A tiny hand towards me….

He was crawling near my chair, I could see his tiny fingers trying to get hold of me. The red sweater that I was knitting for him astonished him, and he pulled the wool and tried to run on the ground. I couldn’t resist myself and held him in my arms, “My little Arav, do you want to have cashews?”, he denied and started playing with my big round spectacles, I wished I could cook some cookies for him which my son loved to have when he was a kid. And suddenly he dropped a glass bar kept on the table near my chair and they broke, I was trying to catch hold of him and he jumped from the chair and the shattered pieces of the glass pricked his tiny feet. He started weeping, I ran towards him and slipped, I couldn’t stand on my legs, but, I held him in my arms, pricked out the piece of glass in his feet. His voice had then reached my son and Roshnee, my daughter-in-law, they came running towards Arav, Roshnee pulled Arav from me and applied some ointment on his feet. My son managed in making me sit on the bed, gave me a glass of water, and then went for Arav, trying to make him smile.

Nobody noticed I had had a jerk in my arm. I couldn’t move my arm. They got so busy all together, i felt helpless. I could see my son happy with his small family, was I part of it, I thought, and the night passed by. The next morning again he came crawling towards me, I was in my sleep, when I felt a small tiny hand trying to touch my hurt arm. With his tiny fingers, he tried to relieve me, and I felt connected, connected to life. My son couldn’t connect him with me, but my grandson could. A lot is taught to me even at the ending stage of my life, we urge for something and get upset on not receiving it but there is something which would surprisingly give you much more happiness. The crux of what I felt when those tiny, caring fingers relieved me can not be expressed. It weighed more than the despair I felt when my own son couldn’t feel my pain. Life is unpredictable, don’t mourn on what is being taken from you, but try to grasp and get hold of the tiny hand that wish to ease your pain and bring a small smile on your face.

My ebbulient days…

“Had I lost you?” I would often think when I would be sitting alone in the cold chamber that was once supposed to be our room. It was a cozy room then, but today it is as cold as me, inactive, and dormant. I can feel us together but can’t touch you; I can memorize our beautiful past but can’t see our future together. And sometime I run towards you try to catch you, but you are volatile, you come to me make me remember those nights of ours and then disappears. The gap between us has widened in reality but there is no gap between us in my dreams. And I am unable to synchronize the reality and my dreams, where do I exist, where am I supposed to be. Have I lost me too?

Long are the days and short are the nights, when I can feel you. The whole day passes watching my son shutting the door in anger, quarrelling with his wife on small issues, not having his breakfast just because of his heavy schedule. I feel de-energized then, I can’t get up from my bed and cook his favorite ‘rajma chawal’. I can’t help resolve their pity issues, as they don’t want my involvement in those ‘husband wife things’. But how can I resist from not interfering, he is my son, he is sad, I have never let that happen when he was more of mine than a husband. But its life, whatever I had I am losing, my husband, my son, and therefore I myself. Let this entire end, Oh Lord!!! Lest they stay blessed and and prosper!!!!

Red is my color…

Red is my colour,

To make you understand, I endeavour,
Try to analyse and try to favour.
It is not just a thought, but an attempt,
To treat ill minds that are curable.

When I was born, I was put in a red cradle,
I grew up watching the red faces for a girl-children in anger,
Red became my favourite,
But I never knew,
That someday I would be cadged in my own red world.

Red lover I was,
All Love I lost,
When I got my first red spots,
What pain it caused only I know,
When I realized, Red determined my ‘class’

I grew up then, ignoring red,
At night when I found my bedsheet wet,
All day it ached,
All day it stained,
And in agony I would, turn insane.

At times I would think,
Does red symbolize beauty or pain?
But when I got tied, in the sacred knot,
I found transposition of my whole process of thought,
When from dirty to gold, Red crowned my bridal course.

As I grew old,
All my desires vanished and got cold,
My mind still in a dilemma,
What more than colour in itself could it unfold?
What was the secret behind its truth untold?

Is Red for beauty, or is it for beast?
It interests me now to know the least,
All I know is that Red is a Transition,
From anguish to pride
Red is a sensation.

Red is my colour, as it is meant to be,
No matter what the world thinks it to be,
No love lost, one Love found,
Red symbolizes life and also our wounds,
I speak it aloud with life profound,
That red is my colour, and this is what I’ve found.