Only she could hear the music,
Some drum roll, some violins.
Only she could dance to the tunes,
Some free style, some practiced moves.
Her happy heart brought smile to her face,
Her happy face brought smiles to his heart too.
For reasons she didn’t know, she skipped around in her head,
For reasons he knew, he too jumped a trampoline or two.
Their unsynchronized reasons of happiness,
But synchronized by love perhaps?
Their unknown reasons of smiles and shine,
Secretly known to their hearts too well.
They’re too busy to halt and feel,
Their increased heartbeats, the change in their rhythm.
So the hearts play along, having their own fun in this-
As these two- she and he, play along with the magic that this RUSH IS.
She looks outside,
And the rainy smell of soil makes her happy.
She walks outside,
And the little girls doing their waltz make her smile.
She seeks to write a prose on ‘happiness’,
Or the ingredients nonetheless?
Albeit the knowledge her heart already carries,
And the constituents her mind already knows.
Her thoughts wander to words and idioms all across,
And her ideas want to be the most innovative with words.
So she probes a little more into definitions, and the art of writing,
Though already knowing what to know.
She writes, and rubbishes drafts each passing day,
And yet captures what she finally concludes-
‘Happiness’ is a virtue sans a universal definition,
It is simply that something, that makes one smile despite the varying tones and OVERTONES OF THE RESPECTIVE :)
There they see her standing in one corner of the station,
Staring at the ceiling, as if looking for a star up there,
Or probably staring hard in the hope that one would appear from nowhere.
She does some quiet calculations and then as if rubbishes them in her head,
She waves her hand too, as if a wand in her hand would do some magic,
And then quietly closes her eyes for a minute, sighing, not in disappointment though.
Some see her doing this same time everyday there, and one asks her what she really had in mind,
‘ Oh!’, she exclaimed, ‘You see that tile up there in the ceiling? So I look up there,
And remember my late father who was one of the workers at the construction site of this now- indispensable station. He left his mark in this world!’ RESPECT TO THEM! YES, THERE ARE PEOPLE WHO BUILT THESE PLACES TOO.
Hiding her face from a million eyes in the crowd,
She looks for that one face she has in her mind.
The picture in her head, she wipes a tear from her eyes,
As she silently surrenders, on not being able to find the one.
Two twinkling eyes calling out to her,
With emotions running high and low.
She sees it all on that face in her head,
Not knowing what to do next, not knowing what to know.
When suddenly she finds that face, staring back at her,
Not at all running away, in fact moving only when she herself does,
And then she turns around as somebody, she thinks he, calls out for her,
The face gone again, she smiles at how she looks today. THE SEARCH IS OVER.
She lives in that moment and refuses to move,
Very firm, right there.
She breathes every moment, and lets it all settle on her,
Breathing in all of it, content that she does.
They came and she saw them coming,
Still determined to stand against the tide they were.
They called for her, out loud there,
She heard them, not really understanding the meaning of all that was said.
This- her story, her plight, her life,
Surprisingly, she accepts and expects no sympathies or smiles.
Having no regrets to the slight, she strides on, slinging on her purse high,
Walking away, to yet ANOTHER MILESTONE, ANOTHER STORY.
Some say that time flies. Some have no time at all. And there’s this other lot of people who like to while their time away. I interestingly, was in conversation with time yesterday.
I had this peculiar dream last night, where as unrealistic and funny it may seem, I was in conversation with ‘time’! Nothing fancy, we talked about this and that, and then it suddenly decided to, like in most other cases, run away! Now while we were at it, Mr. Time, narrated how it experienced so many different characters in it’s course everyday, and that tonight it intended to interview me to no end, with only one question and wanted me to answer it in full detail, not leaving until it was satisfied with the explanation. The question was a pretty simple one, with no frills, and open ends for an elaborate answer- ‘Tell me dear, what does the concept of ‘time’ mean to you?’
Now to be very frank, this question left me baffled! For, in this world of twisted conversations, nobody had asked me such a simple and straight question in the longest time ;) So after thinking about this for a few minutes, I put my answer on the table with decent ease. Rather calmly, and with a confident smile, I said, ‘Time is magic, and that will explain it all!’. Satisfied, Mr. Time left with no further questions.
Interestingly, this conversation was not as simple as it seems here. It left me overjoyed with the realisation that magic is everywhere and that time truly is magical! I wouldn’t say that time is a commodity. Neither is it a virtue or a quality. Rather, it is an elastic concept which accommodates all- the past, the present, and the future too. When in love, and in company of loved ones, time would fly. When in pain, time would pause, and when in a rush, time would hurry too. Adaptive as it is, time wonderfully aligns all to a schedule like no other. All in all, time is a beautifully crafted, personalised, yet the most practical gift of magic to mankind.
The conversation last night left me happy as I thanked my stars for the gift of time, and the choice of being blessed by magic too. It is ‘time’ that bonds one to others, and it is ‘time’ that detaches some due to space.
The tick-tocks I thank,
For they chose me to make me smile.
The hands of time as if chosen to play from me-
A rhythm of life, a lifetime of tunes, some magic, some trysts, SOME TRIALS!
P.s. Time stops for none, and still patiently waits for you to find that special one ;)
She picked her suitcase,
And walked some miles.
Memories packed in there,
Some music, some smiles.
When at the airport, as she opened her diary to write,
Her pen refused to scribble, her words seemingly in a block.
She closed her eyes for some time,
Light tears in her eyes, time taking stock.
He walked to her and asked if all was okay,
She stared at him, as his eyes made her shy.
She opened her mouth to answer that question,
And shut it the next second, wondering about the stranger and his why.
She walked away with her luggage and her book all too suddenly,
Leaving him with his question and bewilderment.
That man with his concerns and genuineness,
That lady with her suspicions, and a TWINKLE IN HER EYES ;)