Grim Reaper and the Merry Mormon

Oh how lovely were the days when the sky wore azure drapes, and the soft tufts of silky clouds floated far far away... mused the merry Mormon as she fluttered about the jasmines, flaunting her vivid crimson motifs through the greens.

From morning to night, and night to morning it rained for days on end. Why? Did anyone ever do something to invoke the wrath... of the god of rain?

The jasmine trees, her favorite kind, are withering away. The lush green hues on the foliage are shrouded in a burnt brown, with big and small windows opening up here and there... everywhere. The leaves are dying, the twigs are dying... the white flowers speckled with dots of darkest black.. are also dying. Yet the merry Mormon continued to flutter until she saw not too far a bouquet of flowers. There sat on tender leaves and buds a bunch of milky whites, bundled in petals of fives, awaiting her arrival with open arms.

The merry Mormon stooped and was about to perch... in glee. But alas.. she knew not... not till the last tenth of a second... that she dived into the scythe of the Grim Reaper.. who beckoned!

"No! Let me go! oh mighty knight of the netherworld.. spare my life. Time's not right. I've lots to do..  lots to see.. lots to say... to my friends.. oh yes.. friends and family and relatives.. everyone's waiting for me.. they'll miss me.. that is.. if I am not forgotten. How terrible of me.. I lost them.. and the sight of their trail. The orchards and paddy fields.. they summoned me and I fluttered away. The lullabies of moms.. the mirth of kids... and the songs of bubbly birds and busy bees.. they summoned me.. and I fluttered away. I laughed.. and sang.. and... oh wait.. the knight of Hades.. can't you wait.. just one more day.. even one second's still fine. Please l..e..t.. m..e.. l..i..v..e..."

Her voice died... but the merry Mormon did not give up.. on her minute mortal soul.. and thus she fought.. with all her might.. until... someone heard her plea.. and intervened.

A while passed. She blinked and opened her eyes. Am I alive? Or am I dead? She couldn't tell. Everything around was glowing.. in yellows and greens. Maybe I'm in heaven, or am I in hell? Have I done good throughout my life.. or was it bad..? She couldn't tell. It was a mix.. that she knew.. she was not white.. not black.. but grey.

So where am I? She lifted her head, with all her might and looked around. The Grim Reaper was not in sight.. not another soul was in sight.

Yet there she was lying on a lush green bed.. with one wing tattered and torn.. giving unbearable pain. She breathed heavy and slow.. yet she was a merry Mormon.. which she never forgot. She was alive.. and that was enough. Alive.. for another second, a minute, a day and still more. She sighed.. a sigh of relief and closed her eyes and fell into a deep sleep.






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The shots feature a Common Mormon that I was trying to shoot (with my cam) in mid May last year, and unexpectedly saw that a Grim Reaper a.k.a. praying mantis 'capturing' it first! I never knew these guys would attack or eat butterflies, so I snapped a couple of shots. Then again as a policy I don't interrupt meals of others - be it bugs, animals or humans. But this time I felt it wasn't fair as I assumed the mantis was a vegetarian and thought it might be eating tiny bugs occasionally for extra proteins.

And so on a whim I intervened and rescued the butterfly from the clutches of the mantis. The poor thing swirled and perched on the ground, but this time she caught the eyes of our curious cats! -__- So I had to pick it (well it hopped and got on to the yellow bell flower branch on its own, when I placed it next to her) and then I kept the branch (with the butterfly) on a jasmine tree. It rained again after sometime but I hope she managed to fly away, as her other wing was left intact.

Lucky shot or not?

Moments of photography... from a newbie's point of view.

A lucky shot: While snapping macro shots of flora, I found this 1cm or so sized spider 
hidden amidst yellow bell flower bud

Case #1:

I sometimes wonder what's the difference between two photographs. You see, some subjects turn out as your lucky encounters. You spot them,  you snap them, and that's all to it. Some subjects are elusive and uncommon, you need to mix more luck and hard work to track them down. There are also ones called compositions, where various settings - internal and external - ought to be arranged meticulously - for hours or days - to get one photograph just aesthetically right. And then there are shots that are meant to be post-developed, for their magic blooms within a photo lab or a photo editor.

But if the subject is the same, like when two people snapped the sky while standing on two different points on the roundish earth, would it look the same? Or would it not? Yet the keen eye will surely note who's the veteran and who's not.

Let me take the instance of the grasshopper's case. I happen to spot a bunch of tiny green grasshoppers playing hide and seek in a grass bush. All I did was lower my cam into the bush and go clicking right and left. The cam was set to super macro mode, so it did the job for me. The pics came out cool, and I was really happy. Happy to see those tiny beings in larger than life sizes.

But then... some months later when I was browsing an online gallery of a photographer, I happen to come across a grasshopper, in fact it was the head of a grasshopper. My first thought was, oh how lucky to have a high end cam to get such fine detail. And then... I read the caption under that grasshopper's head.

You see... this photographer dared to plant himself full flat on the ground, mind you he was outdoors, with his bulky cam and remained still for several minutes to capture one tiny guy who happens to land on the ground before him, on a whim. Right when the photographer was about to snap, his model flew away... on a whim. Disappointed at his miss, the photographer stood up, but then the model flew back and sat right at the same spot. The photographer again sprawled flat on the ground and was about to click, when the model flew away... again... on a whim. And this had happened several times but the photographer never gave up and finally managed to outwit the mischievous model by a fraction of a second.. and right after the shot was taken, his model flew away and never returned again.


Case #2:

Sometimes I can't help but wonder... why people travel to far off places. Some travel thousands of miles away from their loved ones and cozy homes, just for the sake of shooting scenes that are bizarre, mysterious or magical. Like the aurora spectacle near Polar regions, or castles of stalactite and stalagmite, dizzying cliffs, volcano eruptions, giant tornadoes or even uncharted tombs where ghosts would likely patrol. And some photographers dare to stay up in jungles just to capture the elusive night crawlers, big and small, where many of them could be found easily in almost any zoo.

So why... why do they go that extra, extra mile... to capture something so momentary and ephemeral? Why stare at the sky, night after night and track the faint trail of stars, or snap frame by frame the entire sky from one horizon to another, and try to stitch them all together.. to make one photograph?

Perhaps they have witnessed what we have not. Perhaps they have observed those subtle nuances, ambiances, expressions of the subject that the ordinary eyes would fail to note.

You see... the big cat in the jungle will not yawn the same way as the one in the zoo. For the one in the jungle is never bored, and only expresses that he's ready to set off for hunting on a long sleepless night. The one back at zoo may yawn more often, drenched in a never ending boredom, where the same old scenes pop before him from morning till night.

If that's not the case, then perhaps the sky from the photographer's backyard is hindered by the lights of their neighborhood, or the smoky clouds puffed from a far away factory, or the dust that swirled up during day has weaved a hazy screen at night. But when they trek to the summit of a very high mountain, or trudge along a sand dune in a vast arid desert, or wade through the savannah with a tree not in sight... far... far away from the so called civilization... that's when the photographer begins to see the stars... the ones he's never seen before. For his vision is now clear, and his mind is free from clutter. And there before him unfurls the perfect night sky, bundled with its boundless charm, all set to be captured.

That's what I felt when I came across in another gallery, a starry sky with myriads of teeny stars glimmering in magical glows of reds and purples, how tough it must have been to capture that night sky... so beautiful and vast.

Beating the chill of the night, being under siege by armies of blood thirsty mosquitoes and ticks, patiently waiting for the right moment, breathing as softly and slowly as possible, concentrating solely on the sky and nothing else. Not even the faintest rustle, the whooshing of the wind or the creepy nightly moans of the wild beasts lurking around would scare him. Nor would he worry about the lethal critters that could pop up any moment beside him. He puts his life on the line for that one memorable moment... which made me think... how amazing it must be to become a photographer of such caliber and resolve?

I felt so intimidated, like a tiny ant confronting a giant T-Rex. But I know that one day when that tiny ant try and build an anthill... so big, bigger than anything else around him, then the ant too can relish the spectacle that the T-Rex has been relishing for all that time. Then again, what the two sees might never be the same... even at the same altitude... with the same pair of eyes. But this little ant is hopeful enough to conquer the summit of the tallest anthill one day, in future... somewhat distant.

...................................

Just felt like penning my thoughts when I browsed some breathtaking travel photographs just the other day at the NGM site.

Between positive and negative

Between the palm leaves on a thin branch sat a bird with his eyes fixed towards the blue sky. He sighed whilst gazing at the scenery unfolding below.. running far to meet the jagged hills of blue. He turned left and right, up and down. The world felt so empty, he was all alone.

The palm leaves waved gently, rustling now and then, as the zephyrs rushed to catch the unseen clouds in the far west. Ah, if only I could become the wind, I'd be free from all this pain and suffering. He sighed once more, listening to the songs of the wind. As the songs died, he heard once more the leaves big and small rustling in the wind. This time the trees were chatting among them. At least they have each other, thought the lonely bird in shame.

Just then the rustling stopped, the trees went silent, so did the wind. Even the world seem to stand still. He looked around, thinking, why? why is the world so void of sound? At last he heard a single sound, it was not loud but distant and soft. The sound grew louder, second by second. He heard it clearly the flapping of a bird. Someone was approaching him, little by little.


He was surprised, this was unexpected. Is this a ghostly wanderer? Or a bird with flesh and blood? Or a vicious predator like the one he escaped a narrow death, just days back? He didn't turn his eyes, instead gazed at the empty blue skies.

As the sound of flapping reached near, the passing zephyrs heard a soft prayer, "oh dear heavens! make my feeble heart strong. Let me find courage to see a comrade, even within a foe!"

......

* The first photo is the cropped, resized version of the original and the 2nd is the same with inverted colors (negative). And the birdie in mid air with its wings spread wide was captured unexpectedly, as I was only focusing on the bird above perched on a thin branch. Weird enough I saw a mysterious charm in the negative picture than the positive one, thus thought to convert that feeling to a story.

The droplet and the friend

On the yellowy green banana leaf I sprinkled some water. Tiny mirrors suddenly popped. They allowed me to see the world, through their eyes.

Dew drops on a blade of grass can't last long. But when those pearly droplets drop on to the ground, they connect and make tiny puddles. Water can't survive alone, nor can humans.

I then wondered if friends are also like droplets. They may start out as one puddle and dry up to be droplets. Or start as droplets and connect to be a puddle. The more they are the bigger the puddle becomes, from a puddle to a pond, from a river to a great ocean.

Sometimes friends just walk in and out of your life. One time you fee they are your kindred spirits. Soon they prove you are wrong. and it all becomes a mirage. When they don't see you, they forget you. When you don't see them, you forget them. No contacts = no bonds. The friendship becomes a mirage, an ephemeral memory of a lifetime. Like those little droplets who were once left all alone.

Then the end becomes the beginning, and the beginning becomes the end. Both, for the droplet and the friend.

The Sun

The Sun...
Our very own sun
One microscopic star in the boundless universe
Blessed us with a million of things including...
A planet exuberant with life
Of all shapes, colors and sizes
Bright cheerful mornings
Ringing with a chirpy chorus
Beautiful blue skies
Dotted with silky fluffy clouds
The magic of a rainbow
Hidden in the midst of a drizzle
Vibrant blossoms
Exuding the sweetest fragrance
Humming birds and buzzing bees
Dancing in circles
Lush foliage breathing out
The life sustaining oxygen
Gazillion rays
Wrapping Earth in love and warmth

Then the light so bright
Shunning all darkness out of sight
Chants the sincere value of life
For an endless passage of time

The Kite and the Bird

I thought we were the same.. when I saw him and I, both soaring high... riding the winds in the boundless blue sky.

As I flew higher and higher my frilly long tail fluttered like waves. He glided stretching his coffee brown wings.. and flapped from time to time to catch the current. But soon we parted our ways. 'That was the beginning of the end..' the kind northern wind whispered in my ears. But I simply ignored.

I never believed in the red thread of fate, for I was always attached to a fine white thread with utmost strength.  I was striving hard to escape the dictator at the other end. He knew I was trying to escape. So he tugged, real hard, and I swiftly drifted down.

I think I lost conscious.. though I do not know for how long. When I slowly opened my eyes, the glaring sun rays blinded my sight. I had to squint and look around. Oh but alas! Everything around me was upside down!

No... it didn't take me that long to figure out.. it was I who was upside down. Dangling like a teeny weeny spider on a fibril, I felt the weight of the gravity for the first time. I looked up again.. squinting my eyes. The fine white thread was glistening like a tinsel.. weaving itself in a messy tangle.

And then.. I saw a heartrending sight. The heartless white thread had captured my friend. He was wriggling in pain, on a bough few feet above me. His eyes were both swollen, from all the tears dripping like a fountain. And there it was... the vicious raven with those piercing eyes and razor sharp beak. It was attacking my friend. And all I could do was watch... in silence.

I opened my mouth and screamed at the top of my voice. 'Help him, please... somebody... anybody.. just help him. He's my friend. My very first and dear friend.'

Did anyone hear? I looked around. Not even a ghost was in sight. I tried to pull the glittering white thread, but it didn't budge. The raven was circling like an eagle fixed on its prey. It was a chilling sight.

Just then I heard a few footsteps. Was it the dictator who gave me life? No, it was someone else. He called others for help. He brought a long pole, a ladder and a bamboo. With the help of his allies he came to the rescue of my friend.

My friend.. he was in utter pain. Here and there white feathers popped out over the once neat coffee brown plumage. His yellow beak was partly opened, but no voice came out. He was totally worn out. The raven had left. His allies were steadily working hard.

Between my untimely slumbers.. I saw my friend soaring once again. He didn't glide nor flap his wings in grace.. it was all wobbly but he still managed to escape.. from the evil snare that my own white thread of fate had woven in despair. Just as he left out of my sight.. I heaved a long sigh.. and shut my eyes. At last I too was free.. when I slowly drifted and entered the eternal sleep.

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Sorry that I couldn't add a note to this post. Especially since this is a non-fiction, written as a flash fiction.
It was the end of last month.. I heard a commotion outside as I was getting ready to go for work. Our neighbors had gathered round the 'Tree of Life' (if you could still remember that very special tree I introduced in my oldest blog). They were using everything they could to save the life of a poor birdie, a mynah, who was caught up in a cord entangled on high branches. The cord had been broken off from a kite. There was a big crow attacking the mynah, and it was crying loudly in pain.

A couple of babblers tried to help it, but they were soon chased by the crow. It was a terrible sight. Just before I left home I heard the good news, that our neighbor finally was able to free the bird and it flew away with few injuries. This neighbor hardly talk with us but I really appreciate his relentless effort cause he actually came back without going for work to save this birdie, and he struggled with a long steel pole and a bamboo for over half an hour to loosen up the cords and save the birdie's life!

The Clock

The clock I see before me always ticks... never stops... unless the life of the battery runs out. The 3 hands.. of varying lengths and sizes.. move only towards one direction. Clockwise.. we call it.

The second-hand moves faster. The minute-hand moves a bit slower. The hour-hand is the slowest. They all stop by 60 times at 60 points.. covering 360 degrees... in their never ending, unrelenting quest around the pale face of the clock.

Time... is intangible. The clock is tangible. How can a tangible thing represent something intangible? We depend on clocks to tell the time. We depend on watches to tell the time. We depend on clock towers to tell the time. And many others. If by any chance.. they all stopped working... at the very same time.. on the very same day.. all across the globe.. does that mean... the time has stood still?

Despite all clocks stare in stupefied gaze.. in their frozen state.. will not the time still move on? And if the time still moves on... what is the purpose of having a clock? Then the clock and the time are not related at all.. not relative at all.. not compatible at all.

Then what could tell us the time? What could move on without stopping? When the entire world comes to a standstill... who would move along with time?

Only time can tell... who or what is most suited.. to represent time.. at all times. It ain't the clock. It ain't a human. It ain't anything tangible.

Then it should be something just as invisible as time.. purely elusive and inevitably timeless. Perhaps.. it could be the mind.. the mind.. that is invisible.. elusive.. and intangible. Mind does not age.. and hence.. it is timeless.

Mind who surpasses all known norms.. will tell you the time you need to know... without the 3 hands... without the 60 dots... without the pale face... and without the echoing tick tock.

Sunny side of Life

On my way to work.. some months back.. I used to intently scan this heartless gloomy garage filled with metal scraps and old dusty vehicles. I looked for my motivator. The happiest dog in the whole wide world, who'd cheerfully greet his masters skipping on just 3 legs. He peacefully slept outdoors, went for morning walks.. somewhat far from the garage. He was carefree and high spirited despite that conspicuously painful handicap.

For the 2011 CSS contest, I made him my protagonist. I continued to look for him daily, in the same gloomy garage, for months on end.. until about 4 months back I noticed him always sleeping in his favorite spot. The next month.. he was not there.. and the next... and the next.. until it occurred to me... I'll never see my motivator again.

And so.. this is my story which I wrote when he was still alive.

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In the wee hours of morning when the world was sound asleep, old Simon started sweeping.

Shhh, shhhh, shhhh...

The sound of his jagged ekel broom echoed throughout the empty road and the Children’s park. Suddenly he heard a loud screeching noise from the bend and a sleek white car zoomed past him. Simon stared at it and slowly bent to pick up a rotten leaf.

Just then he heard a low groan, coming from the middle of the road. Simon closed in. The sight was so shocking that he collapsed on to the ground. Curling himself up he cried, for the sake of the creature that lay before him.

The skinny dog breathed heavily. Its front right leg was bathed in blood. It wriggled in pain.

Simon wiped his eyes and stood up. He ran into the park and returned with a worn gunny sack. Then he carefully placed the dog on it. While carrying it like a baby, Simon rushed to the nearby three wheeler park.

He shook the red tuk tuk and woke the lad who was dozing on the back seat. The lad grumbled but after hearing the painful groans, he agreed at once.

“Gramps, I know a vet nearby. Let’s go see him.”

The tuk tuk raced to the house of Dr. Jerald, a famous old veterinarian who lived in this suburb. As soon as the vet took the dog in, the lad waved at Simon and left.

Despite his age, Dr. Jerald was swift with his treatments and soon the dog stopped groaning. When Simon peeped over, he saw the skinny brown dog sound asleep. The injured leg didn’t bother it anymore, for it had been removed... completely.

After he freshened up Dr. Jerald offered Simon a warm cup of tea. Then they had a hearty chat. Old Simon painfully smiled, showing his brown teeth. After a while he got up to leave.

“The dog’s going to be fine.” said Dr. Jerald with a bright smile. “He’ll come see you soon.”

Four weeks quickly passed. On one sunny morning, old Simon sat on a bench in the corner of the park. A sleek white car pulled over and a young man in a fine suit walked up to Simon. He then placed a rich fat rice packet on Simon’s hand. It was full of tempting aromas.

“Today’s my dad’s first month alms giving.” said the young man, forcing a smile. “You know he had a stroke that day. I... had to race my car to the hospital... and on the way I think I hit a dog... right around this park. Ugh... felt so bad... had no way of stopping... my dad was unconscious and...”

“Young master,” interrupted old Simon. “Look over there.”

The young man was surprised, but instead of asking why, he turned around. Not too far from them were a bunch of kids happily running about. The boys were throwing a frisbee in turns, throwing it high up and far away. Whenever they threw a frisbee, everyone screamed in chorus,

“Browny fetch!”

Three excited woofs and a dog dived out of no where, almost flying after the speeding frisbee.

“Browny, come here!” shouted Simon with a chuckle.

The dog rushed to old Simon, skipping on its three legs while gripping the frisbee tightly in its mouth. Simon emptied half of the rice packet to a tin plate on the ground. Browny sniffed it excitedly, tossed the frisbee away and chomped up while wagging its tail.

“See that young master, isn’t he doing great?”

The Mobile

During the times of terror.. few years back... I heard this true story from my sister. The visuals popped in my head.. and then they became words. 

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A big crowd rushed into the small ward. The domestic patients were moved out while another set of patients were moved in. Their clothes were blotted in crimson. Some were conscious and twisting in pain, others hardly moved. 

The doctors, nurses and attendants were summoned. Clad in green, they went from bed to bed treating the wounded meticulously. Some had to be operated, but the hospital didn't have a proper theater room. All the surgeries were performed in the same crammed ward. The folks gathered in the corridors started chattering.

"... and they couldn't stop it."

"a truck loaded with bombs?"

"they were all Navy soldiers heading home"

"how could they attack unarmed soldiers?"

During this commotion a nice music was heard. It was a ringing tone of a mobile. No one paid attention. Everyone was busy attending and treating the patients. When the uproar started fading the ringing could be heard a little louder and it became a nuisance.

The burly head nurse shouted at a young nurse to search for that mobile and turn it off. It didn't take long for her to find, for it had fallen off a trouser pocket of a patient nearby.

This patient was breathing heavily, his heartbeat was irregular. The doctors and nurses were doing everything they could. His pale face was turning blue and his clenched fists showed the signs of acute pain he was bearing.

Still the mobile kept ringing. The young nurse, with trembling hands, tried to turn it off. Suddenly the music stopped and she was relieved.

"Daddy, daddy... can you hear me? I've been trying to talk to you for a long time. Where are you now?"

The ward came to a pin drop silence, as if the time has frozen. Everyone wore an expression of surprise and stared at the mobile the young nurse was holding. To her surprise the mobile wasn't turned off, instead to her haste she has pressed the hands-free button. It was a voice of a little girl they heard through the mobile.

"Daddy why aren't you answering me? I'm getting hungry now. Mommy's shouting at me, but I told her I won't eat till you come home. Where are you now?"

The patient's condition was turning critical. Doctors had to give him a heart massage, but all was in vain. His eyes were deeply shut and his face became paler. His clenched fists loosened a bit and his head tilted to a side.

The young nurse gasped. Everyone in the crammed ward was in teary eyes, as they felt sorry for the little girl who was still talking on the mobile, without knowing her dad's condition.

"Daddy it's OK if you're getting late. I'll be a good girl and have lunch with mommy. So daddy, come home safely. We are waiting for you..."

A beep sound came and the mobile turned off automatically. As if by fate, the battery lasted only to deliver this final message. Tears were rolling down and everyone went speechless. The valiant soldier who was lying in front of them has already left this world.

His painful expression has turned into a faint smile, with tear drops shining at the corner of his eyes. Silently expressing his contentment hearing his little daughter's voice, at the same time expressing agony having to leave them without saying goodbye...

(Un)controlled

 There are times that you feel you're so powerless.. you're imbued with negativity... you've run out of all ideas.. you feel desperate for a change.. and then... you catch that faint light... the light at the end of the tunnel? Nope.. the teeny faint feeble spot of light at the bottom of your heart.. that says.. you've not tried.. not just enough.. there's more options.. hundreds of them.. if you just believe.. and look around. 

360 degrees = 360 ideas!

PS: that's mathematics for dummies. ^__^

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The society is a strange thing. It has such an impact on individuals, whether we like it or not. It seems like the society is controlling us.. pulling us with invisible strings.. like how the puppeteer controls his puppet.

The puppet has no choice but to play along their roles.. as and when the strings get pulled. The puppet needs to remain heartless, brainless and mindless and let the puppeteer stage the show. Add a ventriloquist and the puppet becomes completely mute.. unable to voice his opinions anymore.

The show goes on, the viewers are happy, the puppeteer receives money. The puppet.. gets thrown into a dark corner of the closet. If broken, the puppet gets replaced. It's the same model, same costume, same skills, the individual puppet has no unique value.

The society is such a scary thing. But.. strangely the puppeteers are all made up of puppets. Each getting controlled by their superior, until the hierarchy hits the ceiling.

Going in a rut, doing the same thing daily, mechanical greetings, emotionless smiling, shallow conversations, empty promises.. isn't it high time for the puppet to brush off all the dust and pull the strings out. And stand up on his own feet and voice out.. even in a soft whisper.. if not so loud.. this isn't fair.. this isn't what I want.. let me be me.. am I not a human.. after all?

Irony of fate

I recall no particular incident for this inspiration, it was totally random.. but maybe some early observations of my favorite and not-so-favorite arthropods triggered its concoction.. passively. Nevertheless the intricate patterns of a neatly woven web (not the world wide web), never fails to amaze me. 

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As the morning dew becomes pearly beads

and roll down the edge of a leaf

The sun rays filter through a thick canopy

and silhouettes a webbed masterpiece

Bound and gagged by the fibrils so delicate

a forlorn fly wriggle and cry

The plight unbeknown to a merry Monarch

flutters to a milkweed nearby

The boughs budge and the branches wave

as the gust blows right and left

The starving hunter closes in

and finds dangling fibrils instead

On the ground teeming with rotting leaves

the cocooned fly twist and twirl

Trying to set itself free from pain and grief

for being stuck in a fatal murk

The wind blows hard on our little Monarch

who whirls and drops on a web

The spider gives no chance and wraps it up fast

while the butterfly wriggles in pain

The fly on the ground break out of cocoon

and shakes off its fear and fatigue

It soars to the sky, passing by

the hunter and the prey.. in a blink

A poet... one of a kind

During the times I was glued to Japanese drama, there was this one particular drama that made me all teary eyed, on each and every episode. The name itself says so.. Ichi Rittoru no Namida (One Litre of Tears). The story was based on a true story of a poet - Kitou Aya (1962-1988), a teenager who suffered from an illness with no cure. Through her umpteen times of suffocation, she wrote a diary that inspired millions. This is a tribute to that poetic heroin, who left the world way too early.

.............

In the world unknown to her

Enveloped in a wall sky high

She encountered...

Smiling faces,

Watery eyes,

Stuttering voices

And the sound of wheels

Her fate stole all hopes and dreams

Making her past... a cherished dream

Her present... a battle of life and death  

And her future... all dark and indistinct

A mountain of things left to do

A mountain of things left to say

Yet the cruelty of her fate

Took all that away

And all that awaited

Was nothing but death and pain

Bedridden and mute

Yet with a smile that never fades

Her trembling hands scribbled

Encouraging words

Day after day

A ritual she performed

Since she was fifteen

Until she bid farewell

At the age, five and twenty

Her words brought life and courage

To millions of people, drenched in pain

And to this day, her name lingers in their hearts

As a savior, a hero... who was born through pain

The Maestro of the Street

Think I wrote this after seeing a street performer.. not so new of a sight in this part of the world. But sadly those who appreciate their efforts are no more.. or visibly less.

...... 

In the corner of a dust covered street

Under the scorching sun’s heat

Amidst a throng of sullen people

He’d willingly take a seat

Pulling out a few instruments

From a safely packed bundle

He starts playing a pleasing tune

For this gathering to listen

Switching from flute to harmonica

While playing the violin

He performs a mini orchestra

Accompanied by a tambourine

 Time to time people glance at him

Awaiting their buses to arrive

Slightly tapping their feet to the rhythm

‘Cause his music can mesmerize

They’d forget the scorching heat

They’d forget the stress and tension

They’d forget the anger from waiting

They’d forget all worldly problems

Before long their buses arrive

And the crowd leaves one by one

Only a few willingly offer him coins

While others offer him none

Yet he’s content with what he gets

As he happily counts his collection

And packs up his belongings

To set off in another direction

From street to street he wanders

Far away from his home and family

Trying his best to cheer sullen people

For he’s a true performer of the street

S.M.I.L.E.

This will be the teeny space to hatch those random inspirations I get from time to time.  So here goes the first.

S - seemingly unrelated.. insignificant
M - moments... captured gracefully by the mind;
I - in the nick of time.. a
L - language unspoken.. interprets itself.. and
E - etches its trace.. permanently... in the heart.