LOVE. DREAM. DARE.

A moment of love, a minute to dream, the courage to shed tears. Have we done this lately? Have you done this lately? I haven't, which makes me want to write this note.

All day long, we procrastinate, at least I do. And the outcome is nothing. Nothing but a feeling of emptiness deep inside within me.

When was the last time you said 'I love you' from your heart? When was the last time you dreamed about what you want to be or who you want to be? My answers scare me, which makes me wonder 'What am I doing?'

I sit in front of a computer screen all day, with MS word open, waiting for words to come to me while the cursor stare blankly at me. At certain times, I feel the cursor talk to me. Then something makes me want to write and the next second, I am procrastinating.

In the midst of this fast moving world with smart phones and not so smart people, we waste a lot of time and yet make excuses saying we don't have time. Maybe its time to stop and take a step back. Embrace everything around you. Look into the eyes of the one you love. Find something that inspire you. Don't hold yourself back because you might regret it someday.

Take a moment to love. Your parents, your friends, your mentor, your pet, the neighbour who ruined your childhood... whatever it maybe. Take a minute to dream. From making sandcastles to finding a new proof. And lastly, have the courage to shed some tears. Let it all go. If your heart is full, then how can you make memories that'll make you smile someday?

WHEN THE LUCKY RED SEED TELL 

STORIES. 

(Malayalam: 

Manjadikuru Kadha Parayumbol.)

How long has it been? Five years or more? Even the roads have changed, and I have got taller and tanned. Yet, the turning to an infamous junction didn’t change. It has always been a sight to see the green of the tree spread above the road giving a shade. Only the trickiest of the rays made their way through and to the windshield. On the way, I saw the house where I spent most of my vacation in, fighting with cousins, playing with whatever that could be found and being the hero of the house.
The wings of the hero was sometimes held down for good by an old man who was the head of the house. His sound still hung around in the air. Only his throne was empty. The children were running around, handing the card telling his departure. The youngest one clung onto his father, pulling his hair and taking money out of his pocket. Most of the faces were unfamiliar, though their welcoming smiles were persisting.
The ones with the receding hairline stood in one corner, whereas the ones with white strands of hair sat on a side. The children’s voice grew louder. As I sat with my mother, my other half and some other relatives, the time started to slow down.
“Imagine what Kochachan would do if he was here,” my mother’s cousin duly noted.
“He would probably yell at them and ask them to go inside,” my mother said with a laugh, remembering the old times. Turning to us, she began. “What you see here is nothing. When we were young, everyone would come here during the vacation. There were like twenty of us, running around making noise, sitting by the lake and throwing stones and commenting everyone as they went on. We were famous back then. Whenever he saw us sitting by the lake, he would run to us and yell, ‘Get back home you little pests!’ That voice itself scared us, though we would sneak back after some time. And grandpa used to drink his tea in a huge cup. We twenty would stand in a row, waiting to see who he would pick to give the leftover tea. Then at night, we all slept on a huge blanket, making noises to scare the ones that were afraid of the ghosts.”
“But the most memorable time where when grandpa died,” he added. “I still remember the sight of him being carried to the house. We all were young back then and most of us had no idea. Everyone else were laughing, while we ran around picking the lucky red seeds and playing with clay. We would fight to give drinks to the guests, though we always snuck a cup or two and had it for ourselves. Now all there is just these four little ones,” he said, pointing at his nephews.
All I could remember was the time when a grandfather of mine passed away in Cochin. There were six or seven of us children, and we ran around in that house, having no idea of what was going on. But none of us sat by the lake or ran around making such big mess and sound. Compared to them, we were professional ninjas.
Thinking about the long lost childhood, I leaned back on the chair, thinking about the time in Cochin. Stories went on about uncle’s experience in dealing with the prisoners, for he worked in the Jail department.
Time filed by soon enough. The needle of the clock chased to time, not knowing it was its controller. One became two, and two became three.
“Shouldn’t we be going now?” I asked, noticing the weight on my eyelids. One of my teacher always used to say with her sweetest voice, “Are swings being built on your eye-lids, for they are weighing down?”
On the way out, standing by the field, I noticed the lucky red seeds scattered around. Picking them up, I knew they too had some stories to tell. Wrapping them up in a tissue paper, I forced it down on my pocket, so that I could decode whatever they had to tell. Waving good bye to everyone, I waited for a day to come back, to get to know more stories about the forgotten childhood and the lucky red seeds.

CONNECTION LOST

As she turned her steering wheel along the curvature, listening to nothing but the whisper of the wind and the roar of the engine, she couldn’t help but feel comfortable. She had been a bit annoyed at Tom when she discovered that there was no signal in the address. But now, she sat on the driving seat, feeling the nature, being thankful to him for he was the one who suggested taking the road less travelled.

“For how long have you been working here?” he asked, annoyed by the silence.
“Few years,” she replied. “I came here as an intern, but for my brains, the internship was too low. So they promoted me.”
“You don’t sound too happy about it,” he noted the tone of her voice.
“To be honest, I hate this profession. Always did. I wanted to be a free-thinker, a writer and a traveller. This profession doesn’t leave room for any of this. And the only travelling opportunity I get is for conferences,” she replied with a touch of disappointment in her voice.
“Your Indian accent is starting to grow on me,” he said with a laugh. “Then why did you go for this?”

“Family’s peer pressure. They believe only in engineering and medicine, and before I knew, I was trapped.”

“I love mine,” he started. “My profession I mean. Besides, I’m your intern. Does that mean I’m trapped too?”
“Not really,” she laughed. “But you’ll be stuck with a lot of paperwork.”
“Dr. Maya Banerjee,” he stated. “Such a nice name with an evil personality.”

They both grinned as they rode to the hospital. Maya tried to recall when she had such a normal life the last time. Pushing the thought, she began. “Cardio is fun. You get to work with a lot of prototypes and instruments. If you’re lucky enough, you’ll get to do a transplant soon.”
“We can do one now!” he yelled with excitement. “I have almost all the materials in my bag, except a heart and a victim. The authorities insist that the interns carry supplies all the time in case of an emergency. Kind of annoying though, carrying all this weight.”
“They’re being practical, that’s all,” she said.

As the wind played around Tom’s hair, a speck of dust made its way to his eye, making him dart his vision. When his vision cleared, his eyes fell upon a cloud of smoke not too far away. “Is it just me or is something going on there?” he asked Maya, pointing at the scene.
“There must be some accident,” she answered as she increased the vehicle’s speed. “Try to reach 911.”
“But there is no signal,” he hesitated, raising the phone for bars.
“Wait here, I’ll check the scene; and page Dr. Warner,” she said as she pulled over.

Getting out of the driver’s seat, she saw two cars crumbled to pieces with a stream of blood pouring out of the one which wasn’t smoking. She caught the sight of a hand trying to move the metal pieces to get out. Without her knowing, Tom snuck out, reaching for the supplies.

“Are you okay in there sir?” she asked, peeking through the rumble. Her eyes to a man who was stuck in the driver’s seat. His scarred face resembled to that of a treacherous man, but his voice signalled her that he was not a dangerous creature.

“I could use a little help,” he said, coughing up more blood.

“Is there anyone else inside the vehicle?”

“Just me,” he said after a loud scream. “My leg, it hurts!”

“We’ll get you out of there sir. I’m Dr. Maya Banarjee and I have Dr. Tom Sanders with me calling for help. Meanwhile, please try to not panic. What’s your name?”

“Easy for you to say, I am the one stuck here in this hell hole!” he yelled out. “The name is Aaron Stone. Please don’t change that to ‘The Late Aaron Stone’.”

“Well sir you have a great sense of humour,” Maya replied, trying to calm the scene. “Are you able to get out?”

“I would’ve if I was able to,” he said after a moment of struggle with the metals.

“Sanders!” she yelled out. “Can you get any bars?”

“No, the tower is too far,” he replied. “I paged Dr. Warner, but so far there is no reply.”

“Not that bar! Iron bar, I need to get this man out before he bleed himself to heaven,” she said, pressing his chest with gauze to stop him from bleeding.

“That’s a nice thing for you to say, I mean, me going to heaven and all,” the man said, managing a smile. Tom searched the trunk and came up with an iron rod and a bag full of supplies.

“Hold the rod to the door and push it out,” Maya ordered as she applied more gauze. With a swift motion, Aaron Stone was able to move a little bit. “Good, now move to some other place and try to get some help.”

“You are Indian, aren’t you,” Aaron asked trying to push himself out of the pile.

“I thought you got that from my name, but yeah, I’m Indian,” she said, trying to stop the bleeding.

“An Indian saving an American, well let this be a beginning, and I mean, in a good way,” he said with a laugh, which resulted in more blood pouring out.

“You are having a pleural effusion,” Maya blurted out, looking through the supplies.

“Is it as scary as it sounds?” he asked, trying to wipe the blood away from his face.

“I need to insert a tube inside your chest to get some fluid out so that you won’t die. But the problem is I have a chest tube here but if I insert it in, I should be able to close you up too, which I can’t do here in the unsterile condition. So...” As she went on, more blood came out from his mouth, making him feel one step closer to heaven.  “Chest tube it is,” she told herself.

She rummaged through the supplies and found a small knife, which would help her make the incision. She held onto the gauze and the tube. Without thinking for a second, calling up all the textbooks she used to learn from, she made a small incision and inserted the tube, letting the fluid spread out onto the road less travelled. With the fluid came out his harsh loud voice in a bellow, feeling the pain he never ever had in his entire life of adventure.

“911 will be here soon!” Tom yelled out as he ran towards the scene of life and death. “Wow, did you just insert a chest tube into a man on the road?”

“It was necessary,” she replied, wiping the sweat off her brow. “ETA?”

“Three minutes,” he replied, checking his watch again. “Is he going to be okay?”

“He will, if they get here soon enough,” she replied. Three minutes of long silence awaited them, and in that moment she was happy that she was able to save a man’s life. In that moment, she lost the sense of having regret for taking up the job she had now. She held onto the man’s hand, feeling his pulse every now and then. His eyes closed down, and she knew the end was near, when out of the blue the silence was broken down by a loud siren.

“There they are!” Tom yelled out. He ran to the ambulance to help them with the gurney. Maya stared at her blood stained hands for a moment, and moved closer to Aaron.

“We’ll take it from here,” the EMT informed her, taking him over. As the ambulance moved away with the siren again, she leaned on her car and let it all sink in.

“Told you that supplies would come in handy,” Tom said with a smile. “The coffee in your car must have gone cold. Shall we hit a cafe?”

Hearing the siren come to an end, she nodded with a smile, holding onto the knife she used to cut open a man’s chest to save his life. “You’re lucky that you’re off the hook from all the paperwork this month.”

“Maybe I should travel more often with you,” he winked.

“These things don’t happen every day,” she replied with a smile that showed her sense of relief. “But if you stick around, I could show you more crazy stuffs.”

“Crazier than this?” he chuckled. “I guess I’ll be holding onto your tail, Dr. Banarjee.”

“The way of you calling my name is also growing into me Tom.”

                                                ***

She sat in the Starbucks cafe, sipping her coffee and staring out of the window. The blood stained knife lay next to her handbag, covered with her blue silk scarf. It was a medal for her, to save a man from death. Although now she realised that she hadn’t looked for the man in the other vehicle. The EMT confirmed his time of death, but she still felt a pang of guilt for not trying.

“The man in the other car was already dead,” Tom stated, reading her mind. “I checked when you went near Aaron.”

“Well, may his soul Rest In Peace. And I should say, we should take the road less travelled more often,” she replied, taking a sip from her cup of joe.

“And you were mad at me for not finding radio signals,” he managed a laugh. “So, you were saying about literature?”

“Literature... that is still in my heart,” she said. “Who knows, maybe I’ll write a memoir one day, and this day sure will be in it.”

“Looking forward for that,” he replied, raising his glass. “To more blissful days.”

“To more blissful days,” she said after him, having a toast. As they exchanged their stories, their pagers beeped, drawing them back to reality. “Time to save more lives,” she said, looking at the blood stained knife.

THE SILENT STALKER

Tears of Earth down the rain
Lonely man in the drizzle.
Streets so bright in the light
He looks for his own mind.

The silent traveller, the secret stalker
Walks beneath the man
He looks down the road
To see the old soul,
The rugged lean dark shadow.

Alone no more, smile ever more
He glides down the rain with a howl
The night sky closes, the blanket approaches
To hide the smile of the moon.

The shadows bids a goodbye
As he joined with the sky
‘See you soon, my other half
For we’re a treacherous duo.’

...WAIT FOR ME TO COME HOME

Title from the lyrics of Ed Sheeran's song : Photograph. 

As she set her foot on the entrance, her heart trembled. For the last six years, she called it her home, though there were days when she entered with a curse. But that morning, a warm Wednesday morning, her heart wept with her as she set her foot on the entrance.

Tracing the path to the main building, she could feel the memories rush back to her. The walks to the store to get chocolates for her classmates, though she would secretly hide one so that she could enjoy it on her way back home.

She checked her watch; ten minutes past twelve. Ten more minutes and the bell would ring for lunch break. She walked to the room where her master, the one who lit her way to the new school, keeping the light of the old one still alive, sat on.

Twenty minutes past twelve. Her heart quickened, and then she heaved a sigh. Would they remember me? She wondered as she climbed the steps. On seeing the happy bunch, she withdrew the thought. She held her hand tight to her friend’s who she hadn't seen in a while. One by one, they came to her, had a chat, gave a hug and a smile and returned. Few of them dragged her to their classes, and at that moment, she felt that she was home again. In all these moments, she never let go of her friend’s hand. They resembled of a Siamese twins, bonded to each other with hands. Her masters gleamed at her with surprise and gave her the fuel she wanted; their blessings. She heard the bell ring again, announcing the end of time. On her way, she encountered her friend who invited her to come on that day without any shy. The footsteps became short as they talked and walked. “When will we meet again?” The question hung in the air. Being not prepared to shed tears in a beautiful day, she let her smile answer that, and headed her way out. Looking back, she saw her past life, where she was the queen and others her kingdom.

She watched her home getting smaller and smaller in the rear-view mirror as the car drove away. A sad tune played in her mind, making the moment nothing but a perfect movie scene. The realisation of the song not being on the mind but on the radio drew her back to reality, and she saw her home no more in the mirror.

She realised that some things were meant to be. She believed that scars had healed and she had moved on. But on seeing her home again, feeling the love and laughter, she realised the scars had only deepened, and tears in red were being shed. Some things were meant to be. To love and to be loved, she was lucky. To feel it again, she had to wait. And so she did, darting her eyes from the mirror to the road, the road that she used to travel almost every day. 

THE DARK SIDE

He could hear the sound of the wind howling. The rattling of the leaves tickled him, leaving him smiling without any apparent reason. The howling grew louder and he knew what awaited him; the rain. The summer has passed, everyone was awaiting the winter. But he wanted the droplets of heaven to touch his face and slither down his skin. With a thunder, the raining started.

The howling died soon enough. Droplets slithered down his 

smooth hair and his dark skin. Inside his eyes, everyone could see a light. But for him, all he saw was darkness. Standing by a road side tea shop, he rested his chin and hand on his walking stick, sitting down on one of the benches, letting the smooth nature embrace him.

He could hear the sound of the tea hitting the bottom of the 

silver mug, the sound of paper against the snack taking in all the oil, the chewing of the tobacco leaves in the mouth of the ones that waited for the tea to arrive. He enjoyed the strange noise of everything and it suited well for his scene: darkness.

Something wet nestled on his leg. The cold at the end of the body made him realise that it was a dog’s nose, and for a dog to wander around the rain would be a stray dog. The dog pawed on his legs and his footwear for some time, and then rested against his legs and the wooden cane.

The rain stopped, the howling never came back, and the shops closed down. The dog left him a few moments later in search of food. Sitting on a bench beside the highway, he could hear loud music from the heavy vehicles carrying goods and families on vacation. For a moment, he closed his eyes, letting in more darkness. Taking in a large breath, he waited for the patterns in the darkness to arrive. Soon, between his closed eyes, he saw the patterns dance in front of him, changing every now and then, and never coming back.

The swoosh of a car woke him up, leaving him alone to ponder in the darkness, thinking how he came here. He felt like it has been forever, although he had been there only for a few years. The grey in his hair spread like a forest fire, and his jaw line tightened day after day. His wrinkled pale hands rested on the cane with his chin. The world was developing every day, and for him, each day meant one step closer to the crossroad of hell and heaven. It would all be in the hands of the one behind The Chair, he believed.

Beside the highway resided his small beautiful house few

years ago, the one with a white fence, yellow and red flowers, and a small wooden cabin with climbers climbing upon the roof, making it look like a haywire. Then, out of the blue, the development began. He signed the papers for his new home, and moved out the day when the machines came in a brought down his haven to ashes. Then, the masters behind the treacherous game never came for him with the money they owed him. Widowed old blind man with rusted up books and an ‘arakka petti.’ That’s how the masters had branded him before they left in their luxurious ride. Each day after that, he sat on the wooden chair of the tea shop, waiting for them to come for him, for one of the masters was his son.

The howling began again and the dog came back to nestle against his warm leg. The howling grew louder and he knew what awaited him the next. One, two, five... the droplets falling on his face increased, so did the speed of the wipers on the car. He wrapped the towel into a cover, so that he could dry himself up later. Under the night sky where the moon hid behind the monstrous clouds, he rested on his cane, hidden under an unjust world. 

We have all been reading a story since January 1 of this year. And that journey ends next week. Due to some copyright issues and other considerations, the rest of the novel will not be posted from next week onwards. I apologise for this inconvenience. If this story ever gets published, you will all be a part of it. This story is dedicated to you all, me fellow Sinister. Don't forget to tune in next week to read the final part of the story. Happy Weekend! Enjoy this poem.  

BULLET AND BLOOD

Raised from the ashes
We were born fighters
Fighting off the evil
For the goodness of the people.

Songs of birds
So rare for us
For we hear the ballad of bullets
Rushing towards us.

We shed tears
Tears in red
Not from our eyes
But from our wounds.

Then comes a day
A day of glory
Where our coffin isn't black
But of the colour of our flag.

Marching band begins
Shots are fired
Announcing our departure
Signals of arrival.