Yesterday

My verses

You broke my verses,

into tiny shreds

and blew them to the wind.

It was out of shape,

had no depth or flow,

in your roving eyes.

Endless moments

of my musings,

were my words.

You will never see,

how words can,

make or break.

They were pieces,

of my scattered soul,

stitched in a pattern less weave

You failed to see beyond,

within and without,

you failed me.

Maybe, now when you find

the flow, in these words,

keep them as memory.

You broke my verses,

into tiny shreds,

but you did not break me.

Bookmarked

The sight was so familiar. The white Chantilly lace fluttered against the pane almost making a pattern as it blew with pride against that rare evening wind. The paint bordering the perfect squares on the window needed paint, she thought. The whites had faded to greys, chipped off from random areas, the edges of the glass conjoined with the wood had gathered dust. It looked worn out. 

The lace though seemed bright and vibrant.  She took care of it as if it were a precious gem. An heirloom in a way. Her mind drifted and fluttered as the breeze floated through familiarly. 

Nyra thought of her mom. She was adamant on the name “Nyra”. Never truly divulging the meaning she always told her that it was lyrical in a sense. It would add the music in her life. The name had grown on her though whether it was adding any rhythm or purpose, she was not sure. 

“Antra was a much nicer name.”, she thought. Ma and her name were synonymous. She was Antra. It meant the body (the second para) of the song in Sanskrit. Ma was Antra, she was the lyrics, she was the tune and she was the song itself. The one you could sing and never forget. The kind which would imprint in your soul and taking up a corner forever. 

 It had been a while since she saw her. Somewhere deep down it still hurt. When life throws a curve ball and you just have to ride the tide. Though she still had unanswered questions, the hurt remained and that abated rage stayed warm in her soul. 

The bell rang. She woke up from this array of thoughts and ran to the door. The bell sounded familiar. “

“What is it with door bells?”

“Each one has their own style of ringing the bell, even the ting tong could sound different.” she thought.

She opened the door in a hurry and was scooped into these familiar, comforting and safe arms. Kabir was back. Nothing like familiarity. The kind which you need when the world around you is whirling. 

“I missed you.”, he said. He always said this after few days of travel. 

“How have you been?

It is so hot today though the breeze is a saving grace.

I hate to travel and be away for long. Is there any food?”

Kabir had indeed returned. The silence was replaced with the familiar cacophony. 

She smiled to herself knowing fully well that if she attempted to answer the flurry of questions. He would not hear it till he had settled, had a hot meal and paused. 

“Did he ever pause though?”, she wondered

The left-over rice from last night and the chicken curry was devoured in no time. Kabir had that “I am full” smile. 

He pulled her close to him. He smelt of musk and vanilla.  She snuggled and buried her head in his chest. It was home, in a way. His hand moved swiftly as he pulled out the stick which held her hair in a bun.  He untangled her long tresses as if he knew his way around. His lips sought hers with a burning desire, hurried and impatient. She responded as she arched her head while he nibbled his way down her neck. He knew what worked.  They moved in unison, drowned and floated together. Panting and breathless, he lay on top of her. 

 She smiled and wondered about the ending. There was this story she was working on. It had been three months and she could not work out the ending. It just was not coming her. It was not even writer’s block. She had written four different ends but no one of them was it. It just did not seem like the end. It just did not seem right. 

“I think I will go finish buying the groceries and grab a cup of coffee on the way in”, she told Kabir.  

Kabir mumbled something back as he slipped into a satisfied slumber. 

She eased her way out of the bed. Grabbed her dress from the floor. It was white just like that lace as she looked back at it. Something about the lace which kept beckoning her today.

She quickly grabbed her laptop, her wallet and headed out.  Groceries could wait, she thought. The corner table was a her favorite in this forgotten coffee shop around the bend of the street. 

Thankfully, it was empty. The server smiled at her. She grinned back sheepishly. She sometimes wondered maybe she was the reason they continued to exist. The shiny coffee shops down the road attracted the crowd and this café with the forlorn chairs, the dog eared books, the ceramic cups kind of faded away against all the sparkle around. But, she loved it.

She opened her laptop and stared at the screen. 

“Is there an ending”, she wondered as her mind again wandered off.

She went back to the bookmarked website, the painting of the saree clad woman braving the wind against the banks of river seine was her favorite. Why was it untitled, is what she wondered. Ma could have named it “braving the wind”, “my moment”, “letting go”, “freedom”. Untitled seemed not right. That abated rage was brimming. 

The phone call on her 16^th birthday was a memory etched in time.

“I am sorry Nyra. I wish I could be there. It is just that I had to go. I needed to fly. I could never be chained, you see. Someday, as you grow up you will understand. I will always love you”

“Why? Ma. Why? Could you not have stayed? Loved me. Held me. Laughed with me. Taught me.. “, I wished I had asked this. I wished I had called her back. Written to her , flown to Paris to see her, shaken her, hugged her, yelled at her and screamed.

I never understood. That day a lot of her died. Nyra stopped being lyrical. She had lost her antara. The white lace came back as a memory. It was what she remembered. Ma talking about chantiliy lace and Paris. She spoke of romance and life. She dreamt. She had wings, she always said. The lace remains and so does Nyra, or some essence of her.

The server served the black coffee with a smile. I smiled back distractedly.

Suddenly, I knew it as I could feel tears gushing down my cheeks. I typed furiously…

“There was no end. No chain of events could lead to an end. It was a journey of sorts. She had to let go. She hated her yet she was her. A free spirit. It was the moment of realization. The moment she knew, she could not go back to the lace hanging on the window. She had to flow. No matter if it did not have a destination, a path , a reason or any logic. … She was and will always be Nyra…she had to find her music….”

Just then she knew the title to the painting, It had to be “bookmarked”.. it was book marked for her. It changed her. Beckoned her and in a way set her free.

Kabir would understand. Maybe or maybe not.

She called and waited till he picked up, “I am sorry Kabir. I wish I could come back. It is just that I have to go. I need to fly. I can be chained, you see. Someday, you will understand. I will always love you”

……………