Sea in the city

 One of my prized possessions as a seven-year-old was a sea shell I picked up on the shores of the Bay of Bengal.

The fierce beach, crystal clear waters, cerulean skies and the coral reef infused sand was the best scene I could have ever hoped for.

The sun shone down fiercely on the pristine sand. Beads of sweat formed on my face.

But that did not deter me from running barefoot on the rutted terrain braving the heat.

The beach brings back so many memories like waves rushing to meet the sand.

A kite danced to the tunes of the gentle zephyr.

It looked picture perfect against the azure skies and cottony clouds.

I remember the feeling I experienced when I picked up the shell.

It was a fairly large one pressed against the damp shores.

It was a pearl white shell with water droplets glistening on it like tiny diamonds.

It was basking in the glow of the afternoon sun.

Just waiting to be picked up.

I picked it up with a thumping heart.

It smelt so strongly of the sea. Water dripped slowly back into the ocean.

The sound of the dripping water was music. A gentle ripple in the ocean of blue.

I clutched it closer to my heart.

My heartbeat merged with the waves.it kind of resonated.

It was a beautiful feeling. To feel the harmonious waves against the backdrop of the heartbeat.

I carefully clutched it like it was a treasure that the sea handed out to me. For me.Exclusively.

I took it back to the room and kept it amidst my other belongings. Over the years, toys and books and clothes took over that. The shell lay ensconced amongst other travel souvenirs.

After all these years, the shell caught my attention again.

The city had taken out any element of nature that was left of me.

Clouds of thick smoke, sickening traffic, waxed fruits and the air smelling of obnoxious sewage were what the city gave me.

I picked it up with the same anticipation several years ago.

My heart was racing. I pressed it close to my ears.

The same feeling came surging to me.

The kiss of the waves touching the sandy shores, the roar of the mighty sea.

I had it all in my concrete jungle.

THE GIFT

It was a dull evening, the shimmer of the wrapper caught my bored eye. It lay untouched in the middle of the room.

It was probably where time began and space started, unmoved by the disarray of the world around. The dust settled down and yet there was an eerie silence around the aura of the box.

The paper gleamed provoking me to lift it and unravel its contents. The paper sat perfectly on the edge of the box, ribbon tied to perfection.

I tiptoed towards it with a sigh, anxious and excited at what it could contain. I lifted it gently, trying to gauge it by its weight.

It was deceptive, a thousand thoughts jostled through my bumfuzzled brain.

Rattling it would disturb it, possibly spill or damage what could be inside.

Fraught with stress, I tried to pull the ribbon and put an end to my diffidence.

I marshalled my thoughts to calm my frayed nerves, while a reflection dawned on me, Was it not pandoras curiosity that cursed us all to this existence,

Could curiosity kill the cat or add the feather of experience to the cap of life?

While it was tempting to open the box and find out what part of the jigsaw of life did the gift fit in, I let the feeling reside in my heart.

The feeling of the unknown, the mystery of what lies beyond. It is not until we open it is that we realize it was empty or was it a black hole?

Or the faith of believing that the thrill of ignorance reinforces our subsistence in this massive world.

That drop of demul will remain dark, will we ever want to dispel it?

Wildflower in the rock

A seed floated gently in the cusp of the autumns eve to be safely tucked in the niches of volcanic rock.

The Gods were kind, the weather was favourable and some droplets of rain tucked away in the bosom of clouds gently
fell on the scorching earth. The seed initially shocked, then basking in the goodness of rain, slowly grew out of the seed walls
Queer as it may seem, humans are the same. We are surrounded by dust and our niche.
The world around is hazy with options, but all it takes to break open our shell is that one drop of rain on the parched mind.
That single drop would suffice to start the journey of finding our position in this universe.
That drop helps our roots penetrate through the soil of life, holding on to moments.
Attachment is excruciating, but is that not the reason for existence?
Had there been no soil, would the drop of rain have made a difference?
The seed grew on to bloom to a wildflower to rocky bottoms, beginnings do not matter, is it the wildflower that grew in those extreme conditions? or is it the tough conditions of the wild that let the seed explore the unknown?
The wildflower swayed in happiness, a splash of yellow set against the azure skies. The insouciant flower reflected in a puddle of rainwater,
the happiness was a like infectious laugh, untouched by emotions, like that of a child’s babble.
Was that smile the smirk of success or the bliss of ignorance or the strength of attachment or the confidence of having faced the worst?
This time when the rain falls, the wallowing is definitely a relief.

The lonely shell

I’m no expert, but I do click pictures when it fascinates me

This picture of a shell was the only picture I clicked on my trip to Puri.

The clear waters, the gentle zephyr and the bubble of silence appealed to the soul within.

This shell was the focus of my photograph lay effortlessly on this sand bed unperturbed by the gush of waves that tried to drag it back in.

I spent close to three on this beach and this shell remained glued to this position.

I have this weird habit of associating every small thing with philosophy.

It reminded me that no matter whatever people hurl at you, take it all and remain grounded.

Cheers to the lonely shell!