Scribbles

On Sunday morning, I woke up to fresh breeze slipping from the room’s door. As I walked towards the balcony my face brightened with rain showers. Well, quite poetic beginning of Sunday. Ever since I have started living in hostel, my morning thoughts are not about what I would do this day but what would I eat this day. Food is the biggest issue. In morning, in afternoon and in night (I skipped evening intentionally.) ,I only think what would I eat. Sundays are even worse –you have to cook, clean, do dishes and in between lay on the bed and stare at ceiling fan aimlessly and mindlessly After breakfast,I decided I cook Dal ,chawal . Easy to cook and digest and eat. My eyes looked at the translucent box with purple lid which has cereals in it. I tried getting over the food, for a while and resumed reading The Caravan’s culture issue. Bliss it is to read it. But I could not ignore the translucent box with purple lid for a long, getting over laziness I decided to move to kitchen to rins

Roads that taught  you to walk ,run  and dance in fun. Roads where you  lost yourself and found again they were always there  when you fell . In childhood: in rain  you made your paper boats, & after flying your  paper planes rested on these roads. In teenage:Roads where you walked in love; and also when you walked 'out of love'. some walked with you on them and later  they left and went but roads taught you  to walk alone when everything was 'done'. In winters,on them you basked in sunshine You walked in moonlight on hot summer days. lost your old thoughts like old leaves in autumn and started fresh . Rainy season gave  you chance  to walk,to peddle and dance. Roads when you  walk on them after long time you can hear the echoes of everything you did. Echoes of laughter.Cries. Echoes of childhood delight. Foot imprints might no longer  be there but memory will stay right there.

World celebrates 2 nd October Mourns on 30th January Nobody remembers when I was born and when I died Because I didnot write As I sit on chair and rest my head on the wooden table, my eyes rest on the almirah that has more than thousand books on Mahatma-some are written by him and then there are endless writing by the people who wanted to know and understand the life of Mahatma. There are collected and preserved pages from newspaper and magazines of anniversary special editions–for 2 nd October and 30th January that discussed various perspectives and narratives on life of Mahatma. He indeed was a great personality; he did what nobody could have done. His messages of non violence and truth are the legacy for the world to follow. (It’s different thing altogether that world leaders though blow trumpets of peace but prepare for war all the time). But as I read books and history, I find, I only play foil to Mahatma. I am invisible all the time. I hav