the Growing Jungle

When you write, it is must that your hair are tied much above your head. You are in comfortable clothes and there is no irritating noise around. These are the points that make me a writer but right now none of these is happening to me. My hair are disheveled, clothes are the loosest, like they belong to some fat overgrown woman and continuously there is a drilling machine working in the neighbor. Adding to my misery there has come on my face a pimple that is not only ugly but also painful. But these things can not deter the spilling of my thoughts, as always.

                    Today, I am going to write not about the fly that is dancing before my eyes and trying her hard to get my attention but about my pitfalls that happened today. I woke up in the morning, fresh and lively and decided to do some breathing exercise to put an end to the chronic headaches. Before the real start I went out in my garden that is slowly and slowly taking a shape of a mini jungle, to fuel my eyes with fresh green and other colors of flowers and birds. Everyone in the garden, seemed to be very busy to pay attention to my presence which let me have the most picturesque view. In a way I felt welcomed and accepted. I was glowing in the warmth of nature. But to my surprise came a pair of bulbul. Like warriors they gushed around me. I was gasping with surprise and wonder. I could not gather my wits. I felt a cold shiver down my spine and wondered what on earth I did to deserve such a display of anger. “I think I have trespassed into their territory” I muttered to myself. To save my skin I ran inside to find my dad ready to water the plants with a bucket in his hands.

                   “golu, come, lets water the plants. Your mum will kill us if she sees her plants left uncared when she was away.” Considering it my duty I said “but dad bulbuls are angry, they won’t allow us to come in the garden”

       “Bulbuls are angry birds. But it’s ok. We won’t go near their nest.” He said, consolingly to me. So we went and this time there was no bulbul. We were happily watering the plants and for a moment I thought myself to be the owner of this beautiful garden. I was wrong, because I was tripped and fell on a flower pot and broke it and saw my hands and face covered in mud. With fearful heart I looked at my father who looked at me with fiery eyes. I blinked once and twice and looked at my father who swallowed his anger and said “let’s replace the pot.”

            With everything done, we continued with the watering. But like always lights went off with that water motor went off. And we stood there looking at each other, helplessly. The mishaps don’t end here. The lights came an hour later and we went out again, hoping to complete the work this time. And we did complete this time. Happy at our hearts we were enjoying the birds taking in the drops of water from the leaves. Our enjoyment was called off when the door of the house banged (it’s a kind of door, having a function that once it is closed it can only be opened by a key, which was obviously inside) and we were shut out of the house again. “To hell with this garden” said my father a little louder which spread the odd silence in our growing jungle.