Saturday, November 24, 2012

The Delhi Chapter : Page 47


The next day, I woke up early again.
And took my time, own and sweet, to get turned out for the day.
[ As I was always comfortable doing. ]

So I poured myself in the direction of my balcony.
And felt a rich, golden slant of sunshine.
Trickling in to warm me up.

A November morning.
A thick, cool breeze.
A jar of crackers.
A cup of tea.

I sat cross-legged.
With a sun-burnt dream.

That, of becoming a writer.
Some day.

Like a paper rocket softly singeing the sky, my thoughts somehow always tried to mount up.
Ride the winds, and fly.

It has a strange congruence with neatly stacked words.
A rhythm of notes; now low, now high.

****

As I got dressed and started walking through the service road to take the tube, I looked up at the sky.
There was this quest (as it were), to reach the top of the world, through the crosshatched veil of trees and shrubs.

I started thinking, for the first time in a while.
Of the merry-go-round of a childhood gone by.

Of my mother.
And dad, of course.

My parents and I, have always been thick.

And when I was small, my relations often used to ask me these two chronic questions:
-  "So who are you closer to? Mum or dad?"
-  "Who do you think you look like?"

[ Questions, I never tried to answer. ]

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