Of Daisies and Benches

story | Of Daisies and Benches

He loves me.
For someone who’d had a list of all traits and revamps she’d want in a guy, she sure crossed all boundaries when she first fell in love with him. And I say first, because for a girl like her and a boy like him, she’d have to be a little above just crazy and little below the biggest fool, to not fall in love with him every time he breathed.

He loves me not.
“Will you come with me?”
“I’m really sorry, love, I just really need to finish this work now.”

He loves me.
Day one. Hour two.
When he first sat beside her, she had not expected to fall. No, literally. Like, off the bench. It was hardly her fault, though, as she would so strongly convey if you ever happened to ask her of it, because when a boy like him sits beside a girl like her, things happen. As an immediate reaction, for example, the girl jumps off of her seat so as to save them both the embarrassment of someone happening to see them together. He looks at her, bemused or amused, she can’t tell, and asks her if she’s okay. She nods and sits back down and their stories continue. Two hours into this arrangement though, she finds him humming lightly, like from the back of his throat, and, for another example, jumps up again, her legs losing their balance, her rear finding the softness of the mud.

He loves me not.
Brewing her coffee and waiting for her toast to pop, she often wonders why. It was so out of character, out of her character, for her to have decided traits. She did, though, possibly because of the psychology-major co-worker she’d just happened to be joined with, and mentally crossed-off all points. No, crossed-off. Like, cancelled. No toothy grins? Cross. Blonde, combed hair? Cross. Non-singer? Cross. Non-hummer? Cross.

He loves me.
“Here, I got all these notes. You want?”

He loves me not.
Two hours and some minutes into their arrangement, a light laugh echoes a thud.

He loves me.
It was quiet, as was the usual norms in such places, save for the constant scratching of a pencil, the lazy scrawling of a pen, and soft thudded beats that resounded in her head from across the table. Similar song choice? Cross.
A sudden zooming startled her and with a gasp and a large stroke, her pencil slipped from her long fingers. Taking a moment to calm her startled pulse, she turned to look at a boy playing around with his pencil as if it were an airplane. Stifling a sigh, she turned back to her book, the constant buzzing now a constant source of annoyance. Pushing her spectacles up, she chose to ignore it in order to be able to work. When she couldn’t take it anymore, she turned to the oblivious boy with a glare, not having the courage to ask him to stop.
“Psst. Psssst. Hey, boy?”
The buzzing paused. “Yeah?”
“Shut it, will you? She’s studying.”

He loves me not.
“Which is your favourite flower?”
Breaking her gaze from the sky painted blue, she looked into his eyes. It was as if they were a crystal clear colour, like a clear pond, only reflecting the blue of the sky. Up towards the sky, or down, into his eyes, she could see the same shine and the same shade, as if he contained her skies.
“Daisies,” she told him.
“Daisies? Why?”
She looked away. “I don’t know. More petals.”
He laughs, “More petals? I thought you were a lily girl.”
Green eyes? Cross.

He loves me.
Two hours, more minutes later:
“Hey, are you okay?” She heard some shuffling. “Here,” he said, his hand appearing within her line of sight.
She kept looking at it. His hand?
She took it.

He loves me not.
“God, no. They’re Sarah’s notes. I just borrowed them.”

He loves me.
“Excuse me, miss, this is from the boy from across the street.”
When she looked out of the café’s large glasses, she saw him waving at her. She waved back. Turning to her table, she took in the smell of daisies. White. Big. More petals.

He loves me not.
“Oh, come on, live a little! You can study later, I will study with you too, I promise. Come on, let’s go now!”
She shook her head.
“Please?” Big eyes. Cutest pout.
She shook her head.
“Fine, I’ll go without you.”

He loves me.
“No wait, I can do this work later, I’ll go with you now.”

He loves me not.
“You look better with those glasses off.”

He loves me.
Her phone rang.
“See? I asked you to come with me. I’m having so much fun without you. So much fun.”
She laughed.

He loves me not.
She rang his phone.
“Hello?”
“Hi.”
“Ah, did you finally really call? I thought you’d never.”
She rolled her eyes. “You could’ve called me yourself.”
“True. I could have.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Where’s the fun in that?”

He loves me.
The daisy stem fell to the floor.

White Blank Page

poetry | White Blank Page

(based on Legends by Rose North)

It is a jolting question,
And her reveries obliviate away:
‘Have you ever been in love?’
Her silver eyes breeze agape.

The leaves rustle with the cool wind,
The woods burn in the crisp air.
And Aryn blinks once and again;
To the Cold War they were both heirs.

Her voice is dazed while his is deep,
Drifting into the caves of her ears.
‘Have you ever been in love?’ he asks again,
And she disbelieves what she hears.

Tempted to question his stupidity,
Temtped to deceive him in her defence;
But foreseeing the failure of her attempt,
She draws a breath and says yes.

The thriving forest lullabies,
Gently cradling her to sleep,
Guiding her to a world of no limitiations,
Where impossible does not breathe.

He turns his head, she feels his eyes;
Her own eyes on the empyrean above.
That casts the golden bars on them,
The oak tree shading them with love.

‘Who?’ he whispers quietly,
His whisper rough as the wind.
And she is urged to snap at him,
Because in his love is Aryn ginned.

A tight grimace and much a thought later,
‘You know who,’ speaks she.
‘I don’t,’ he denies,
And she is left with much difficulty.

‘Catharyn,’ his voice whispers,
And Aryn’s heart twists and soars.
A sound she thought she’d never again hear,
Her heart drums a beat from long ago.

A beat of a song on the stars and the moon,
And of the darkness in between.
The song that to her her mother singed,
And she gazes back at his eyes so green.

‘Alexandrius,’ she enjoys the name on her tongue,
And his eyes widen just a fraction.
‘Have you ever been in love?’
He asks on the third occasion.

She turns to her side and ignores her pain,
He continues to stare at her.
His lips are parted and a soft expression,
One that she can never decipher.

‘Yes,’ Aryn answers again,
‘Who?’ Sander repeats.
‘You, I love you,’
Aryn grits her teeth.

Her gaze is defiant as she holds his,
No regret allowed space.
And Aryn’s heart hiddenly marvels,
At her new and brave admittance.

He breaks his eyes and his eyes wander,
Down the length of her body.
And she was exhausted and in so much pain,
Elles her cheeks had been ruby.

She drinks his dishelleved semblance,
His looks tattered and worn.
His face stained and bruised,
And he looked beautiful never more.

He turns to his side and edges closer,
His hand lifted and Aryn freezes.
He brushes away her black hair,
And gently wipes her bruises.

‘You’re bleeding,’ he tells her dully;
Aryn fights her urge to cry.
They are battered and bruised and she is scared,
And that is all he can recite?

His warmth presses against her lips,
And Aryn takes her sweet time.
Her eyes flutter close and lights explode,
And she’s never felt anymore sublime.

Her attention is undividedly on him,
On the feeling of midnight under turning galaxies.
Her heart is close to imploding in her chest,
And as they part, they are panting and dizzy.

And Sander laughs a musical laugh,
And it’s a sound she hasn’t heard in a thousand years.
But it’s also the sound she’ll wait another thousand years for;
Sander leans in close again.

‘Catharyn, I love you,’ he tells her,
And Aryn feels so lost.
Because soon they’ll have to stand and run,
And fight, no matter what the costs.

But then again, that is soon and this is now,
A rare moment of peace in the burning world.
And though soon death will resume its chase,
Aryn is content and so is Sander.

They are two in number and so are their options,
Run or burn in this world so new.
But they both know the trick and they’ll do it together,
It is to not let the fire catch you.

About Firsts

conversations | about firsts

“I know you’re in love with the idea of firsts. I remember when you first finished reading The Kite Runner, you jumped around for a week straight because the sheer magic of it wouldn’t let you sit but do you remember how you kept yourself locked for the better part of the month that followed because you thought the same magic wouldn’t come back to you again?

           “When you visited the top of the Eiffel Tower and you looked down, all you thought of was how you would remember it as a memory the next time you would come back. It wouldn’t wash over your brain and leave you stupefied like it did the first time. When you watched Fight Club the first time, you were amazed for a day but you cried for the next three days because you wouldn’t feel the same amazement the next time you would watch it.”

          She laughed, “Yeah, I remember.”

           “Is that why you’re still so in love with him?”

          She stayed silent for some time. “Look, I — ”

           “No, just listen to me this one time. Firsts are beautiful. Firsts are the most special. I know. I know. I just want you to remember how when you read The Book Thief, you fell in love with it the first time, too. You cried about not feeling the same when you read it again, too. When you watched The Bucket List, do you not remember how captivated you were with its brilliance? I will never get over the heartbroken look on your face when you realised the loss of that first moment. You went to the top of the Eiffel Tower, but love, I will take you to the peak of the goddamn Everest. Why don’t you see? There will always be another first. I will not tell you that if I relive the things I have lived once, they still take my breath away, and they will, again and again because they are just so beautiful. But I need you to please understand that you don’t have to go back to it. We won’t go back. You can have other firsts too.”

Motherful Wonder

story | Motherful Wonder

Safety is what I think about when I think about the Great Wall of China. It is built of bricks and stones and can guard 20 per cent of the world regardless of whether the help is asked for or not. When the invaders attacked, The Great Wall rose, The Great Wall protected. Today, China is powerful even outside of its safety, because of its safety.
Mother, is what I think about when I think about safety. She is built of flesh and bones and will guard all of me and all of our family regardless of whether the help is asked for or not. When the world attacks, my mother rises, my mother protects. Today, I am on the road to be powerful even outside of my safety, because of my safety.

Integrity is what I think about when I think about the Petra of Jordan. It has been weathered through and by the passage of time but holds strong and together even today. When you see closely, you will feel the delicate sandstone and the meticulous care that makes it what it is.
Mother, is what I think about when I think about integrity. She has been weathered through and by the passage of time but holds strong and together even today. When you see closely, you will feel the delicate heart and the unabashed care that makes her who she is.

Majestic is what I think about when I think about the Colosseum in Rome. It has seen combats and celebrations and has celebrated combats, burned through rippling fires but still has fire in its beauty to burn you. When you let yourself feel it, the antiquity of it rushes through you quicker than air can seep in.
Mother, is what I think about when I think about majestic. She has seen combats and calamities and has combated calamities, burned through rippling fires but still has fire in her beauty to burn you. When you let yourself feel it, her artistry becomes the very air you breathe in.

Sacred is what I think about when I think about Machu Picchu. It is complex and ancient and sitting atop mountains. When the world shakes itself anew, it dances through the tremors and falls right back in place.
Mother, is what I think about when I think about sacred. She is complex and adoring and stands above all else. When the world shakes itself anew, she dances through the tremors and never falls.

Legendary is what I think about when I think about Chichen Itza. It is historical and always incredible. When the right time comes, it allows you to see the most incredible phenomenon of the light falling upon.
Mother, is what I think about when I think about legendary. She is incredible and sometimes hysterical. When the right time comes, she shows you the most incredible of phenomena through the light in her.

Calm is what I think about when I think about The Redeemer. It is huge and tranquil and shadows the entire world under its shelter. When the War ended, it stretched its arms to beckon you back to peace and life.
Mother, is what I think about when I think about calm. She is hugely tranquil and shadows the entire world under her shelter. When my days end, she stretches her arms and beckons me back to peace and life.

Beauty is what I think about when I think about the Taj Mahal. It is magnificent and absolutely glorious, and tells single-handedly the tale of India’s history. When light dies down, the Taj Mahal reflects and radiates like our own personal moon.
Mother, is what I think about when I think about beauty. She is magnificent and absolutely gorgeous and single-handedly represents the entire essence of who we are. When lights fade out, my mother radiates like the sun should bow down to her.

Wonder is what I think about when I think about these monuments. Mother, is what I think about when I think about wonder. If I am her entire world, she is all the wonder in me.

As We Played

conversations | as we played

She stood beside him, watching the balls collide on the green table.

          “That’s us,” she told him, pointing to the white and a red ball.

          He looked at her. “You are the white ball, then.”

          “No,” she shook her head, “you are. You collided into me. You made me fall,” she giggled.

          “Well, in that case,” he grinned at her laugh and raised the stick, “I was forced to make you fall.”