children

Down the memory lane

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What I most like about life is, glum yellow bulbs which seem to stay still in the nights of turbulent traffic-jam noises and pub brawls. These are the wavelengths of silences which divert my line of thoughts from a nostalgic topic of red scarves to a luminous frothy texture left by yellow bulbs on papery walls.

Because honestly, I want to write about red scarves. Not too beautiful…but rather corroded by friction, yet wrapped around my bubble head like a lady’s costume…beautiful red scarves. That was when I was in fifth standard and had been pushed by a classmate, for whom I had made best friend proposal cards in the third grade. She had thrown them in dustbin without the naivety of a 7 year old girl. And now she had pushed me off the stairs, not deliberately as much as my mind tries to picture it.

I was cooking some rotis when the smell of hot napkins (they help you shape the bread) filled me and suddenly I was walking down in the crowd of amazed children, hiding my face with one red scarf, just after my classmate had pushed me off.

It was an enthralling time. I am not really talking to you. I am right there on the stairs. I remember the cemented side-support so smooth against the crowd of children who surrounded me with a fuzzy feeling of summer-special lemonades. I shed my body and I am a high-spirited soul of a small person who is pushed down the stairs. Like scientists of a bees, I’m swarmed with questions and speculations . You see I had developed this huge bump on my head (like in cartoons) and half of the small people thought it was a pimple that’ll explode with all the grossness you can imagine. Without a doubt, that is not a good advice to give to anyone suffering from concussion and so I started bawling my eyes out.

Such precious little people, even though strangers. How can children nurse children? Most important case studies ever. But then what about the adults? I was safely transported to my home where I found out that my mother had no clue about the swelling either. She never had a hateful classmate as it goes. And so she administered my bump by heating it off through the napkins and putting them on my head.

Next day I was a school hero; if you may allow me to glorify my memory. A seven year old girl with a red eye, the mighty one with little children myths as a halo around her head. The centre of everyone. Is it sad? I miss the love.

The charming bulb calls to me like a moth. After-life is a beautiful idea. 

Children of the mind

 

Come close
Knock
Come closer,
No more.

Do you know when they opened up the children’s park,
they had a war
with little children running in circles–
trick’o treat!
Do you know,
I have those little children
Running over my forehead
bleeding away

What a Syrian war–
trick’o treat!

I usually write slow songs
Otherwise my fingers pluck themselves away
And I’ve to look for them over the ceilings

‘Ugh you are so dramatic!’

Bang Bang I go
into the moon
my hands fly, so does my words
Vis-a-vis my temple,
where little–
monstrous children play,
deluding
the writer and his muse.

Little Wild Child

Little wild child

Sits on the swing

And gently rocks himself.

 

Back and forth—

The words won’t spill out

He thought,

It is but wasteful devouring of air and soil.

Was he you or were you he?

This cruel little third person–

He sees the little child swing

And then,

He sees him seeing the little child swing

Back and forth—

 

Back and forth—

I’m sawn

I thought I was moving

But the moment you saw me,

I knew I had to eat everything

I had to stop,

running after you…

Back and forth—

 

I guess,

It is the Black-hole paradox.

 

*Black hole paradox refers to the quantum physics theory which speculates that in a black hole, all physical states dissolve into one. I don’t particularly like physics, but then, who doesn’t like mysterious space theories.