Sunday, October 13, 2013


I breath in.  The air is pure. It carries an after-rain scent with it. My most favourite smell.  It always seems to calm me down.  I try to make myself more comfortable on the old and rickety chair.  I can reach back to my old memories and see my grandfather sitting on this very seat with a seven year old me perched on the edge of his lap. I can't remember much of him nowadays.  He passed away about 6 years ago.  I still remember the name he used to call me. He nicknamed me his little warrior.
A bird watches me from its perch on the mango tree. I attempt to whistle a tune to it. But it seems my whistling capabilities have deteriorated.  All that comes out sounds like a little mynah has been strangled. The bird puffs out its chest and bursts a melody as though it considered me too incomparable an opponent. I laugh.
The chair pokes my elbow. I shift around jerkily. I look around the home I loved as a child. I used to wait for months to go exploring the sleepy old village with its quaint charm. Now I have to be dragged to be brought here.  And that too with sulks and an almost permanent scowl engraved in to my face. But now and then I come here willingly. 
An entire family of the birds I attempted to defeat with my pathetic singing skills are swaddling in front of me. I almost believed they were here for a full-fledged battle with me for laughing at their little proud birdie.  Turns out all they wanted was to enjoy a mid-afternoon bath in the residual water of the rain. Clouds are drifting over me.  I love the sound that the great foliage makes when the mischievous wind dances through  their leaves.
I consider taking a walk through the field of tender rice. I rule it out.  The sun it just too hot right now. 
I think about finding myself a nicer chair. My back has stated to ache. But the chair holds a piece of the curious and happy seven year old girl. I want to find that girl.  Happy all the time,  never so confused about anything. The girl content with herself.  The girl who used to talk to the car and expect it to talk to her. The little girl who wanted to be a fairy. The girl who was me.

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