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  • thebleedingmeteor 12w

    Past life

    They say love-at-first-sight happens once in the seven lines. If that were true and since it didn't happen this time, I think I'm remembering our past life. It was raining floods and we were sheltering under this hill called Govardhan. I saw you kneeling and hugging a shivering calf, your red saree too bright against the animal's milk-white skin. Your hair's all wet, flying in all directions as if it was dancing to the songs of the storm outside. Your braid began falling off its knots. You sat, eyes closed, trembling, and I stared at you for a long time. I didn't care that the entire village was sheltering with us too. Also, there was this guy who was lifting the entire hill with his little finger, saving us in the process. I hadn't bothered with him. I wanted to watch you hold the animal as if you owed it a million hugs.

    Either this is a memory or I'm just dreaming about you better than before.

    ©Chandra Kiran

  • thebleedingmeteor 13w

    I ask

    I'm not asking if you miss me or not.
    I'm not asking how much I meant to you
    But know that
    You were the first chocolate, my father
    tucked in my school's uniform pocket
    You were the first bicycle I rode
    all day in my 5th-grade summer
    You were the handkerchief my mother put
    on my forehead whenever I got a fever
    I'm not asking, but know that
    You were the piece of cloth that took
    away my temperature bit by bit
    You were the door that once opened to the
    wind and I got scared, thinking it was a ghost
    You were the speakers I bought in 2017
    You were the first song I played on those speakers
    You were my teenage, you were my language
    You were my longest handwritten message
    And I only ask you to hug me tight the next
    the time you choose to break my heart

    ©Chandra Kiran

  • thebleedingmeteor 16w

    Someday, somewhere I'll remember that Thursday in 2003. I sat on a mini seat in front of the bicycle and my uncle was riding us back to my grandmother's house. On the dusty path without street lights, the yellow, oval-shaped headlight was our only saviour if it got dark. I held a rose milk bottle close to my chest and felt its chilled surface scrape my skin. It had been a long day of shopping in the crowded streets of the town nearby. I had bought a red shirt with the power-rangers logo on the front, hurt my left toe when a large woman tried to stroll past me in a rush and stepped on it, and bought and brought a rose milk bottle back home for my grandmother.

    Several things watched us go on our journey back to the house. A tall water tank with spiralled stairs, the village pond that had buffaloes for an evening bath, and the banyan tree that housed men gambling on the lambs-and-tiger game. The evening couldn't be more beautiful. The cool breeze cycled along with us while I put the cream-coloured evening in the pockets of my head. The metallic rattling of bicycle pedals, bells and brakes are etched in the ears of my memories. Once it got dark, we safely followed the concave yellow spread of our headlight, escaping the potholes, buffaloes dung etc., and reached in time for dinner.

    As it turns out, that was how I learned about the art of eye contact. The things and places without eyes looked at me better than the beings with eyes. They looked at me so dearly that I remember them as I remember myself. Not a day goes by where I don't wonder if everything around me watches me all the time. And it doesn't scare me, it doesn't cause turmoil in the pit of my gut. After all, these things and places, they don't mean any harm. They like to watch me spend my time. I guess that's all I have to do. Live. And be looked at. Live. And be looked at. Live. And be looked at by all the beautiful things.

    ©Chandra Kiran

    ~ Leave me be hopeless, but look at me the right way.

    #start #wod

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    Someday and Everyday of a Thursday

  • thebleedingmeteor 19w

    Garima wiggled herself between the pillows, making a place for the laptop on the bed. Sleeping after a bad breakup was hard. She was gulping the beetroot juice from her favourite bottle. It was tasteless.

    What time was it? Twelve? One?

    She opened the gallery first. It was full of pictures of Shiva holding her. Pain subdued her. Except for the sounds of the keyboard clicking, the room was silent. Her flatmates left for a weeklong trip to Goa. Though they begged her to join them, she refused. She got tears to waste and popcorn to eat.

    She opened the front camera and jerked forward. Her face looked ghastly; thick red eyes, dehydrated skin, messed up hair and one or two new pimples. She hated pimples. She straightened her back to check the redness of her neck when the screen brightened. It was a video call from her parents. Garima sighed and accepted it.

    “Are you still in your pyjamas?” said her father. He held his phone too close to his face and his broad spectacles dominated the view.

    “Dad, move the phone away from your face,” Garima told him, her voice low.

    “I don’t understand this stupid phone,” he yelled back. He took the phone into his hands and Garima heard the sharp nonstop clicks over her speaker. Garima’s ears shuddered at each click.

    “Dad, Stop that. My ears are hurting. You are taking screenshots. Call Ma. Maa, where are you?”

    Garima minimized the video call and opened her mail. She hadn't checked her mail in the last 24 hours. Two unread messages glowed on the screen. One was from Shiva and another from an unknown address:

    She clicked on the unknown first.

    The message read, Welcome to the club.

    She never applied to any club.

    She heard a faint “I’m here” from the other side and went back to the video call.

    “Come over here, Maa,” Garima shouted. “Dad is struggling with the phone.”

    “I’m not,” said her father grimly.

    The clicks hadn’t stopped. The camera tilted at an acute angle and Garima saw the rotating living room of her house. Her mother rushed out of the kitchen with a plate of apple pieces. She exchanged the plate for the phone and the clicks stopped. The camera was straight again.

    “You are still in your pyjamas,” asked her mother with a raised eyebrow.

    “Stop worrying about my Pyjamas,” Garima said, beating her hands over her thigh. “I am sad right now.”

    “Garima, sweety." The camera moved along as her mother tried to sit down on the sofa. “I understand your position. I’m trying to be a progressive parent. But stop testing my patience and take a bath before I pay a visit to your PG.”  

    “How can Shiva do this to me?” Garima shouted again. She did not bother to listen to what her mother had said. “We were perfect. We were good. Very good. You know how much I try I still can’t believe this happened. I still believe in love.”

    Her mother scoffed. “And I still believe dinosaurs still exist in the world, surviving on caramel popcorn. TAKE A BATH.”

    Garima glared at the screen and said, “This is a big joke to you. I don’t want to talk to you anymore. I am ending the call.”

    She moved the cursor to the red button and clicked on it. The room was awfully quiet again. So she opened Spotify to retrieve the break-up vibe of the place. Music wasn’t her favourite hobby until Shiva came along. Now it was a catharsis for her; something that flushes out people from her consciousness.

    Then a notification popped in the left end corner. She opened the notification while the song ‘Rare’ by Selena Gomez started playing in the background.

    She clicked on the notification and it went straight to the mail. It was another message from the poetry club saying, “Welcome to the club”.

    What in the heavens . . . is happening?

    A frown came and left her forehead while she deleted those messages. Then, she took a deep sigh and opened Shiva’s mail. She was ready to read whatever drunken bullshit he had sent her in the middle of the night.

    His last text had read: “Welcome to the club, baby.”

    WHAT CLUB? She wanted to shout.

    Garima took the laptop into her lap and checked the address it came from. It was from Shiva. No doubt. That was for sure. Her breath thickened, fogging her lips.

    The screen brightened again with another video call from her parents. She cut the call with shivering fingers.

    Another notification popped up. She hesitated but clicked on it.

    It went to hangouts as her mother texted: You don't have a boyfriend named Shiva. Or did you “forget” to tell me?

    Garima noticed the change in her heartbeat. It was begging to jump out of her chest.

    She went to the gallery. The photos were there.

    The screen brightened again with a video call from her mother. She accepted it and as soon the image appeared, she began yelling. “What do you mean I don’t have—”

    “Sweety, listen to me—”

    “No, you listen—”

    “Shut up,” yelled her mother.

    Garima paused, panting and staring at the screen. “Did you lock your door?”

    “Yes. I have locked it. Why?”

    “Remember the screenshots your dad took? I went to delete them. Then, I saw a figure standing behind you in the dark. Your father is already calling—”

    Garima turned around and found no one. She hopped off the bed, her legs shivering beneath her pyjamas, and checked under the bed. 


    —the police.”

    “Are you alright? Come back near the camera. Stay where I can see you.”

    Garima jumped back onto the bed. “Ma, stop freaki… Ma, who’s that…behind you?”

    The screen went black on the other side, leaving Garima yelling at her ‘Blackpink’ wallpaper.

    ©Chandra Kiran

    #shortstory #horror

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    Welcome To The Club

  • thebleedingmeteor 19w

    In an ever-changing world, the one thing that always remained romantic are park benches. They are in movie opening and closing sequences. Novels have exquisite scenes written with them in the centre. People would meet and make out on them. But today, at eleven in the morning, I sat on a park bench, thinking: why is this happening to me? I have a Deccan chronicle newspaper in my hand, crumbling between my fingers, as the cramp runs up my thigh. For a newbie like you, who has known me for few sentences now, it might not seem disastrous. Yet, this cramp pains all the same, and I grit my teeth, allowing the hurt.

    Before you judge me, know that I can’t stand up, or move my leg. My girlfriend Mona is sleeping in my lap. She was supposed to “rest” but she ended up in a dreaming nirvana. Again, before you become a prying reader, let me admit I can’t wake her. I can’t get into trouble again. Why? Well, that’s not my favourite question form, but I will narrate my not-so-exotic flashback.

    There is never a good place to fall in love, is there? So I chose the online Whatsapp texting. Although it’s not surprising in this generation, I am not that kind of guy. I don’t even like sexting. But I like people who understand other’s privacy and let them live in peace. Mona is that person when she was twenty-four and staying at her relative’s house preparing for IELTS. Her plans to study masters abroad pre-dated me and I’d always encouraged her. It never bothered our relationship since we’d been an online couple since college. While I’m hunting for jobs and hoping to get a fair apartment, she was flying to London in middle-class worrying about cheating on me with a gorgeous English guy. I was happy that she had been worried. I was also devastated that she had been worried.

    Right, let me come to the point. One day, my first big trouble happened when Mona called from her apartment in Birmingham. She had a wine glass in one hand and the other under her chin as she stared at me on the screen. She looked charmingly brown in that pale apartment and I craved to bend, go through the glass, and kiss her. If that sounds cheesy, you better stop reading now. She was drinking and playing her finger in the air. Watching her, I stayed silent and swallowed everything I planned to say. Five minutes passed. Ten. Eleven. I was extremely silent. Thirteen. As the fifteenth minute passed, I’d asked her a clichéd question like every other Indian: What’s the time there now?

    She smiled. Now, remember about her smiles. Neither her lips nor her face moved. However, it mildly elevated her cheeks with a pink outline. She seemed confident, like a lawyer who knew she’d win the case. Giving no chance to save the moment, she answered: It's a minute past my birthday. While I muted the mic, tilted to my right and screamed into my empty apartment, she finished the rest of her wine. She didn’t talk to me for a month thereafter. I was terrified as hell, wondering if she found a gorgeous English guy.

    She didn’t, actually. My sweet Mona Lisa. Oh, I added “Lisa” for dramatic effects. Shut up.

    A year later, she completed her masters and came back to India. It’s always been her plan, which included settling down with me. I have a job now as a team manager in cognizant, and I’m doing alright. It may not be as exotic as what my girlfriend’s doing, but I can afford movie tickets in IMAX.

    The next trouble is straight down crazy town. I was supposed to pick her up the day she was coming back to India. But the late night with Netflix resulted in me waking at noon. I had eight missed calls on my cell phone and symptoms of a heart attack by the time I rushed out of my place. By the time I stumbled into the airport, Mona was sitting on her gigantic trolley, her legs wide and her face down. Few feet left, she’d be in baggage claim and someone might tow her away. All the same, when she saw me, a simple, nerve-racking smile crept up her face. This time, her lips spread and her eyes gleamed. Her cheeks showed no change. In a parallel universe, that’s not a smile. We offer that expression when we open the door to a known stranger. Now she approached me and pulled me into a hug. It’s safe to say that I prayed to six different gods that she wouldn’t buy a ticket back to the gorgeous English guy. Meanwhile, my mind was yelling in the background: There was never a gorgeous English guy.

    It’s been three months since that happened and she’s been sleeping on the couch since then. The lonely, soul-crushing nights when I can’t even watch Netflix without feeling guilty taught me many lessons. The important one being: man up, stop whining and apologize. Oh, didn’t I tell you? I don’t apologize. It’s just not my thing.

    Now, you wonder why we’re still together. Easy. We love each other despite our idiosyncrasies. Or we both found ‘THE ONE’ and refusing to let go, no matter what. I told you, it’d get cheesy. My friends tell if we continue like this, we end in a toxic relationship. My parents tell me not to get played around by this girl. That’s when it hit me. They misunderstood what I’ve been parading as sarcastic stories and drew their own conclusions. Like we are a P. E teacher and Math teacher in the same school who wants control over the naughty fifth-grade children. I mean, that’s what stories are anyway, right? We trust people and offer them our emotions, but in reality, they only listen. They care about the words you say. The stress on syllables interests them. This is the woman who cares about me like I’m a six-year-old and they branded her as a raging, revenge-minded girlfriend. Maybe I have my share of faults in it.

    Perhaps that’s why she smiles. Sometimes, when she’s sad or hurt or deeply annoyed, I worry about why she smiles. She has this round face, which makes her cheeks and eyes pop out. Whenever I see that may-or-may-not-be smile, I wonder what’s happening in her head. Why wouldn’t she cry or rant like other girls? How does she understand my sorrow and cook the right dish at the right time? I don’t understand why she’s so harsh to carry out punishments that hurt both of us. What? You think she’s happy sleeping on a five-year-old couch? Grow up.

    Back to the park bench. Now, I can’t move my leg. Why? What started as a normal Sunday morning has been damaged when I left the washing machine outlet tube near the bathroom’s door instead of pushing it inside. The water flooded out and Mona might or might not have almost slipped and fell. The details aren’t important. When I apologized (yes, I did), she brought out her trademark face. She jerked my hand away with that smile. The texture of her face altered; skin got redder, and ears stood. Like even in such an uncomfortable moment, that texture would force you to name her face after a well-known Hollywood heroine. Like Anne Hathaway, Meryl Streep, or Emily blunt. Fine, I watched ‘The Devil wears Prada’ last night. Shut up, again.

    Then, for the first time in my life, my mind said: I feel like your Mona Lisa isn’t smiling. It’s her goddamn angry face. It’s still a guess.

    So I mopped the floor, attempted to dry it and failed. The tiles surface stick to our legs like chewed up bubble gums. To lessen her fury, I brought her out for a coffee, breakfast and a quality rest in the park. She loves visiting the park, sitting under this huge banyan tree and listening to songs in the evenings. The shade worked even when the sun’s still invading. I purchased a newspaper. The rustling of the leaves and the serene air paled her cheeks. She calmed down and asked if she could sleep in my lap. I blushed when she asked. If you’ve seen any 90s rom-com, that’s a passionate request and there’s only one answer for that question. Maybe, it’s time I stop dramatizing the events.

    Sometimes, stories like these seem made up. In such times, close your eyes and remember the vacations when your father and mother sat silently in the car even after a perfectly fun day. You wouldn’t know the reason, so you go back to staring out the window. By some miracle, everything turns fine the next day and they buy you a remote-controlled car. I hope you had fun with your bribe.

    Oh god, the cramp’s visiting again. I have little time, so tell me: Should I move my leg?

    © Chandra kiran

    #cees_situations @luvnotes_challenge_host

    ~ #love #fun #sarcasm #shortstory

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    Why are you smiling, MonaLisa?

  • thebleedingmeteor 20w


    A forest of words
    Yet a flower-sized poem
    So my haiku cried

    ©Chandra kiran

  • thebleedingmeteor 24w

    Of sadness

    As a kid, my sister learned Kuchipudi. One day I went to see her practise and she was sitting on the bench, along with other kids. Their teacher sat next to them, cross-legged, patting his right hand on his right knee rhythmically. Following his rhythm, a teenage girl was dancing in the centre of the room. All the eyes were on her. Including mine. Her step went as: stand still, slightly tilting the right leg and act like holding a baby; and once the rhythm progresses, take wide, dramatic steps to the corner of the room and kneel. Put the imaginary baby down and start crying. All of this without saying a word. She tried three times and the teacher wasn't impressed. About seven tries later, I guess, she gave her final attempt. As soon as she kneeled and put the baby down, her chin began shivering. Her big kajal-filled eyes had tears dancing on their edges. I thought she was sad for being embarrassed. My father said," "Imagine loving something so much you'd cry for it whenever you want." I know, dad. Now I know of such sadness.

    ©chandra kiran

  • thebleedingmeteor 24w

    “Can we listen to some music?”

    “No,” Sagar replied. He felt like it wasn’t a situation for music. He looked in the rear-view mirror and saw his son, Ayan, collapsing in the back seat. Normally, he would agree with his son’s requests.

    WHY NOT?

    But the moment was unusual for him. They weren’t alone in the car. Sagar turned his head to the passanger seat and found the girl they picked up on the way, crouched into the seat, staring out her window.

    An hour ago, as they were dashing on the highway, they found a young girl asking strangers for a lift. She looked lost. Sagar hesitated to slow down the car for her.

    He wasn’t comfortable traveling along with strange people in his car. Then Ayan’s request came up: CAN WE GIVE HER A RIDE?

    So, he slowed down the car and asked, “Where do you have to go?”

    “You can drop me anywhere in the city,” she said.

    And that was it. She hadn’t said a word since then. Sagar took a careful look at her — almost twenty- or twenty-one of age, short messed-up hair, a bright pink t-shirt, thick torn jeans (which he knew are a trend and not a sign of poverty), and a tiny backpack that was big enough to carry a dress or two. The more he looked at her, the more it felt like he’d seen her somewhere.

    He sensed something wrong, yet said nothing aloud. He was traveling with his eleven-year-old son, sensing wrong in everything should be his first emotion.

    Sagar turned his head back to the road. He saw his headlights guiding the car through the dark. He couldn’t think about this girl now. Dropping his son to his grandmother’s house once a month turned into a hectic work. He’d barely got to leave his desk in the office these days. Additional to his low salary, his manager’s random side-works were only sucking the more life out of him.

    “Do you have some water?” the girl’s voice startled him.

    “Sure. Ayan, give her a bottle.”

    His son handed her the bottle, and she took it. Sagar noticed she hadn’t lifted her eyes to them ever since she got into the car. She drank some water and gave back the bottle with her head down. “Are you afraid of us?” Ayan asked the girl.

    Sagar wasn’t surprised. The question crossed his mind too. The girl seemed uncomfortable with the question. She twirled in her seat, doubting to answer.

    “Excuse my son,” Sagar said, passing her a glance. “Ayan, shut up.”

    “She hasn’t looked at us at all,” Ayan said.

    Sagar shook his head. “I told you—”

    “It’s okay,” the girl interrupted him. She twisted her head a bit to the left and still looking down, she said, “I’m not afraid of you. I’m just afraid of faces.”

    “I don’t understand.” Ayan’s voice had a boyish lilt.

    “Seriously son, if you don’t—”

    “It’s complicated,” the girl said, interrupting Sagar again.

    “I’m sorry,” Sagar added. “My son’s a bit nosy sometimes.”

    The girl chuckled weakly. “It’s alright. I get that sometimes. It’s a syndrome thing, and I’m learning to live with it.”

    Sagar nodded his head, though he understood nothing. He never heard of syndromes before. He heard about Malaria, or swine-flu, or some other diseases. But a syndrome sounded rare; as rare as his boss granting him holidays.

    He saw the girl settling into her seat again, and his tongue itched to ask the one thing he was holding off for a while.

    “I’m sorry to ask this,” Sagar said finally. “Do I know you from somewhere? I mean, are you popular or something?”

    The girl kept staring at the radio. Sagar thought if he had crossed a boundary or —

    “I was in the news a year ago; the girl who had almost fallen victim to the drunken neighbor in the JKR Street….”

    “Ah, yes, the JKR street tragedy.” The enthusiasm in Sagar’s voice went up a notch and when he realized the sensitivity in the issue, it fell flat.

    “I’m so sorry,” he added.

    He passed a few troubled looks at the girl. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. And he blamed himself for bringing up the topic.

    “What type of syndrome?” Ayan asked.

    Sagar let out a deep sigh. The girl smiled again. Moments like these reminded him how much he failed to teach his son some basic manners.

    “You don’t have to answer that,” Sagar ventured.

    “Not a problem,” the girl said. “It’s a Fregoli syndrome. Very rare. One in a Million chances.”

    “I’ve never heard of it,” Sagar said. “In fact, I’ve never heard of syndromes before.”

    “My doctors too didn’t believe it at first,” she said, her voice obvious of every syllable she spoke. “My Psychiatrist thought, it’s just post-traumatic stress.”


    Sagar’s mind switched to the alert mode. He started connecting the dots — a strange girl on the highway, a victim in the past, her problems with faces, and a psychiatrist.

    ‘Am I helping a runaway patient?’ Sagar questioned himself. ‘Is this a —

    “SAGAR!” The voice came from outside the car.

    He immediately turned to the window and saw his wife knocking on the glass panel.

    Sagar rolled down the window and said, “Hi, honey.”

    “What the hell are you guys doing in the car?”

    “Yashoda wrote a new script, mum,” Ayan said from the back. “We are playing the characters.”

    “You should be ashamed, Sagar. Playing a drama with your kids in the middle of the night, have you lost your mind?”

    Sagar took his wife’s hand. “Calm down, okay. Kids couldn’t sleep. And midnight is a perfect setting to this story.”

    “Stop this right now and get inside.”

    “It’s not a drama,” Yashoda shouted from the passenger seat. “It’s a psychological thriller.”

    “Shut up.”

    Ayan stepped down from the car. “You should encourage artists, mum.”

    For that, he received a quick pat on his head.

    Yashoda too rushed out and said, “It’s not a drama.”


    “It’s really a disturbing story, honey,” Sagar said.

    “Get out of the car.”

    Everyone rushed inside, and the sky fell much darker, like a closing curtain to that drama.

    © Chandra kiran

    ~ #wod #bonds

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  • thebleedingmeteor 25w

    The first time I watched a full-length documentary on national geography was on the first night after my grandfather’s funeral. I hadn’t even been a teenager by then, I guess. The entire family (pretty big, it is) sat down after dinner, gathered before TV and watched it. I didn’t know about myself but the elders were tired. Death was tiring. My grandmother’s bawling and the crowd’s unsettling chatter had finally been put down. It was as if someone came and took the sound out of everyone. Even the house kept its ominous noises to itself.

    My father seemed undisturbed but I could tell it had a toll on him. As the documentary went on with a Telugu-dubbed voice-over, I recalled all the things I had done with my grandfather.

    The first thought was of food. Since my grandfather lived somewhere else, he used to visit us some days, and if he found me denying eating lunch, he took me to a hotel. And I remembered the taste of the food he fed me. The taste was stuck in my mind, the spice and the sweet and all. Of all the days, it happened on the day he died, stuck like starfish on a rock.

    The second thought was of cinema. My grandfather worked in cinema theatres. Some big position. Though I grew up to be a movie frantic, the days he took me to the projector rooms and sat me down to watch the best black and white movies were always my favourite. The documentary went on showing the lifestyle of dolphins; how much they preferred staying together and loved coming above the surface a lot. Why was their behaviour similar to my memories?

    The final thought was of the way my grandfather used to look. It was more of an experience than a thought. The memories of him walking down our street to our house had hurt. I’d sit outside the house, watching him come. We had no plans to go anywhere. Everything was spontaneous. My mother would talk to him or make him tea. She had a soft spot for her father-in-law. And he’d sit down and ask me things. All these memories were going on in my head. The documentary was over and the end titles began rolling. Everyone around me moved and were settling down to sleep. As the people scattered, so did my memories.

    Perhaps the accumulation of those people in the living room brought my memories to the surface. Perhaps they were all their memories and I was remembering them. It might be a superpower, taking others’ painful memories. It could be a burden but I wanted it. I didn’t want them to move. I wanted them to sit in the same places so that I’d remember again. I feared forgetting them. I wanted to remember what happens after he asks me about things. Did I answer him? What were my replies? Did I tell him stories I read about? I wanted to say, please don’t go. I wasn’t sure that was for my family or my already-gone grandfather. But my voice was stuck.

    I forgot to cry that night. I was watching the end titles going up and in the background was the ocean. It was so still. That’s all I remember now. Why? Everything else is in the void. These memories are the blinking stars in the middle of the extravagant space I have in me. This is all I have from my grandfather. Stars and space.

    If this is life, if remembering a bunch of few things about a person is life, I want more people. I do.

    © Chandra kiran

    #wotd #life

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    National Geography

  • thebleedingmeteor 25w

    When I go to that park,
    the one with full of the gravel
    I'm hypnotized by the colours
    The grass is always calling me,
    asking me to sleep on it
    If it's the wind, I would've agreed
    if it's the swing, I would show my greed
    by nagging kids until they leave
    Did someone call for me?
    Why didn't she fall for me?

    Would they award us for going to parks?
    What's with all the people here?
    I walked on the cement carpet,
    smiling at the elders who smiled first
    I posed for all the giant trees,
    moving my body after a long time
    I clapped at a ten-year-old doing circles;
    skating is tougher than I expected

    When I look at the trees
    I feel like I shouldn't be moving
    but when those stems shiver
    I become a staunch believer
    Everything is clean
    Everything is green
    Who cares about the green?
    Blue and Red are my sovereigns
    But there is so much green
    other colours feel so foreign
    Even sunset seems like a cheat code
    My eyes hurt, they're carrying a load
    Why am I at the park?
    Who loves until only there's a spark?

    Look at those benches
    Look at the old people laughing
    Dry leaves are walking along
    The wind sounds like a song
    Why haven't I been here before?
    What aches my heart has in store?

    Something's happening to me
    Some muscles want to let go
    If it's my mouth, I would be talking
    If it's my heart, it must be thawing
    Just look at all the colours
    this place has more corners
    It holds way fewer sinners
    Perhaps, heaven has come down
    or we broke the earth too many times

    Tonight, when I fall asleep
    I want this park to look after me
    Meet me inside my head
    I might need your help, park
    Catch a cold
    Sneeze a winter
    I'll come back once a week
    I'll be your vigil over me
    I'll do what you owe me
    If I'm not meticulous
    What kind of a human would I be?
    What kind of selfishness would I plead?

    This open space is a charmer
    The oxygen is stronger
    I think of leaving my anger
    If I'm one generation younger
    I would call this simply growing up

    Wait, this place is stranger
    The night seems darker
    As warning, if I'm a girl and a teenager
    I'd have to find strength in numbers

    ©Chandra Kiran

    #happiness #love #nature #parks #wotd #walk

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