Your ringing laughter
seeps down to my core.
And like a therapeutic elixir,
it brings me back from fading.
Like a hundred windchimes
vibrating in bliss,
and weaving a pious symphony,
it resonates in my heart
and I am healed of all toils.
And when I hear you speak
of the day bygone,
your stories tumbling and toppling,
some making sense, some not so much,
my heart is mended.
Your trembling voice
is a beautiful reassurance
like a psalm,
I could listen to forever,
and never be wearied.
You echo around me,
like the soothing, salvaging monsoon winds
and I stretch out my arms to feel you,
draw you in a crushing embrace.
But no, I dare not say
that I love you,
words that sit precariously on my tongue,
ready to slide off any minute.
I let them pulsate violently,
struggling to break free.
Deliberately, I hold them off,
silently, hoping you will hear them.
And deep down I know you too feel
these whispers of love.
I was at page 214
when I succumbed to slumbers.
For the umpteenth time.
The edges of my spectacles
digging painfully under my eyes.
Wincing, I woke up.
Bright white light overhead,
an open book beneath.
Ma used to visit my bedroom silently,
closing my books,
removing my glasses,
turning off the lights
and running her hands through my hair.
Then, I left home.
To make something of my life.
While 14 years later,
I am not sure if I succeeded,
I definitely miss those silent visits.
Grudgingly, I let sleep over power me.
Emotions, however, can wait.
Deliberately she wipes the clothesline,
with a dusting cloth,
to remove the specks of dust that might have gathered
on the thin iron wires
drawn taut and tight between three angeled iron holders.
But sitting in my balcony and leafing through case file,
I sense her anxiety.
Her daughter has been standing at the corner of road,
for over 15 minutes now
and that rickety yellow school bus has not picked her up yet.
The girl's school bag is sagging with the weight of curriculum
and shoulders, perhaps with the weight of expectations.
She sneaks another look at her daughter,
her hands pausing for a moment
and then she returns inside,
probably to attend to her laundry,
only to come back in less than a minute
and peep again.
Her visit this time is synchronized
with a screeching halt of Tata Winger.
Her daughter boards the bus,
just as she hangs the first cloth to dry,
grey skirt from her daughter's school uniform.
The walls came crumbling
at mere sight of you.
And I stumbled
into that freefall
I had always been scared of.
And now that I have conquered
this fear of falling,
another fear seizes me.
What if we wake up someday,
and you find me undeserving,
unworthy of your love.
What if you don't find
a reason to stay with me, forever.
What if you don't find
a home in my heart.
But then I hear you laugh
at my stories,
an infectious laughter,
irresistible, disarming and totally contagious,
and in that moment,
all my fears are allayed.
Just before the sky breaks,
in to the riotous shades of blue,
clear and unclouded,
I breathe myself against your chest,
and I can feel that subtle rise and fall of your diaphragm,
too soft to hear, too close to experience.
In those godly hours,
I breathe you like oxygen,
vital and indispensable.
I memorize you like sermons,
every single contour.
And I drink you like ocean,
quenched, yet unsatiated.
And then with daylight,
when I think of you,
I hear you or I feel your presence,
I scribble you frantically, my love.
But I don't dream of you,
for you are a constant companion,
a thought that never goes away.
And I hope you don't trust me when I say,
I don't dream at night,
for my endless dreaming begins with dawning,
when I imagine you stirring lazily on disarrrayed bedclothes.
No, I don't dream of you at all.
Gaddis are on move,
for food and fodder and life.
Large flocks of sheep
and some goats,
the wherewithal of this nomadic cult,
block the highway oftentimes,
that treacherous mountain road
with its serpentine circuits,
steep falloffs and dizzying heights.
The slow but sure-footed bleating caprines
making their way through hairpin turns and narrow hilly lanes.
A sight to behold in itself.
There is a beautiful melancholy in their move,
a harmony, a congruence of elements,
a comfort in this roadblock.
A couple of blind lefts and rights,
and I will be home.
Home, that I carry in my heart.
A crazy craving,
without any rhyme or reason,
so I read and re-read your texts,
to hear your voice in my head.
Psychologists say this happens
when you get really close to someone.
So perhaps this is it.
My forever fall.
But I am really not sure
if this can be classified as love.
For the time being,
this ephemeral joy of skidding
in luring pools of your baritone
Besotted, I trip,
each time I hear you speak.
I don't want to rise.
May be this slow sinking is
the spirit of life, the craze of living.
My eyes scanned the room,
searching for you.
So many people,
some complete strangers,
some I knew.
All eyes were on me as I walked the aisle,
scrutinizing, appraising, assessing me,
through and through.
I searched the crowd, for your genial smile,
for your penetrating gaze,
that can see me through.
I waited to hear your baritone,
a salve for my frayed nerves,
resonating through the milieu.
In a room full of people,
I missed you much.
Until, you walked in
and our eyes latched
and my fears melted.
In that instant,
from across that room,
I fell in love.
Linking with Thin Spiral Notebook : 100 words: Room