Thinkle

From the window, she could see the rain pelting down. She was an artist, a songwriter, a grandmother, a brave woman. She was so many things- but in that moment as she followed her gaze along the tracks in mud left by the pouring rain, she felt suspended between the realms of life and death.  She checked the wall clock out of habit, the minute hand not having shifted an inch since she last checked. Within an hour, she would know for sure the results of her PET scan report. In the upcoming sixty minutes of her life, she would know at last if she was cancer-free. The time gap was analogous to a journey of miles and all she had was a bullock-cart. One would expect the mind to crumple down with anxiety under similar conditions but she was known to be an exceptionally calm woman. Her approach towards an organized life had her so prepared, that her retirement life was sorted by her twenties. Having lost her parents at the tender age of eight, death was no stranger to her. Her only concern...

Allow me to walk you through a day in class 12th F. Students are expected to report after every other class from the coaching is dispersed. Class 12th F shares its schedule with no other batch, so the rusted iron entry gates are closed shut way before their session begins. That, however, is not their greatest concern. They consider themselves lucky if they don't have to struggle studying in candle-lit rooms due to power outages.  After you jump past the iron gate, you will have to climb a flight of slippery stairs till you reach the third floor. Towards your right will be a dimly illuminated hallway. Keep walking and the last classroom should be your 12th F. Careful, silence your phone before you enter. These students tolerate no distractions. If you wait for someone to answer the door, you might probably wait there forever. These students' ears are receptive to nothing beyond their syllabus- not even a knock at the door.  Once you are in, you realize what I meant when I said ...

  You used to be a kid who made the world with clay, you thought you could do anything if you tried You used to wake up with so many ideas,  your walls were filled with your doodles You used to be a kid who built empires with lego, you knew no geometry, no centre of gravity you tried to create barbie houses, that stood on a single sheet of cardboard  Later you learnt there are three dimensions, and that you can't live in that palace you drew You learnt it takes more than your imagination, to make some things come true Somewhere along the way, you abruptly stopped dreaming, to doodle, to create, to learn  You were told it's for the experts, "Only artists doodle, engineers create, scholars learn" Someone told you, you don't have what it takes At what point exactly, Did you start taking them so seriously? When will you realize that "someone" is your mind? You used to be a kid you thought you could do anything if you tried Eventually, you became an adult you...

  December 31st, Sunday I closed my eyes and inhaled a deep breath of fresh air. When I exhaled, I could feel strands of my hair flying with the wind as every last trace of tension left my body. My feet felt relaxed against the calm of river water. My son was splashing some on me, giggling so much my chest ached at not bringing him out for picnics more often.  The gushing of water brought my buzzing thoughts to a standstill. In that moment I wasn’t bound by the baggage from my past, nor was the uncertainty of the future holding me back. In that moment, as I focused on the rhythm of my heart- I was living.  The thought made me calm. I opened my eyes to see my son still playing with water. It was five minutes to sunset which I so eagerly brought my son to show. From the riverside, it looked delicious at the backdrop of a pinkish blue sky. The view was clear without any obstruction of skyscrapers.  It was only a few blocks away and I was visiting it after fifteen y...

  Oh hush, don’t read this aloud, it’s a story no one knows She was covering her tan with long sleeves, when he held out a black rose Oh pain, how it shot under her skin, like icicles her broken heart froze Her frail body shivered as she wondered, “was all I deserved a black rose?” She wondered if it’d be any different, if she changed the colour of her hair Would she still get a black rose, if she were a tad bit more fair? Her insecurities convinced her, the flower was some sick joke She should’ve seen the boy’s eyes, at length his nervousness spoke Oh pain, how it shot under his skin, as embarrassment clouded her mind  She walked away, repulsed, totally missing he was colourblind  He knew she loved dark red, the florist heard him wrong   But nothing he could’ve said, would change this sad song For it was never about colour,  neither of her skin nor flower It was her blindness that ruined their ‘could’ve-been’, to the essence of his gestures, that she’d never s...