Colleagues

 

What are you to me?

What am I to you?

Strangers travelling together

Friends as long as journey lasts

Then mirages dissolving with time

 

Stammer

He stammers, not from fear though. He wonders how thoughts are so eloquent in his mind, and yet slip and stutter out of his mouth. He wonders how his confidence and his triumph over a simple defect by his maker is masked by his voice on the phone.


He wants not to be judged. And even you, unknown reader, want to shout at the unfairness of it all.

But he? He just smiles, and picks up the phone to take yet another telephonic interview.

Mother

With age comes a certain degree of mellowness to one's character. I begin to understand her better, she and her contributions, working silently at home, having things magically done, her anger and may be sometimes rude words, her behavior, her love , her life.. I begin to understand it all.

And then I close my eyes to fall into peaceful sleep, a sleep disturbed by dreams. I dream that she is gone. I dream of the pain of realization of her worth. I dream of missing her, of missing having done something for her. I wake up in a rush.

And there she is, not smiling, but boiling milk for my morning tea. As she always is...

The sixty year old rebel

She sits there at that favorite time of the day, children off to work, grandchildren packed off to school. She sits with her tired legs stretched out in front of the TV. She has her faithful coffee tumbler next to her, empty of course.

She is channel browsing and happens upon one channel, where an old man is giving instructions on food habbits for diabetics.

"I hate it when I am told what to do. In fact, if someone tells what to do, I will never do it....just never will. I could read up something on the paper or something like that, and decide on my own. But never in my life will I be told what to do. Never!", She tells with a calmness that masks the fiereceness of her words.

I smile inside, just nodding outside. I think of her as the sixty year old rebel, of how all these years have not worn out her fiestyness, and I cannot stop smiling thinking about it even now.

This time yesterday

This time yesterday
I had a different worry

Yet today, I have something else,
at the back of my Head

This time yesterday,
I fervently prayed out of love

Today, I want to invoke
God's name, but stop to think

That today, I have what I prayed for
and at this time yesterday,
I couldn't have asked for more.

And keep my lips shut
And put my hands to work

Wrtiers!

We are never short of words,
yet silence is our language.
Our words, untouched by the tongue,
but preserved for eternity..

We craft stories from thin air,
sometimes from observation,
sometimes from inspiration,
sometimes simply, by seeing what was not there..

We feel, hold thoughts close to our heart,
and then we pen them down,
letting loose that burden of thoughts,
yet it flows beautifully!

We paint with words,
in our little corner of the world,
hardly making noise,
yet being heard!

Our though bubbles,
filled with words,
erupt out..
in so many colours!

We are alomost invisible,
or may be lost in thought!
But we do exist,
and continue to do,
what we love to do,
Write!!