Dance

The rhythm was easy, enticing, and if possible, also sensual. The music caressed her arms just inches below from where he held her. They moved gracefully. As if they had been practicing for years; as if the moment had been painstakingly choreographed. They stopped for a fraction of a second and looked into each other’s eyes. They gazed into each other’s eyes as if trying their best to see what the future held. They returned to the motion as gracefully as they had stopped. Like they had never stopped. He looked down. The gaze broke. And the music stopped.   

Words

Words. Harsh, to the point of being cruel. Spoken in a callous manner. Words that made me sad earlier today. Sad enough to cry and contemplate how miserable I feel and how difficult things have been for me since October 2012, if not earlier. Sad enough to make me relive the horrid ambulance ride to the hospital, with my mom talking incoherently, Anita aunty saying soothing words to her, the driver going at a break neck speed, and I thinking to myself, ‘unfortunately, now I’ll never wonder what relatives of the patient go through while being in an ambulance.’

  

Prefect Man

He looked at me trying hard to comprehend what was going on in my mind. I was looking outside at the slow-moving traffic, couples holding hands, parents talking to their children and a dog wagging its tail at the passing cars. Taking a sip of the hot coffee he cleared his throat to grab my attention. It was almost a Herculean effort for me to shift my gaze towards him. I braced myself for the lecture. He smiled and said, ‘You know what your problem is? Your definition of a perfect man is a poet on a motorcycle.’

Ghost

The January air was cold as ice but she was surrounded by friends and the warmth of their laughter. With every sip and every bite her jokes got funnier and their laughter louder. She thought she had forgotten him forever. Just then, she saw his ghost in the face of a stranger. The stranger’s dimpled laughter reminded her cruelly of the time last winter when he had smiled and promised her the most beautiful sunset. She took a pledge to never miss him ever again. The next second she confessed to herself she wouldn’t miss him until next January.

#3 How She Met Him: The Wait

Delhi was still reeling under the evil spell of summer. The evening sun was bright and orange, akin to the last flicker of the candle flame before it nears its demise. The whiff of the earth from the plants watered by the gardener engulfed the gigantic red brick structure. The long green plants swayed to the soothing tunes playing in her head, while white marble statues that adorned the corridor seemed to wait for something to happen. She sat smiling, playing with her red chhuni, and enjoying the cool breeze that caressed her as she waited for him.

Why She Cries

Her smile is lovely she is told by many but it is her tears that she is known for. She has a full, throaty laugh that resonates through any room that is fortunate enough to hear it. Her sobs are soft and sometimes threaten to choke her. Her laughter attracts even strangers and her tears have on several occasions even alienated her near and dear ones. Her laughter never reaches her eyes. Her tears sometimes even cloud her happiness. She laughs to forget her sorrows. She cries as this the only way she knows to express her loneliness.

Bring Me Back

A clean sheet of paper

And a black pen

Alphabets swimming

Random words popping

Unable to string a story

I write about my misery

I hope my troubles

Entertain you a little

Getting over a writer’s block

I would have instead loved

To give you a shock

Destiny has a different plan

Please bear with my whining

If you really do care

I will be back with words soon

A promise to myself I make

Chances are I might break down

A few more nudges

A few more comments

Will bring me back to the blog :-)

This is a poetic drabble.

A cup of coffee and an evening stroll

Unfinished never-ending friendly lively talks

Discussing books music films over long walks

Eternity was never our goal

We were content with a cup of coffee and an evening stroll

We had our fair share of horrible mistakes

Not to forget a couple of massive heartaches

Fortunately immortality was never our goal

We were content with a cup of coffee and an evening stroll

The marriage of two souls

Walking on burning red coals

Well that was never our goal

All we wanted was just a cup of coffee and an evening stroll

This is an attempt to write a poetic fiction in 100 words. A poetic drabble if you will. :-)

Best Compliment Ever

"What is the best compliment you ever got?” With a mischievous smile that reflected in my eyes, I replied, “Someone said recently, ‘I wish there were more people like you.’” At that moment, I saw a look in his eyes. Those eyes said a thousand words to me. The look told me that I amused him, surprised him, amazed him and left him stunned. Just in case I missed the message, he added, “You are something else you know.” And I thought to myself, “That look in your eyes is the best compliment I have ever got.”

Free At Last

Another Drabble

So it happened. Finally the memories seemed hard to come about. They lingered no doubt, but the frequency had reduced drastically and sometimes details were hard to recollect even after a lot of concentration. The moments, which had almost threatened to define life and happiness, had without making a noise slipped through the clutches of her heart. It had become hard to remember the glint of his eyes, the curve of his lips when he smiled or scowled and the texture of his voice when he whispered at night. She was glad. She was free at last.

Just Friends

He noticed that she had precisely 108 kinds of moods and matching smiles. She wore her silver watch on the right wrist, instead of the traditional left. Her plain gold ring-band shifted fingers on her right hand, while her left hand was left beautifully un-ornamented. Her favourite colour changed everyday. He knew, without ever being told that she dressed her best when she was most upset. She vehemently argued over the mundane and silently endured the extraordinary. She loved children. Friends were her life. He knew her better than anyone else ever could. Still, they were just friends.

Drabble

A few months back, I discovered the beauty and challenge of a drabble. A drabble is a work of fiction exactly one hundred words in length (title of the story included). As Kris made me understand, the purpose of a drabble is brevity, and it is a real test of an author's ability to express [hopefully] interesting and meaningful ideas in an extremely confined space. I had promised to try this out and here is my first attempt.

Except
The two sat on a red cushioned chair. They ordered two cappuccinos. They discussed politics, places they wanted to see, several friends, a few foes, films, music, books, weather, past, future, nothing important, everything trivial. Once or twice he flirted, she blushed. He teased and she pretended to be angry. Failing to put on an act she burst into peals of laughter. The waiter brought the steaming hot cups to the table. They stopped talking for a few seconds as if they were keeping a secret. Once he left, they resumed the never-ending conversation and spoke of everything, except…