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I wish I could follow them
your million footprints,
the ones left in the sands
the ones embedded in the moss
the ones at the middle of the mountain
the place where you turned around
I would count them all
your million footprints,
they are little breaths
that kept you through the seasons
they are little thoughts
that made up your worlds
I want to walk alongside them
your million footprints,
and see the places you saw
meet the people you met
do the things you did
live the days you lived
I would collect each one
your million footprints,
but you have walked too much
and rested so little
that a thousand lifetimes aren't enough
to trace them all
your million footprints
He first laid eyes on her on a sultry, windless night when the world around him seemed still yet brimming with expectation as if something extraordinary were about to happen. He saw her standing there silvered in shimmery pale moonlight, her body poised perfectly, her face finely featured and exquisite. He felt mediocre and tried his best to mask his commonplace demeanour, but he could not stop the words that tumbled clumsily from his lips. He did not expect her to react, much less reciprocate, but he knew he had to profess what he felt deep in his heart. His coat may have been torn and his shoes dirty, but his love for her was immaculate. When he was done, he stared deeply into her unblinking, beautiful eyes, searching for something...anything. And then he thought he saw a mere hint of amused affection and he knew that for her to ever consider being with a man like him, he had to woo her in the most spectacular way he could. He visited her every night at the old museum, the place where they had first met. He sang songs of love, recited odes of longing and wrote volumes dedicated to her ethereal beauty. But she spoke not a word and with every passing night, the hope in his heart grew dimmer. On the night of the fire, he was on his way to tell her he would not be visiting her anymore, he couldn’t bear the heartache. When he saw the leaping flames engulf the museum, he did not think twice, but lunged inside the burning building and searched desperately for her. The smell of melting candles flooded his nostrils as he stepped over the pools of liquefied wax. Everywhere he turned, he was met with the sight of distorted, mangled statues, their arms and legs melding grotesquely with each other. He found her lying on the ground, half buried under the charred debris. She was covered in soot, but still as beautiful as her sculptor had intended her to be. He lifted her in his arms and carried her home.
He put everything he had in that little box
All that was sweet, all that was her
The ribbon she wore when they first met
The movie tickets he bought that day
The silver earring she had thought she lost
The button that fell when they embraced
He put everything he had in that little box
Bittersweet reminders of what would never be
The flowers he bought, but did not send
The velvet case with a solitaire ring
The letter in which she bade goodbye
The photographs he ripped apart that day
He gave everything he had to that little box
And it took and took, until there was nothing left
On the thick golden blanket of scorching sand, a thirsty camel roamed. In the distance he spotted a lone cactus. After a small exchange of words, he realized that the cactus was thirsty too. Like the camel, the cactus had exhausted its store of water. The cactus knew of a tiny oasis a few miles from there and since it couldn’t walk, the camel offered it a ride on his back. They wandered for miles and miles, but there was still no sign of the oasis. The camel began to wonder if the cactus had tricked him. At the same time the cactus became suspicious and wondered if the camel had planned to eat it. Both strongly opposed the accusations and were most offended that each had doubted the other. A little while later, they came across a solitary traveller, who informed them that there was no oasis, only desert as far as the eye could see. He had with him a small flask of water, tucked safely in his pocket, but asked the camel and cactus not to drink from it as he still had miles to travel and needed every drop he had. But he did offer to give them shelter in his tent until the morning. The two readily agreed but as they followed the traveller they could not help but gaze yearningly at the flask. The camel frowned at the cactus’s lecherous stares and suspected that if he was not vigilant, the cactus would steal the flask in no time. The cactus too had seen the desire in the camel’s eyes and knew that the minute he turned away, the flask would be gone. The kind traveller welcomed them into his tent and even provided them with a blanket for shelter against the harsh winds of the nights. Sleep came quickly and heavily to the traveller but the camel and cactus tossed and turned. They had seen the traveller place the flask in the middle of the tent and it was well within the reach of both.
When daylight came, neither the camel nor the cactus could be found. A day later, they met again. After an awkward greeting, the cactus apologised to the camel for not thanking him that night. The camel confessed that it was he who should be doing the thanking. Somewhere in the distance, a thirsty traveller wandered deliriously across the hot, rippled sands, his insides burning from the poison he had been forced to drink. True to their word, the camel and the cactus had not taken even a sip from the flask; they had only ensured that the traveller had drunk his fill.
On the shell-encrusted sands, sat a man lost in deep thought. It was a pleasant summer evening, the sky a beautiful shade of blue and the breeze flirty and cool. The man was savouring his last few moments of freedom. It wouldn’t be too long before the police tracked him down. Fraud, swindler, thief…yes, he was many things, but a neglectful father was not one of them. Even while he spent the rest of his life in a prison cell, his daughter would be able to go on living a comfortable life. ‘My father, the embezzler’, unfortunately that’s how she would always remember him. He sighed heavily and looked up at the sky. Probably the next time he stared at the sky, he would be doing it from within the electric-fenced, barb-wired, heavily guarded confines of the prison yard. Ah freedom! How easily he had taken it for granted, until today when it was at stake. He took a deep breath of salty air. But how free had he really been? Trapped in a failing marriage, grief stricken at the possibility of losing his daughter for good, burdened with the guilt of his criminal ways. He could almost hear the police sirens now. He could still run, but for how long? No, he would not put up a fight this time. He had known it would come to this sooner or later. It was the correct thing to do and he would be doing something right for the first time in his life. The sirens were louder now. He stood up and dusted himself. He was ready to surrender. He raised his hands in the air and waited for the police to find him. They found him in the water a day later, face down and bloated, but finally free.
The aroma of freshly baked bread is a comforting one. But tonight Miguel Paes felt far from comforted. He wiped his sweaty forehead on his shirt sleeve and pedalled faster. He had been delivering bread across the village for nine long years and not once had he been this late. There were only three bread loaves leftover today. In all the rush, he had miscalculated and in addition to being late, he was bringing home less bread for dinner. He knew that his wife and daughter would be terribly hungry by now. Ever since he had started working at the Rosa Bakery, Mr. Rosa had treated him like a brother and often talked to him about his personal life. It was the Rosa’s wedding anniversary today and Mr. Rosa had insisted on telling Miguel about his plans for the evening. As usual Miguel had been half-listening. Mr. Rosa was probably with his wife on the deck of a fancy cruise ship by now, giving her the special surprise gift he had been gushing about. And here Miguel couldn’t even give his wife a decent meal. He swerved shakily to the right as his front tyre hit a stone. He stuck out his right leg just in time and managed to keep the cycle from toppling over. But the lid of his bread rack came loose and the three bread loaves now lay covered in dirt at the side of the road. Cursing, he placed his cycle on its stand and picked up the loaves. He was going to put them back in the rack when he realized that one of the loaves was lumpy. Miguel was slightly surprised because he knew that Mr. Rosa was a stickler for perfection and inspected each and every loaf before sending it off for delivery. As he dusted the loaf, he felt something hard beneath the lumps. Curious, he tore the loaf apart and then gasped. Nestled inside the doughy fluffiness of the bread was a beautiful necklace made of white gold with a stunning key-shaped diamond pendant. Mrs. Rosa did not get her special surprise gift that night and Miguel’s wife got much more than a decent meal.
The inside of the top hat was dark and cool, its satiny black lining soft and faintly smelling of clove tobacco. The rabbit stifled a yawn. The act was taking longer and longer every day. Outside, the magician was speaking, his voice booming and echoing through the large auditorium. The audience clapped continuously. The rabbit assumed that the magician must have begun his card trick because he heard another voice on stage. It was a young female voice. This segment of the act usually dragged on. Card tricks involved a great deal of interaction with the audience. The rabbit yawned widely, licked his lips and leaned back against the soft lining. Soon he was fast asleep. A few minutes later, he felt a sharp tug on his right ear. It was the magician signaling him to get ready for the finale. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, sat up straight and waited for the magician to chant his string of nonsense words. He was suddenly aware that all was silent. He couldn’t hear the magician and neither could he hear the audience. And then there was a drum roll and a velvet curtain began to lift. The rabbit found himself facing a large crowd of people. They were cheering and clapping. He bowed low, took off his hat and turned it over to show the audience that it was empty. Then with a flourish he reached inside and pulled out something…something large, bulbous even, with a sheet of oily matted hair and shaggy black eyebrows. It was a head and it looked displeased. The smell of clove tobacco emanating from it was overwhelming. The rabbit felt another sharp tug on his ear and awoke with a start. It was the same dream every day.
Ben Tucker always began his mornings with a trip to the cemetery. He would carry along a foldable chair, a flask of tea, two cups and a jar of whole wheat biscuits. The cemetery was a ten minute drive from his house. At the cemetery, he would head over to the grave at the farthest right and prop up his chair beside it. He would toss away the dried twigs and leaves and flatten the mud with the palm of his hand. Then he would place the cups on the soil and pour tea into them. Lifting a cup with one hand and helping himself to a biscuit with the other, he would lean back and soak in the morning sun. Then with a little nod at the grave, he would take a long sip. He would close his eyes and imagine that his wife was sitting beside him instead of lying in a wooden box several feet below. It had been their daily ritual for 52 long years. Every morning of every day, they would sit at the table and sip their tea in silence. After so many years of being together, there had been nothing new to tell each other. The sounds of sipping were the only sounds that broke the silence. He couldn’t bear to have his tea alone now. As he sat by her grave, he remembered that last morning they sat at the table having tea. He had surprised her by making the tea himself. He remembered how she had reached out to wipe away the biscuit crumbs from his mouth. He remembered how she had gripped her cup tightly with trembling slender fingers. He remembered her expression as she had taken her first sip of tea and realized that it would be her last.
Here's a link to Chuck Brown's website which has some great stuff for kids. He was kind enough to narrate three of my stories and he's done a fantastic job with it! Click the links below to listen to them.
The old hotel stood precariously atop a cliff. It swayed gently from side to side, the frothy ocean to its right and the city to its left. It was as if it couldn’t decide which way to go. The pistachio-green paint was peeling from its walls and its window panes had turned a dirty brown. It would have been shut down years ago, had it not been for its only guest. She occupied the hotel’s biggest room…which had also been the grandest at one point in time. She had stayed on in the hotel even after all the other guests had left. She never asked for room service. She never needed housekeeping. She hardly ever stepped out of her room. The hotel owner had lingered on even after he had officially shut shop. He had not wanted to leave her alone. He had also not sold the hotel for he knew that she would have nowhere else to go. He waited and waited for her to make other arrangements. But she had found a home in the hotel and it was where she wanted to live forever. So he simply left. The years had passed on, the seasons had changed and the village around the hotel had turned into a city. But the old hotel never lost its persistent guest. She continued to roam through the large empty corridors, humming softly to herself. Soon the old hotel would fall prey to the passage of time. Its foundation would weaken and its walls would give in to the waves that repeatedly lashed against them. It would crumble to the earth and its pieces would be swept away by the sea. But it’s one and only guest would still not leave. Memory would sit beneath the water amidst the swollen wooden bed posts and broken chandeliers. She would reach out her arms and try to gather the faded picture frames and torn curtains. She would hold the pieces of the old hotel close to her chest until someone found them again someday. She would eternally remain the Fare Well Hotel’s most loyal guest.
There are paths and there are turns. There are trails and there dead-ends. There are escape routes and there are crossroads. Which way then is the way to happy?
Happy is different destinations for different people. For her, it was an ever-transient land of lovely. A land she sometimes forgot the way to. A land somewhere atop a rocky weathered mountain. An upward spiral staircase climb that often left her breathless and dizzy, but one she considered completely worth it when she reached the top. Standing down below, it always seems too treacherous a climb. That’s impossible; she often found herself saying. No one can climb that high, she often rationalized. But yet tiny moving specks sprinkled over the vast mountain of trial and tribulation, told her that there are a few that have indeed risked the journey. If they could do it, so could she, she rationalized again.
And so she began the fateful climb. Huffing and puffing, tired and out-of-breath, she lodged her feet one at a time into the tiny nooks and crannies of hope.
This last year and the many years before that had all been an upward climb for her. But gravity had been a friend in disguise. The consequences of falling flat were never pleasant. They made her put in that little bit of extra effort that kept her from tumbling back down to where she had begun. Then of course, there were the kind souls along the way, ready to offer her a helping hand when she slipped, or pour her a drink of water when her throat was parched. All fellow-climbers on their way to happy.
She trudged forward, hoisting herself higher and higher. With every step she took, the air became cleaner and the view got clearer. Smiles came easier and her baggage became lighter. But still happy was not in sight. Did she take a wrong turn, she wondered.
“Which way to happy?” she asked the nearest fellow-climber.
“Happy is at the foot of the mountain, that’s where it’s always been,” he said.
With a slight confusion, a wee bit of disappointment and unwavering anticipation she began her downward climb. Dizzy and breathless again, but this time with eagerness and excitement. Like the downward curve a roller coaster takes, the kind that makes your stomach do a double flip. She skidded on the steep slope, skipped a few steps and took a free fall to the bottom. She landed with a soft thud at the exact spot where she had begun.
A signboard read,
“Welcome to happy!
We hope you’ve had an insightful journey!”
There was something glinting in the sand on the beach that day. I picked it up and to my surprise I found that it was a little rainbow. It had all the colours a regular rainbow has, and it brought that same smile to my face that a regular rainbow brings, and it looked completely magical just as a regular rainbow always does. But this was no regular rainbow. A regular rainbow would not be lying here on the sand instead of the sky, and it would not come out of its secret hiding place unless there was a chance meeting between the rain and the sun. And this one was too tiny, almost pocket-sized. It could have been a piece of glass or maybe a piece of coral...but it looked like a rainbow to me. And so I picked it up anyway, for a rainbow, however small or large, is not something you leave lying around in the sand!
My life changed the day I found my little pocket rainbow.
I was on my way home, when it began to rain very heavily. It seemed like a thunderstorm and I still had a long way to cover before I reached home. I decided to take a short cut and took a muddy path that passed by the river and then connected back to the main road which would lead me home. As I was passing by the river, the downpour became stronger and a sudden powerful gust of wind made me lose my balance and I slipped on the wet rocks near the river bank. The next thing I knew I was sliding down the loose pebbles and heading straight into the river. I tried to grab on to something, but all that came in my hands was grass and soil. Soon I was thrashing helplessly against the forceful current in the river. I knew how to swim, but my tiny limbs were no match for the raging waves. I tried my best to move my body to the side, where there were better chances of perhaps finding a tree or a rock that I could cling on to. My clothes hung heavy on my body and I could feel something piercing against my leg. I tried to reach into my pocket to ease the discomfort, but could not even move an inch without the water current pushing against me. I realised that it was probably my pocket rainbow that was poking against my leg. The piercing continued till I felt as if it would tear into my skin. The frothy water stung my face, and a huge ripple lifted me up and pulled me along until I my body gave up fighting and I lost consciousness.When I woke up, I was lying on the river bank, covered in dirt, with muscles that ached with the slightest twitch. The sun had come up and the rain had eased into a gentle drizzle. I tried to stand up, but something pulled me down. It was the keychain I always keep attached to the loop of my jeans with the hanging keys tucked into my pocket. The keys were now poking out through a hole in my pocket and were entangled with the thick hanging roots of a banyan tree. That’s what prevented me from being carried away by the current. I untangled the keys from the roots and examined the hole in my pocket. I remembered that the pocket rainbow had been piercing into my leg while I was in the river. That’s what caused the hole. I looked around for it, I searched everywhere, but just couldn’t find it. The sun began to shine brighter now. But the rain hadn’t left yet. I looked up at the sky and spotted a rainbow stretching across the sky, colourful and happy.
I wondered if my little pocket rainbow had turned into a regular rainbow after all.
Take me away for a trip around the sky, take me away to that palace in the clouds. Let me skip over the sunbeams and soar with the birds, let me feel the wind in my hair as I look down upon the earth;
Big Blue Balloon, fly me up and away
Big Blue Balloon, make my dreams come true
I hold on to your string so tight, just waiting for you to take flight
Let’s wander over the world so wide, let’s see all its fascinating sights, let’s discover a faraway land and leave our mark upon the sand.
Big Blue Balloon, take me where I’ve never been
Big Blue Balloon, show me things I’ve never seen
I hold on to your string so tight, just waiting for you to take flight
When night falls and the sky is dark, let me catch that falling star, let me reach out into the velvety black and kiss the moon goodnight.
Big Blue Balloon, gently take me home
Big Blue Balloon, stay by my side through the night
For tomorrow is another day, another adventure, another flight.
The boy was soaking wet. He was standing in a puddle of water. His clothes hung heavy on his body. Suddenly, a sharp razor-like slither of white light blazed above his head and a gravelly rumbling echoed in his ears. Then came another downpour. He pulled his jacket tightly around his body and sneezed noisily.
“This is fun!” chuckled Nimbus, his fluffy bluish-grey body laden with icy cold water. He puffed up his cheeks, inhaled deeply and blew hard! Again, the boy below was showered with rain!
“Oh, it’s great being a rain cloud!” cried Nimbus. He clapped his hands and did a little dance. Thunder echoed through the skies and lightning flashed all around as he rumbled and tumbled, the rain gushing out of him like a giant waterfall!
The dishevelled little girl peered from behind her father’s leg. The signal had just turned red. Her coal-black eyes scanned the waiting cars. Her father began to dash between the vehicles, a string of beaded necklaces in his hand. “Only 5 rupees! All colours available! First class bead jewellery! Buy now!” he called out. A trio of young girls called for him and began to look through the necklaces.
The girl was left standing alone. She brushed a strand of grimy hair off her face. She shuddered a little. The evening air was cold and her tattered frock was so thin, her tiny bony silhouette was easily apparent through it.
Her wandering eyes suddenly lit up. She had spotted her target. It was a brand new auto rickshaw. Glossy yellow and black with soft sofa-style seats. On the right side of the rickshaw, just above the side view mirror was a shiny silver truck air horn, the kind that had been recently banned in the country for causing noise pollution. The driver was too busy peeping into the neighbouring BMW at the female in the driver’s seat.
In the auto rickshaw’s passenger seat was a young man. He was sitting upright, his laptop bag beside him and his blackberry phone in hand. Traffic signals always made him uncomfortable. The minute the vehicle stopped, he knew he would be accosted by beggars. And they would start touching him with their grubby hands, crocodile tears running down their hollow faces. And he would be forced to give them a rupee or two just so that they would go away and leave him alone.
He noticed the little girl speeding towards him. She was gaining ground rapidly. Her face was filled with determination. She didn’t have that wretched pitiable look that beggars deliberately put on to invoke sympathy. He shifted in his seat and clutched his phone tightly. She could be one of those traffic signal thieves who quickly snatch your belongings just as the signal turned green. He held his laptop bag on his lap. She was running towards him now. He stiffened and held on to his belongings so tight, his knuckles started turning white. He braced himself for some kind of impact.
The signal was about to change and the vehicles began honking. Just as the rickshaw driver stepped on the accelerator, the little girl jumped, reached for the silver air horn and pressed it with all her might!
“Pommmp! Pommmp!
The horn bellowed noisily!
The girl clapped her hands and squealed in glee! Giggling and skipping she dodged between the moving cars and made her way back to her father, ignoring the irritated abuses of the auto driver.
The young passenger breathed a sign of relief and loosened up. When the irony of what had happened sunk in, he began laughing. He laughed and laughed until the rickshaw driver turned back, and seeing him started laughing too!
Back at the signal, the girl went back to her begging. She tried her best to look forlorn, but she just couldn’t wipe that smile off her face!
The Copperpod tree was in full bloom. Vibrant and vivacious it swayed gracefully from side to side, sending down a shower of copper yellow petals.
“Gosh, you’re beautiful!” exclaimed the other trees.
The Copperpod tree stood up straight and rustled its leaves, clearly enjoying the attention.
A gust of wind blew through the forest causing all the tress to bend westwards.
“Oh,no, my flowers!” cried the Copperpod tree, trying its best to stand still.
Another gust of wind sent the trees swaying the other way.
“That’s enough!” said the Copperpod tree, as a bunch of flowers fell from its top most branches, “I’ve just about had enough!”
All the other trees turned to look.
“Now look here Mr. Wind, I refuse to dance to your tunes anymore! I wish to sway by myself! Not the way you want me to!” said the Copperpod tree firmly.
A gentle whisper broke out among the trees.
The wind stopped blowing. The din of dead silence rang through the forest.
0 Comments on Windswept as of 1/1/1900
(Soul searching!)
Travelling in a capsule, space and time were insignificant entities
Until I burst forth, into the unknown
A blanket of hope breaking my fall
The baggage I bore, weighed heavy
I watched wide-eyed, taking in the new surroundings
Amazed at how much there was to explore
Places to see, people to meet, experiences to live
I had much to look forward to
Unbound by inhibition, the possibilities now were infinite
Throwing caution to the winds was the best thing I had ever done
This was going to be one astounding ride! , I thought
As my body hit the surface of the vast grey ocean
And I plunged towards my final destination
