I hated nostalgia,
for I was still a child
and what of child and the past,
and what of child and the future?
In my starry night,
I lapped in the moonlit sea
where wise turtles swam
and a bright meadow of stars spake,
of a vibrating universe
and secrets that evaded men,
but I like to think–they came close,
oh so close to me.
And when I came out of the sea
they thought it was the water-broke
and I was still a baby,
for I could not tell them what the stars said
and thus language, you’ve again
I make words
they unmake me,
when I am told that I am only them.
It is a terrible thing to live without language
and to be told,
it is the way of life.
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.