you go alone?” he asked, once home.

“It was something I had to do,” she said.

“But I would have gone with you!” he insisted.

“No. I needed to do this on my own.”

He did not question her further, but held her close. It wasn’t long before she was weeping copiously.

Let's Jive

Date: 09.01.2010
Time: 9:50 p.m.

Come my love, let us take to the streets
Savour laughter and joy as seasonal treats,
These arise from the sprinkling of harmony sweet
Oh can't you hear those happily pattering feet?

Come sway with me darling, and twirl me around
Let us lose ourselves to this gaiety we've found!
What wondrous lights and sounds I can feel —
Oh I'm so certain these will make my head reel!

Come come my dear, don't be shy I'm here
See how easy it is to cast away your fear,
Embracing this brightness as you hold me tight
Oh what a lark it is to dance away the night!

Come along my sweet, we have dawn to greet
Carry on till the rays grace the place where they meet!
Let us glide, let us float, let us swivel, let us soar
Oh how daintily the world waltzes on the dance floor!

End: 10:05 p.m.

North Wind

Time has been moving forward the way it always does — through both serene passages that let it flow calmly as well as turbulent stretches of wayward storms. Yet, in essence, it remains ever steadfast and ever unchanged. I have grown to believe that nothing that time brings with it, or takes away is something that one absolutely cannot live without. There is always something that is enough to keep you going, if only you look hard enough.

It is with that peace of mind that I have been living out my days. Truly, even if it were in my power to do so, I would not trade this hard-earned hard-fought serenity for all that I have lost. I have, however, been able to enshroud myself in a translucent cocoon that lets me see outwards into the hearts and worlds of people I know without giving them the same luxury. It helps, in a way, for I would not wish them to see me when I weep without tears or exult without laughter. Perhaps I have borne a mask for so long that it has stayed with me out of sheer habit, yet I cannot give it up, especially now.

This new year has indeed carried seeds of hope and happiness with it. And I would like to plant these and nurture what grows with all the positivity that I can muster. There are people in my life who, though few in number, can help me triumph over any adversity that I might encounter. For them, and for all that they do for me, I would like to be sane enough to return the favour whenever the need arises. To do so, I would have to, like a very dear Soul Friend says, wake up with a smile on my face every morning come what may.

Happy New Year everyone! May the seeds of hope and joy be planted in your worlds as well, to blossom beautifully with every passing day!