Tag Archives: love

The Other Birthday!

A-rainy-evening

I checked my watch as I scrambled out of my cabin. I am late, the kids are back at home, hungry. Given the option I would have loved to stay back at home. But to raise two kids, the second income is a necessity. And obviously, I don’t want to go back into the vortex of self-pity driven depression, by sitting idle at home.

Rushing towards the exit, I noticed the rain outside. Cursing my luck, I rummaged my tote bag for the umbrella, as I stepped out in the rain. I knew it’s not there. The morning never gave any hint of rain. I ran across the road to the other side, hoping to catch an auto quickly. But as usual they all vanished the moment the raindrops hit the ground. I stood at the entrance of the café, the rain splattered eyeglasses making it even more difficult to spot any vacant incoming auto.

Looking at the dark clouds overhead, I cursed them, I hate rain – I hate dark clouds. Or do I? They used to be my closest ally – when did I start hating them? In a flash, I went back eight years and saw a female in a hospital bed. It was me, trying to get back to life after the futile suicide attempt. And I remembered him, the rain-maker! He came into my life, just to show me the life I had.

All I saw in him was a desperate guy, head over heels in love with a middle-aged married woman; surely it was hunger. But I also felt the desperation, was slipping out of marriage. So I did what was best for both. And just like he came, he was gone; in a flash! It was me who drove him out.

I trail of though was abruptly broken as I felt the raindrops stopped falling on me. Someone has opened an umbrella for me. Startled, I looked back to find his eagle eyes looking back; still the same, piercing look that sees through your soul.

“You? Here? When did you come to town?”

“I came here to wish you ‘Happy Birthday’!”

“My birthday is 3 months later.”

“No, the second birthday you had. I come every year, sitting here, in this café to wish you on this day.”

Before I could reply, he signaled a vacant auto, and led me to it. I scampered in and told the driver the destination. While I settled down in the seat, alone, the enormity of what just happened hit me. It was today, eight years back, I was in the hospital bed, fighting for a new life. Did he really come to the city on this day for all these years?

I poke my head out to find him. He was walking down the footpath, hands in pocket, umbrella tucked in his backpack, soaking in the rain, looking at my receding auto, a hint of smile hanging at the corner of his lips. That’s when I knew for sure, he, my rain-maker really loved me.

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Wrote for an online competition after ages – since it didn’t get any response – thought of publishing it here and see what my regular readers say about it !

 

Dew Drop : Friday Fictioneers 22 may 2015

PHOTO PROMPT – © Santoshwriter

PHOTO PROMPT – © Santoshwriter

As she sipped her coffee, he carefully combed and braided her silken strands.
“No-one ever pampered me like this, physically or emotionally; not even my husband of ten years.”
“You call this pampering? For me it’s just love, and this is the only way I know to love.”
“I envy the person who gets to marry you.”
“Who stops you from being that person?”

It’s been eight years since. Just like a morning dew drop he appeared in her life, moistened the sun burned path, taught her how to live and love and vanished like the dew drop vanishes with the rising day light.

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Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by ever smiling Rochelle. This week mush overcame my mind !

Rest of the fictions are at the froggy link:

The Bridge : : Friday Fictioneers 13 march 2015

Friday Fictioneer 15 march 2015

Friday Fictioneer 15 march 2015

Ten years were long enough to change the look of the city. Some of the buildings still survived. Of course this coffee shop overlooking the entrance of the office building across the street was not there.

Sipping his espresso, he kept looking at the entrance, hoping to catch a glimpse; he knew she still works there. His mind oscillating between conscious and subconscious, past and present – voices, pictures and smell.

Smell? That perfume seems familiar –

“I knew I will catch you here someday – not fond of burning bridges – right?” Startled, he turns to catch her standing behind, with that familiar stare.

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The second story this week – which I wrote first, for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle !

 

What If : Friday Fictioneers 6 February, 2015

PHOTO PROMPT – Copyright – Melanie Greenwood

PHOTO PROMPT – Copyright – Melanie Greenwood

Sitting in his balcony overlooking valleys of Kumaun, he fondly caresses the fading pictures in the albums; he can almost feel the velvety touch of tresses and warmth of her cheeks.

He was supposed to forget her in these four decades, yet he fails to remember a day when she didn’t peek from the crowd of thoughts, responsibilities and work.

Only if you have checked- it was not my handwriting that was there on the letter bidding you adieu.

“Catching the glint of winter sunrise in your eyes

Waking up to a desolate monsoon night

Still lost in maze of what if”

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Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle !

Rest of the stories at the froggy link :-

Smile : Friday Fictioneers

Copyright-Ted Strutz

Copyright-Ted Strutz

“Honey – when are you getting free from your chamber tonight?”

“I have got two more souls sitting outside for me to relieve them from pain.”

“Don’t waste a second after that, I have a surprise for you.”

“You never stop surprising me sugar – do you?”

“How can I not think of the most important person in my life?”

“Even after these five years I do wonder why such a gorgeous and famous news anchor fell in love with me.”

“It was you who made me smile;  no one knew I had a smile before I came to you.”

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A different mood this week. Thanks once again to our fabulous host Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers once again!

 

The Restaurant Corner Table

restaurant

Pushing the heavy swing doors of the restaurant, he looked up towards the clock, exactly 2:30 in the afternoon. Taking off the rain coat, he slowly moved towards the table in the corner, right in front of the glass wall facing the road outside. The drizzle outside has settled down to a steady rhythm.  It has become a weekly ritual since that fateful day two months back. That too was a Friday; he had planned for a lovely weekend with his fiancee; at least that’s what he believed her to be. And he found her getting that huge bunch of Valentine roses, not from him. That’s when she broke it him; all he did was raise his voice a notch up to ask who the roses are from – when he believed himself to be her lover. And she mercilessly broke his dream. As per her, it was all just his day-dream; she felt her to be a thirty plus guy, who is too ordinary and simple to expect her to be his lover. She never saw him as a lover but just as a friend, whom she helped. Just a friend? After all the emotions and attention he showered on her.

He kept going back and forth in his mind for more than a month. And then one day he came in to his favorite lunch joint, from his office during the late lunch time, with a bottle of rat poison. Sitting on the corner table, right beside the glass wall facing the road outside, he kept looking at the tiny bottle, while his meal was getting cold. He was about to open the bottle; that’s when he noticed the piece of paper lying on the seat next to his. A regular ordinary tissue paper; with a pen drawn heart. At first thought it to be some childish doodle. But then he noticed a few lines scribbled below.

It said – “Sitting across, I see the glint in your eyes that told me you are special! Hope someday you will feel the same for me. – Yours ‘She’ !”

Something made him feel, it IS for him. Sitting across? He lifted his head to scan the hall. It’s already past the usual lunch time, and hall was nearly empty. Only three tables were occupied. A woman in the far corner, head covered n scarf; couple of young ladies chatting away over the food; and someone behind with back toward him, couldn’t guess if it was a ‘he’ or a ‘she’. Which one of these could be the one who wrote this? She saw him? And noticed the glint – in his eyes? Is it one of these occupants? Or can it be someone who has left silently before he came in? After all he always sits on this same table – everyday! Wondering about the new-found piece of paper he never realized when the bottle went in his overcoat pocket from his hand.

From that day onward, every Friday he would get a paper napkin, with the familiar feminine perfume, and words that made his world filled with hope. He felt rise of hope and belief that he too after all can really be loved. Sometime he thought of coming early to find out who she could be; to catch a glimpse of her leaving the note. But every-time, Friday’s used to be nightmare with his boss. Still he made sure to sneak out for his lunch – and the piece of love he collected from the seat next to his. He already has a file full of it. He even left back some hints. Sometime it was another letter asking for her identity. And even a kiddish attempt, scratching the wooden table to write “I love you too!”

He was not sure if he can discuss it with someone. Not many friends and none so close to discuss something so childish like love. He just hoped that soon she would have enough courage to reveal her identity, and he will again walk with someone, shoulder to shoulder. Day by day he was becoming confident of the outcome, and it showed in the bounce of his steps.

Just before the thirty something man pushed the door open, the young waiter noticed that once again today the group of college students sat on a different table; one next to their usual table on the corner, right by the glass wall facing the road outside. It’s the same group that has, a silent couple he sees every time. He saw them talking love through their eyes, and exchanging notes on paper napkins. He also saw that day his regular customer who prefers the corner seat, with the bottle, very suspiciously looking like a bottle of poison.

The waiter the cleaned the table of the college students, picked up the paper napkin from the table and placed it on the seat next to the corner table, the one right in front of the glass wall facing the road outside.

Rainy Love

Rainy Love

Sketch in Photoshop

A pencil sketch using Pastel on Charcoal brush and background Canvas texture in Photoshop CS 3

 

That Time of The Year

 

Once again it’s that time of the year when the clouds of darker shades start covering the sky. The smell of newly wet earth fills your senses; birds you never see through the years fill the world around you with their excitement. It’s that time when the six-year-old wants to run away to the neighboring orchards to reclaim his mossy throne in the shadowy world. It’s that time of the year when the teenager wants to go back to his bedroom window where he can spend the lazy afternoon watching the non-stop rain drops. It is that time of the year when newly adult wants to walk under the shared umbrella – shoulder to shoulder – dreaming about the world he wants to create.

 

Monsoon Clouds

Monsoon Clouds

It’s been quite some time that I didn’t find any reason to complain about life. Wherever I went, I felt it’s a party arranged by you. The life seems so full that all the pains find no reason for their existence. Standing under the grey canopy – absorbing the ballad of life around – never saw it coming. The gust of wind caught me full on. Lurking behind the unseen dark corners of room, they swept me off. With no apparent reason – it wrings the heart out. Tide after tide of melancholic memories, flashing faces and familiar voices calling. Shakings legs want to give away – head spinning. As if perched on the threshold of a huge time gateway – seeing the past and present swirling together.

Nostalgic Rain

Nostalgic Rain

Weary eyes tries to shut down – in its last-ditch effort to break away from all that’s around; a desperate effort to curl inside the shell; frantically trying to hold onto something – someone – in that madness. Then a sudden feeling – a droplet lands on the face – and then another. The waiting skins absorb them and the droplets find their way to the heart. The monsoon kisses assure – the lips slowly curls back. The wind still there, but the accompanying drops of nectar embrace. Sanity claws back – the soaked eyes open to welcome the washed off world.

 

It is that time of the year once again – when it’s hard to reign in the romantic heart. The Eternal Romantic once again rides on his optimism.  It is that time of the year again, when memories run amuck. It is that time of the year again when eyes can only see love around. The soul feels the passion that was and that still is – feels the romance that was and what can never die. It is that time of the year when rain comes dancing back to life.

 

Divided India – Lost and Unaware

It’s truly amazing yet bitterly painful – to see fellow countrymen still enveloped by petty differences based on religious and geopolitical differences. Even the language they speak divides them and the “choose” to look away from the real crisis in hand.

Couple of year back – I had developed and idea that could revolutionize the online news media – in the same way how Google had revolutionized the way we see online content. I even presented that to certain forums hosted by Times of India. I failed to impress too many – yet today Times of India site has part of it implemented. That enthused me more to visit its site and see how people are contributing and reacting to news. My idea was to make news more broad-based and inclusive; to bring all perspectives together and make it acceptable to all. Yet what I saw made me crest fallen.

Every time I see news – be it rape of a hapless woman, corruption charges against a political leader or even an article by a writer, the people who comment on them are anything but clear on what they are reading. They would prefer to jump into conclusions based on their religious – political – regional leaning without bothering to digest even part of the actual news. Rarely would I find a person who actually understand the fact behind the news and respond to it. But even they get hammered down by others with leanings for being upright.

As if in this world it is not right to maintain a vertical posture – you have to align to this direction or the other, otherwise be ready to be object of suspicion and scorn. And this is coming from so-called “Educated” and “Informed” class of people. We as a collective called Indians, irrespective of our location in India or abroad are anything but united. We have reached a state of frenzy where we find pleasure in opposing for the sake of opposing. We would do anything to denounce and pull down others, without spending even an aorta of the same energy to introspect. Yet nearly all of us seek salvation. We would pray and observe all possible rituals specified by the socio-religious norms, but won’t even try to seek the truth.

It’s a pity that even after being the most developed beings in this world, having so much of analytical power trapped inside our skull, undergoing so much training to learn how to use that power only results in using those powers only in the negative direction. Seek all but the truth. Run after everything but away from the reality. And after all of that put the blame of all our sorrow on everyone else but ourselves. I feel pity on all the efforts put in by the stalwarts like, Swami Vivekananda and Mahatma Gandhi to guide people towards truth, yet they will choose to worship their image and not follow their teaching.

For the sake of whichever God you choose to put your faith in, listen to your inner voice. Listen to what all those illuminated souls have told us. The answer is always within – not out there. Look inside and correct yourself before pointing the finger on anybody. The government and police are not the answer to the plight of womenfolks in our country. It’s us who can make the change with our effort to correct ourselves first and our immediate surrounding next on how to respect other human beings. If you want to be religious, first “try” to be religious, instead of being “ritualistic”. Know what has been preached. Feel and unravel the meaning first, before thrusting it upon anyone else. No religion on the world wants us to do so. It’s those who try to wield power and use it for their narrow personal growth who does it. Stop being manipulated by selfish ideologies and listen to your heart and grow the love that guides you to truth.

Truth is we all are part of the same whole. So even to be selfish, we need to love others, who are nothing but part of the same me! Will anyone of us punish, rebuke or scorn our own hand because it looks different from our head? Will we not care for legs because it is not from the same locality where our eyes are? Should the left hand be against our right because its orientation is different? Or do we disbelieve our heart because we can see it? We don’t – cause all of them are part of the same ME. Then why can’t we see that all other entity in this world are ALSO part of the same ME, the same ME called GOD. Who asks nothing from us but to love all other parts of him. The day we do this, we are united. United in idea, knowledge and spirit.

For Love

Champa

Late monsoon’s merciless deluge,
Uncovers decomposed memories tucked away.
Musing magnolia embraces.

Changing our partners !

This is an article I was sent and that being one of my favorite topic, I couldn’t stop pondering on it. The original article can be seen here.

My take on the topic:

The first thing as a human being we need to understand is that we can never “change” anyone else in this world but ourselves. So entering into a relationship with the objective of changing someone is foolish.

Secondly every character in this world is like an onion, with several layers, and layers that are initially invisible. Now mostly when we are attracted into a relationship we get attracted by that outermost shell. Those with some maturity take time to understand the next few layers and take a call if that is acceptable or not. Some who are really dumb are hypnotized by the outer shell refuses to see beyond them. And most think that with time and their love they will be able to change or mould those next few unacceptable layers as per their wish. In both the cases they are met with severe disappointments.

Those who are mature enough, or learns the hard way with failures, in some cases, more than one failure, understands that it is wrong to “Expect”. Its even more wrong to “Expect” the other one to “Change”. It is only wise to calculate, if they are ready to live with those unacceptable layers, and more of the hidden layers. Whether they are confident that they can take enough from the layers they are in love with, and ignore or adjust with the layers that will be visible in times to come, even if they are unacceptable. And those who knows how to adjust themselves with those unacceptable layers, and yet make the other one comfortable are better off. And those handful of pairs, where this happens from both the ends live in bliss.

The power is in “your” hand not with the other one to make the change.

Bristi! – Rain !

Bristi mane –
sheola makha ichche
smritir soNda gondho
na lekha kobita
bondho phoner ringtone
bus-stand-e bheja
premer dirghoswas
bheja balishe golpo
ek mutho kanna
jhilik mara asha
megher bhalobasa

Rain is –
Damp mossy wishes
Wet fragrance of memories
Unwritten poems
Dead phone’s ringtone
Soaking at a bus stand
Wanton sighs of love
Chatter over wet pillow
Fist-full of tear
Flashes of hope
Dark cloud’s love

Haiku’s of June 12

It always used to rain on 16th June
First rain of the season;
Seasons have changed.

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Shadowy still water of a green pond
A frog jumps in;
Ripple of memories spreads.

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 I remember her – Summer,

And Autumn and Winter;
Rain has promised to come this year