Posted in Short Stories, Stories

Guitar strings attached

With the rustling leaves whooshing down the woods and the snowman being bubbly as ever, the spirit of Christmas stroked my cheek, but my skin didn’t react to it. The whole world seemed like a moving graphic, playing on repeat numerous times and foxing my mind even further. It all didn’t matter anymore. My world had already collided with the sun, only to become a lesser known source of light.
I perched on my verandah in spite of the biting cold and hugged my knees with my arms to gain a little comfort. My tea had turned cold amidst all that contemplation. Of course I could have made another one, or just warmed it, but I went inside and chucked it down the basin.
“Why did you do that?” I heard a voice, similar to his whisper. I turned around to see a man about his size standing with folded arms and grinning as if he’d been caught for a prank.
I avoided his question and went to my room. He was probably one of the many guests I had at my place. I never interacted with any of them. They always found a way to annoy me. Guests are called guests for a reason; they are supposed to comprise of only a few minutes of your life and not take up residence in it, however abstract life may be.
A lifeless thing such as my room comprehended me, or at least happened to be a shoulder to me. So, I went to sit by the window sill and tried to complete my drafts. It was the only thing that kept me going. My journal consisted of souvenirs of our meetings, and every time I looked at that them, my eyes would well up. That didn’t stop me from reliving those moments. I traced the four-leafed clover he had gifted me, with three-fourth of my skin and the remaining one-fourth with my sweater’s extended sleeve. I went into a trance as his memories flooded my thoughts.
Just then, a purposeful cough startled me. It was him. Again. I looked away instantly, trying my best to go back to my daydream. He just smirked at my actions and came and sat next to me. He looked here and there and then tried to make eye contact with me. He would incline his head towards the side I would turn. When I finally looked towards him, he let out a laugh. I didn’t join his laughter. It didn’t seem right to laugh. Just the thought of it made me feel guilty. It was like enjoying his absence.
“Stretching your sleeves is much more effective than wearing gloves, right?” He made another attempt to make me laugh to which my sole reflex was pulling the sleeves of my sweater back, and subsequently reaching for my cuffs.
Now this young man in front of me started fiddling with my things. I was supposed to have flared my nostrils or at least snap at him. But, I didn’t. Something was seriously wrong with me. I normally wouldn’t stand an outsider touching my things without my permission. Maybe he wasn’t an “outsider.” I dusted that thought away and questioned my own sanity.
“Is that your guitar?” He asked, raising one of his eyebrows; the left one to be exact. I nodded a yes, expressionlessly.
“Then do you play?” He interrogated.
“No. Not anymore.” I somehow managed to utter a couple of words.
He went ahead and picked it up. “Well, this is quite dusty,” he spoke, not expecting a reply. He wiped off the dust with his undershirt, and then came towards me with the guitar.
“Hey listen, I am aware of your loss. I can see it in your eyes.” My eyes popped out at that statement.
“No, not really. Your mother told me,” he said, without batting an eyelid to his own witty remark. But his former sentence gave me some encouragement to take things off my chest.
“Well, it all happened last Christmas.” Something or rather someone was making me feel at ease while talking about it.
Instead of asking me more about it, he simply strummed the guitar strings in a melodramatic tone, but then gestured me to continue my story.
“This guitar was actually a gift from him. And he used to teach me. Whatever little I know, it’s through him. But I have lost the courage to play it again. He would often tell me about his dream girl, and I slowly fell in love with him. That gave me an idea to surprise him. I dressed like her on the day we were supposed to perform at the church. But just as I was about to run towards him, a truck…” I trailed off, and completely zoned out.
He kept his hand on my shoulder and said, “See, I know it’s not going to be okay, and I am not going to comfort you by saying that either. Just know that your life also has a purpose on this planet.” Then looking at the bizarre decorations around us; the grey wreath, the wilted holly leaves, and the worn out stockings, he sighed and after a brief pause spoke, “Just because one Christmas of yours turned around to be black, doesn’t mean you’ll paint every other Christmas of yours grey. At least make do with some white.”
My face turned into a scrabble board towards the end of his dialogue.
“Silly,” he continued,”I know it’s hard, but keep all those moments in your heart. Trust me, he’s there. No one is asking you to let go. Rather hold on tighter.”
I blinked at his wise words.
“And you are performing today. I will teach you a few easy tunes and you’ll do just fine.”
I neither agreed nor disagreed to that. I had put enough faith in his words to do whatever I was being told. The tunes he played were so captivating and soothing to the ear, and instead of complimenting his skills, I just blurted out a “You are so cool!”
He chuckled and said, “Well of course I am. Didn’t I tell you I belong to a hill station?” At this point, it seemed impossible to tame the slight curve of my lips.
“Oh and do wear that same outfit tonight. I am certain that you would have had to change last time.” He took a vow from me and got up to leave.
“Sure, as long as you dress like an elf.”
“Fine. I will do that.” He accepted my condition with a straight face and promised to be there while I performed. I took out that same white sweater, which was embroidered with several snowflakes and a pair of sky blue jeans to go with it and packed myself in it. Then, I stepped into my boots and put on a grey woollen cap. There. I was all prepared. I gathered all the strength I had and picked up the guitar to perform.
He had kept his word. He stood right next to Santa Claus and the other elves. The audience swayed to my music and my melodies just zoomed into the atmosphere awaiting feedback from the birds. I felt so energetic and revived. I felt like I was never really sad.
And as I finished, I searched for him in the crowd. He was nowhere to be found. He had taken my words literally.
Just. Like. He. Used. To.

White Christmas
(Picture credits: Unknown; Source: We heart it)

Posted in Prose, Stories

The nurse

I was lying down, right in the middle of a bed, with both my hands rested on my chest, as if I were on my deathbed and surrendering my spirit to God. The fan was watching over me. It rotated slowly and expressionlessly, mocking my motion. But never mind. At least it cared for me indirectly. My overalls matched my state-blue and dull, while my drooping eyelids now fell even further, devouring my vision and turning it hazy. And before I knew it, these few seconds of relief turned into a series of uncomfortable flashbacks.
Everyday was another day. Another moment. But always a stale start. It would either revolve around prolonged work hours or covering up for colleagues. At other times it dealt with giving up my meals to family members of ailing souls and being left with just the dip to suck on.
Being sick does give people some level of advantage; not an unfair one though. I twitched my lip as I came up with that conclusion in my mind.
That was when I had landed here, and changed into these “sick” clothes, in hope of finding someone who would pamper me. A passive spectator would surely cite me as a lunatic at this doing of mine. But then, the room I had chosen was at the end of the corridor; aloof from the rest of the world, yet visible to the naked eye. This room in spite of being all dingy, robbed my attention, and I simply tagged along with the idea of getting myself admitted there.
If only someone would figure out that I was in a state of despair. 
If only someone could fulfil my request of being taken care of.
Maybe. Maybe I was mad after all. I wanted to return to my flashbacks even though they swelled my heart up. Before I could go back to the saga in my head, my pager vibrated.
Buzz: You are required to attend to a patient at once.
I got up with great reluctance and a deteriorating sense of balance and headed towards the locker room. I changed into a fresh set of clothes and washed my hands thoroughly. But surely, no amount of sanitisation would wash away my wish of being rescued.
Afterwards, I ushered myself to the store room and collected everything I needed. I headed towards the general ward to escort my patient for his scheduled sponge bath. And in less than a minute, his mate came in and glared at me. That one stare said everything. She didn’t want me touch her property. Without uttering a word, I passed on the toiletries to her, and proceeded to leave. As I left, I could hear the guy sharing his fantasy of hooking up with a nurse with her.
The doctor was there too, making them do some mandatory paperwork. They thanked him wholeheartedly. After all, he was an incarnation of the one above. That however didn’t make me an angel. It just resulted in my being a miserable and misfortunate “sister.”
Perhaps, that’s how it’s supposed to work- the carpenter has no wood to build a house of his own, the pharmacist doesn’t get to use his stock of medicines and the workers at the parlour never get to groom themselves either. Even I didn’t have a choice. It’s just how I earned my bread and most importantly, a notion of responsibility.
I glanced at my reflection on the glass door and let out a sigh at the sight of my cap. My whites that were once pure were now stained with a desire and no matter what, that red cross would always stay there like an old bottle of wine, pretending to be a design.

Nursing everyone but yourself
(PIcture credits: Unknown; Source: Google)

Posted in Epics, Poetry


Fruity scent
Cotton clouds
Criss-cross baskets
And extravagant supplies.

Notorious squirrels
Fluffy rabbits
And other furry pals
Gobble up our buttery fries.

A giant cheese ball,
Dripping honey
Grassy plot,
And embroidered butterflies.

Carefree mate
Some age-old games
With velvet petals
To make flowery ties.

Tropical nuts
Cherry berries
Evergreen pines
And wrinkled skies.

Their round faces
Bring winter hues
On a summer solstice
Taking you away from rotten lies.

Straw hats
Fancy lemon rinds
Red and white checks
And finely sliced pies.

A lazy afternoon
Spent describing things
The much-deserved break
Gets disrupted by bothersome flies.

Rotating wheels
Cascading waters
Feathery overalls
And stripping the regular disguise.

All in all
A magnificent picnic
Ends with the punctual twilight
And the sun basking in our eyes.

~Poem 19

The much-needed break
(PIcture credits: Unknown; Source: Google images)

Posted in Epics, Poetry

Sleeping in Blue Jeans

So, another gloomy moment,
Passes by, under a haphazard blanket,
Brooding over what hope really means,
And from a moment, it evolves into a fortnight.

The prime hour to repent,
Then hatches a drenched silhouette,
They say it’s okay, however when one leans
Their act is claimed as a call for the limelight.

Legs akimbo and spirit spent,
Wrapped neither in georgette, nor in velvet,
But, in a pair of tapered jeans,
Anticipating a flash of a spotlight.

When confined to bricks and cement,
All one has is a bottomless palette,
Dreary enough to drain the greens,
Yet brimming with yellows and blues in hindsight.

As dawn sprays its everlasting scent,
The sun will gradually blush scarlet,
Let this torture sprout like a stalk of beans
Because I am sleeping in my Blue Jeans tonight.

~Poem 18

Sleeping in blue jeans
(Picture credits: Unknown; Source: Piccsy)

Posted in Poetry, Tanka

Tanka #3

freshly baked cookies
exit a rusted oven
while knitting mittens
tangled threaded opticals
chant tales like a time machine.

~Poem 15
Grandparents are a blessing
(Picture credits: Unknown; Source: Google images)
Posted in Poetry, Tanka

Tanka #2

on Saturn’s fourth ring
she casts a paradigm shift
erasing errors
with one leg atop the left
as stardust slips through her fists.

~Poem 14
Perched on Saturn’s rings
(Picture credits: Unknown; Source: Google images)