There was a tinge of sadness in her voice when she stared at those chest of drawers that reminded her of that September when it was bought at first.
Those russet coloured shiny maples cabinets that have turned all dark brown with dust. It was an old chest of drawers with several emotions permanently encapsulated inside it.
Holding the knob she opened the first drawer as if examining her own repressed thoughts that were stored there. That little toy which used to sing when the key was wound now secretly chants all those childhood memories like a lullaby. Sweet and surreal. Those half-tinted photographs as if some acidic evocation of adulthood have ruined them. Distorted and slowly fading, the side effects of growing up.
The next drawer was jammed like her in times of difficulty. The broken alarm clock that shows the same time every minute, every second. It gave her a chance to adjust her time in her own way. Who can control time? Nobody but that clock wanted her to devise her own time.
She saw the last drawer without that knob. Broken and maybe empty. Locked with those dry metaphors and dank similes. Some hidden soft giggles and heavy sighs. The drawer that can hold more thoughts and emotions. Some world of imagination that can help remove those cobwebs of reality.
Putting all those memories and emotions in a cardboard box, she saw her heart of drawers leaving this early September. Replacing that old brown cabinet with some new ones that is ready to store new emotions.
Time doesn't stop for anyone. Some are chasing it, some are running away from it. An ironical being, for sure. Creating dichotomy while it slithers betwixt the passage of days, weeks and years.
Time is like music, an inebriating cocktail of mellifluous melancholia and dolent divinity.
I often feel Time can be a miracle! That vintage chair in the library reminds me of the magical times. Where I'd sit for hours listening to vinyls of old soulful classics, that Time brought me. Showering pristine saudade of melody. Making me believe that Time is a gift to mankind, that helped in its evolution.
But Time can also be a disaster! As it is responsible for creating a paradoxical thing, none other than Memory. Memory and Time are each other's muse. When one drinks the concoction of it, they either get a bitter taste or a sweet one. Something that is out of their control. Memories give Time the power it requires, over a being. Thus, making it the undisputed master.
Time loves to play with people. Either by gifting them an abundant part of itself, or by snatching away whatever is left of it with them. An unscrupulously precarious affair, that it dons as a proud attribute. Making it superior to every other facet of Life. I guess, Life married Time. To take care of its offsprings. Rewarding and punishing them according to their respective deeds. A perfect combination it is though. And I salute Life for it. Heartily!
Time Doesn't stop Can't be seen None can possess Inspite that, controls the strings of our lives
When I met Ruby for the first time, she was sitting unchaperoned in that Redwood bench; the one, which I adore since boyhood. All she had cradled in her hands was a Parker pen and an antique diary. I didn't pay much heed to her on the first day. If I would have realized her worth, I would've walked with happiness for an extra mile.
A poet I was, some call me a mad-man, some call me dark. I call myself a fragment of the cosmos and my poems, a solace. The day I met her, I was into my usances of sitting on the bench, plugging earphones and writing whatever the winds muttered in my ears. As usual, she sat in the other corner, looking at the diary. A girl of 10 maybe, a desolated figure she was; tears befriended her. That day, the poem I wrote was titled 'ᴄᴀᴛᴀsᴛʀᴏᴘʜɪᴄ ɢʟᴏᴏᴍs'. Coincidental, isn't it?
The next day, the sun pushed the clouds away to look evident and radiant. The bench was welcoming me. I saw Ruby today as well. She was gasping, I didn't know why. I went close to the bench and asked her, "What happened?". She didn't reply. I asked her name. "Ruby", she whispered. I eventually developed a soft corner for her. This is all what poets do; they know it all, the pain and the loneliness, but they do. Love, pain, poetry. Later Love, and write about pain in poetry.
As days passed, I got to know about this thing that her father was a poet as well. I tried to read that diary, but she said, "My dad gave me this. He says me to pen down definitions of words in your own way. It's something close to me. I wanted to give this to one person. He's far for now. So Please....." I didn't understand much, I just stayed mum. I used to bring her chocolates everyday. As soon as the clock's hands danced on 4, I used to run with my book and chocolates in hand, thoughts in mind and happy butterflies encaged in heart. We became good friends. I used to show her my poems, the 'dark' ones, they say. She used to love those. Her eyes used to shine seeing me in her path. Her mellifluous tone sounded more beautiful when she called me "Bhaiyya". She no longer weeped. She was radiance in her own self. My purpose was served.
She used to come with her mother, a tall figure, who loved silence. Her mum would just smile at me, talk nothing else, take her daughter with her and go away. It was some kind of a tough tone, but the moment I see Ruby, everything was sort to fine. The cycle just went on and on for days. Autumn paved its way for monsoons. The park was overflowing with water, and hence, my bench was bellowing for seeing me, and I yearned for meeting Ruby. Two months just went away in total boredom and wayment.
As soon as sun shone one day, I ran to the park with some gift wrapped in silver foils. But I didn't find her. I rushed to her home. It was locked as well. I asked her neighbours. They informed me where they were. I ran in fear, with a thousand thoughts in my mind, till I saw that huge display saying "ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴛʀᴇᴇ ᴍᴜʟᴛɪsᴘᴇᴄɪᴀʟɪᴛʏ ʜᴏsᴘɪᴛᴀʟ - ᴡᴇ sᴀᴠᴇ ʟɪᴠᴇs". I began speaking in big voices; long breaths accompanied those. "Where is Ruby?"
Just then, I saw her mother, they say bloodshed, this time, it was tearshed. Adrenaline rush flooded in the greatest speed possible. I became more scared than before. "Wh--wh---what happened to Ruby? Say that first". She spoke for the first time. Her voice was soft. "Here, she wanted to give this diary to you".
" Where's she?" "She had brain tumor. Scars and holes loved her. It took her into its painful bosoms. Now she'll be saying Hi to her father and give his Parker pen." And she went away, with a shadow of silence. /And silence screamed this time/
This 20 year old me cried like a newborn child gasping for proper breath. A poet I was. My heart was meant to be shattered again and again, the play repeats. The same old playlists with the same old dark songs must be heard again. I must wave to solitudes again. I broke down. With a heart weighing a ton, I opened the diary. My mind forced me to read the last lines. . . . (noun): 1. Waters which disappeared when I spoke to Bhaiyya. 2. Bhaiyya's best friend when someone leaves him.
(noun): 1. A virtue which will embrace me soon. 2. A messenger who will take me to my father and mother.
"Wait. What? Was her mother a ghost? Was I speaking to an apparition?", I was in total awe. I shouted with the loudest pitch.
/And screams wished for mornings this time/
"Chris, you'll have to recollect broken pieces, the scattered ones. They'll lie spread again for sure", my mind says. Will it be a catastrophic reality; a Catastrophic gloom again? I'll go ask the redwoods.
~S r i K r i s h n a P S | Sep 22, 2020. ___________________________________________________
Although you are used seldom, you are very Special because whenever used , you have gifted us Widest smiles and Loudest Laughs to be cherished Forever. You come to life when Uncles and aunties , brothers and sisters , friends and neighbors come together for a get-together. You have bestowed us with Best- Loved Delicious Delicacies all the time. On Birthdays and Anniversaries, It is you who has got the prestige to witness all the cake-cuttings and be part of our Celebration! On Other days,you are an abode to baskets filled with dozens of fruits or piles of clothes waiting to be folded or small leftover things . You have served me as a Study table years ago and now happily serving my sister. Although we come in contact seldom , I take care of you regularly. In order to keep your shining glass body gleaming forever , I make sure you are adored with beautiful cover and a preety vase with fresh flowers in it. Your chairs seemed unhappy since some years so I pleaded papa to make efforts in the same direction ! As a result , the chairs are on cloud 9 with the new seat covers and beautiful head-covers placed on it . Lastly , I might not take your note everyday, but you know you've got a special place in my heart forever ! Thank you for everything dearest dining table!
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Cradle is that piece of furniture which is bought with much love and enthusiasm but loses it's importance once the children grow up but a time comes when they move away and you are left with that forgotten cradle only.
It was a night before my hostel allocation, I didn't sleep , I kept turning sides. Three times I woke up drank water and almost dozed at 4 am. The morning came with a excited sunrise and a heart filled with emotions of missing fights with my bro, missing my dad's lectures, my mom's taunts , love and of course my cozy comfort room, a luxurious life to end. Still I was excited for new world. Packed my luggage we arrived there , let me give you an overview. My college was established in 1962 , being a government set up I deduced my expectations. We arrived there a very good morning. It give me a feel of government quarter, fences around, two floors and a guard outside. I wished him and we made our way to warden's room. After all formalities done , I bid a warm farewell to my parents no tears only smile. My dad was quite tensed about me but I assured him " Papa I am big now, take care see you on weekend" . Then a helper came she took my luggage and we made our path through narrow corridors, I could not breathe , all ways seemed quite similar and I almost lost there in begining I reached there, Room no 60 . Being a cleistophobic it was small beyond my expectations. I made a very star entry to look cool and now came the assets we got . The room got 90's look., white washed walls, divided into three compartments and the furniture may be decades old. A bed , not a bed just a piece of wood and rusted legs, jammed window and an extraordinarily small almirah to fix my things, my mom really gave a lot more than need , even not required. A chair with its wooden part damaged by water because my seniors might have used that for clothes. I remember to get things done in almirah I used chair and I got it's one leg broken which I hided under bed. Night came, my roomies were not shifted there yet. I kept my lights on that night . Videocalled ma and concealing my tears well. Then I had a look at my room, blue painted doors and windows, walls were having many stories, some about birthdays, some written notes to learn. The table there was having a lot of crafts done by my seniors and that chair also must have survived weights of their clothes. The bed, weak but there many students slept in stress, happiness, anger or ambivalence. The room turned in to story telling granny that night Paper hearts were someone's hand made try and notes to keep things in mind. I kept thinking about them till clock striked twelve and I fell asleep dreaming for my turn to get my name in list of residents of room no 60 #mirakee@writersnetwork#furniture
The furnitures of euphoria are the abode of emotions Tanned brown and ink kissed by some notorious schoolboys and girls with stuffs they call creativity like carving names drawing cartoons, etc. things like that are concrete but they hold an inch of gloom on the day of farewell; however, time is a panther but things are not forgotten they become memories
Now we are tied to the fist of colleges blank and wireless as if we aren't connected socially, but emotionally we spend most of our time in libraries bookshelves become the only furniture of our hope they not only contain books but also volumes of portraits comedy, tragedy, novel, journal, etc.
This was a recap of our life as a student now, we are confined to the oldest furniture where my hope wilted, where grandma promised a return after battling leukemia but her bones turned into rocks and the bed, a dusky seashore.
Things are made of materials Things are mere furnitures and painted emotions.