The 15th July broke quite quietly on my shoulder. So quiet it was that I could not put down my laziness. There was no school today as the day follows the festival of Gurupurnima and I had a pledge to stick to my bed for hours together. But opportunities always go against me. Soft flakes of drizzles borne by air encroached into my bed and made me get up and close the windows. Before closing them I saw with my morning eye the coconut trees with heeling hair. Leafy susurrus could easily drill into my ears. In our area, there is an emergence of new street hooligans, dogs and bitches; who for their rightful accommodation are always active to create a wrangle at the rise of any nodus. The strong hooligans triumph over the weak and as a consequence the defeated with c-like tails and flashing gum-base leave the place as soon as possible. They always find themselves at dust-up with others belonging to the neighbouring locality.
After the battle with winds and rains, I sat my exhausted self inside the mosquito net and saw my mother's moving shadow from inside the kitchen. She was occupied with her cooking utensils. I hated my counterpane and responded to the morning calls. Going past his room I watched my father still abed. These days, he is fairly well and has admitted his defeat to the approaching blindness. Absorbed in a piece of Indian classical music, he was slowly tapping his fingers against his chest, under which his sufferings beat rhythmically too.
The day, at last, lifted its swarthy opacity and the sun egressed gradually. With this gorgeous visibility and with the appearance of my mother, I became so elated. A 10-minute rhetoric went on between us. In between my mother and me there was only a cup of lukewarm distance.
I thought amidst our familiar tussles that woods, once burnt to ashes, cannot be reverted to its pre-position. The morning told yet again that whatever I had thought was nothing but an imported immaturity.
Ashes can be turned back and easily lignified. The morning proved, we are still ours.
After the battle with winds and rains, I sat my exhausted self inside the mosquito net and saw my mother's moving shadow from inside the kitchen. She was occupied with her cooking utensils. I hated my counterpane and responded to the morning calls. Going past his room I watched my father still abed. These days, he is fairly well and has admitted his defeat to the approaching blindness. Absorbed in a piece of Indian classical music, he was slowly tapping his fingers against his chest, under which his sufferings beat rhythmically too.
The day, at last, lifted its swarthy opacity and the sun egressed gradually. With this gorgeous visibility and with the appearance of my mother, I became so elated. A 10-minute rhetoric went on between us. In between my mother and me there was only a cup of lukewarm distance.
I thought amidst our familiar tussles that woods, once burnt to ashes, cannot be reverted to its pre-position. The morning told yet again that whatever I had thought was nothing but an imported immaturity.
Ashes can be turned back and easily lignified. The morning proved, we are still ours.
6 comments:
em honored you visited my page...you have a very nice page out here...and I loved this post of your's..its so well written..straight from heart!
I will keep visiting now:-)
what a graphic description!
creatively crafted :)
fantastic description !!
An artistic piece drunk in the poetry and beauty of the present. Perhaps this is called "Art of Living". Only a visionary can look into such subtle aspects of life and bring out the best from everyday living although the going is neither always smooth not even stifling. Rejuvenating and laudable at the same time.
@ Mishi: I am glad that you have visited my blog. Keep visiting. I must say that I missed out such an honour before stumbling over your blog.
you're blog, your writing and mind
are very impressive, glad I stopped
in - thank you.
Post a Comment