in the Summers

The ice cube in my lemonade tinkles as I rattle my head for the things I want to write. My apologies to my dear readers for all the ado, as I was off the tracks recently. The reasons are many but the most pressing one is the heat of the summers accompanied with the dryness and electricity cut off for six hours and also the low voltage when the kind electricity comes to light our homes. I don’t blame anyone and I don’t blame pratibha patil at all for the sad condition of mine and others because how can she, holidaying in Africa with her small family of ten to fifty heads on the money, consisting of our taxes be called the culprit.

                       It is only me and I should do something about it instead of watching the ice cube liquidate in my glass, even if it is the prettiest sight in the piece of desert I am living in. I should gulp down my lemonade and sit down writing something nice for you people avoiding the continuous buzz of flies and stings of mosquitoes. But before this I should make another glass of lemonade and get a fresh paper as the one right beneath my face is soaking in my sweat. I ask my readers to not to expect something stupendous coming from me because my wits are baking in the sun and my intellect has become a feast for flies.

Basket of Dreams

when I started my blog. I was in a great hurry to find a place where
my heart and mind can rest. I failed to find the comfort that I wanted
from anyone around me, so I produced this blog. I named it "basket of
dreams" because I believe that we all dream in our heart of hearts.
That there are many things we want to say but we hesitate as there is
no one who has patience to turn a kind ear towards us or worst we fearof being misjudged. Similar was the case with me and one more thing I
love to dream and imagine. Most importantly I love to write. With all
these things in my mind I named it so and build it brick by brick.
"Basket of dreams" is the place breathing in dreams, passions,
fantasies and imagination of not only me but of all those people who
dares to listen to their soul.
                         By my good luck, I am able to connect to
strangers and loved ones. I know you people like my writings and i am
grateful to all of you. It will be nicer if you drop some comments and
tell me your opinions. "Basket of dreams" is not a place where we have
to think and write. It’s a place where your heart gets the freedom to
fly in a never ending blue sky.

My Jija

Sun hides behind the morning mist. The fragrance of last night’s rainfall is spread all over. The sparrows are busy finding their food. Other tiny birds are fluffing and cleaning themselves from their little beaks. As I see through a huge window in my farm. I find big fat cows mooing lazily. The milkman has arrived clad in the whitest kurta and dhoti with bright red colored pagdi (a kind of turban). Smoke is rising through a small wooden and straw hut, mingling in the air a puff of burning cow dung, tea leaves and milk.

         My attention shifts as I see parrots making noise on the guava tree and then I see a woman in the rainbow colored long skirt and kurta, adorning a long transparent cloth over her head, tucked in her skirt, coming towards me all the way smiling with a large tea pot and several glasses adding to the beauty of the scene. This is jija, we all call her by this name. She has been the caretaker of our house from the time immemorial. The numerous wrinkles on her face make her more graceful and majestic. She reminds me of my grandmother as she was her close friend. The jingling of her numerous bangles, her booming voice and her caring attitude makes me very nostalgic when I am away from her. She completes the picture of the home that I once had and for whom my heart longs.

         I don’t remember when was the last time I visited my grandparent’s beautiful farmhouse and had the fun of those special mornings but it feels like it was just yesterday that I was cradling in that huge window observing nature’s activities while sipping the tea made by my jija.

            

Godmother of the brokenhearted

A girl came up to me crying like a baby, on asking why, she blurted “I broke up with my boyfriend.” “Oh” I said. “It’s tragic” I continued. “When did this all happened?” an obvious question asked by me. “Last year, on this very day” she said between her sobs. I gasped. Well it’s natural to gasp in such matter when you see a girl crying over some jackass who left her. At that very instant I decided to be her godmother. Well, it’s a big word for me but I felt a lot for that pitiable small figure. So, I decided “where does that idiot live”. She looked at me as if I am her savior, trying to save the rocking boat of her love. Partly, she was right. I am going to save not her love but her. She told in broken voice “he lives round the corner. And I am miserable every time I see him. But he doesn’t seem to care. He laughs and roams as I don’t exist.” All this she said in top of her voice without stopping even to take breath. She was visually shaking. I held her tight and told her that everything is going to be fine but we all know that it isn’t going to be fine.

               Next day I went “round the corner” and had no trouble of knocking at the door because he was squatting in the verandah. By looking at him, I have to say that I was not at all wrong in calling him a jackass. Let’s proceed to the point, I called him politely. “Hey, I want to ask you something, do you know this address?” I had a slip in my hand as he came closer greedily I slapped him tightly across his face which was soon followed by a punch on his nose. He fell like a heap of dung on the floor and after hearing his girlish shouts, came his mother who was Xerox of him. This didn’t deter me to spat on his face. His mother looked at me shocked and trying to make his fallen son stand she squealed to me “what do you think you are doing? Who are you?” she seemed very polite that made me think she must be aware of her son’s doings. “Well, aunty I am elder sister of shreya and he hit her. Actually abused her.” my tears were enough proof for aunty. “She is lying ma” shouted her son but anger had brewed up in her eyes and she renewed the beating of her son.

                   When I ended telling all that had happened to Shreya. She said “but he never abused me or hit me. This is wrong. I thought you wanted us to be together.”

         “You are never going to be together and deep down you know this and this should not happen because that guy is a sack full of shit and I did you a favor, I showed him his right place, below my heels. I saved you and your rocking boat of love.”

            Her confused face told me she didn’t understand so I elaborated “from now, you will fall in love with someone that is in need of your love and that person is yourself.” Her pretty face broke into smile and I realized that I have been successful being a godmother of my little friend who seem no more brokenhearted.

   

My Six Strings

This is the gift that makes me feel on the top of this world. It was a very sunny day and about to become bestest day ever. Well, we all know what worst kind of times I went through but one look of this guitar erased all the bad things engraved deep in my heart. I want to thank all my chubby little naughty friends who think of gifting me something that I longed from time immemorial. Now coming back to the point where I first met my handsome six strings, leme tell you one thing that it was love at first sight. The moment I held it, I knew that it’s gonna be forever. It was really hard to wait for everyone to disperse because, come on, its quite natural, to want to be alone with your lover and that’s what I was desiring secretly.

                My impatience cascaded and it became transparent by my uneven breathing as we were approaching my friend’s home. I wanted to be alone soon. The moment we entered, ignoring the surprised eyes on me, I rushed upstairs. Catching my breath, I ripped apart its cover and found my love, all black and fragrant. I ran my fingers on my own guitar and I can swear on anyone I have not seen anything so majestic and smooth before. Now all I know that we are together, working to know more about each other and falling in love day after day

A bird and a parent

What it is to be a bird and a parent??? Well answer to this can be best given by the group of birds that live behind my house on an empty plot. They build their nests on the ground and take almost everyone even an ant to be the abductors of their little ones. I am writing this because like everyone I am bordering on becoming complete deaf by their screeching noise. Right now they are screeching because two extremely harmless cows have come to sit there and chew their undigested food. But for these birds they are two intruders and born killers so they are trying their best to scare them but from a safe distance. Thanks to the great wings and lean body, they are able to just come near the long ears of those innocent cows and screech but unaware of the stubbornness and laziness of cows. They go on tearing their throats and tearing our ear drums. Everything seems to fall apart by their torturous screech. The only thing we can do is to wait for those cows to move from there as there is nothing that can make those furious bird parents stop. It really seems a very difficult job, not of those possessive parents flying and shrieking but of us who bears the brunt of the doings of others. this proves that the award for best parents goes to....i think we all know to whom.

Spoiled Brats

I am amazed to see people taking pleasure by torturing others. I really wonder of what kind of fiber they are made. They love to tease old people who are wearied and weakened by time and age. They are so called aristocratic dictators who rather than faking to be the followers of great should be licking the asses of people like hitler and stalin. Surely they are the true bearers and descendents of them. The most questionable is the behavior of their parents who forgets about their duties and let their spoiled brats become pests. They forget that they will be facing the same situation in near future and that soon they will be old and wrinkled and even if they are by chance saved by the horrid fate of other oldies. They have to face the wrath of nature. As it is a well proven fact that whatever you do in this world it reverts and come back to you.

                      But as we all know nothing seems to have any effect on these hard skulls because in flesh they are humans but from inside they are worst than the devil. And they feel proud about it. Well I really wish that there do exist a hell and after death they get a chance to live in their real home, where they really belong.

Comparisons

Benchmarks were set.

The moment my first step was set.

Comparisons were made.

As If I am a commodity of trade.

Every other person,

Seemed better than my person.

I rushed to change myself

Instead I stumbled over.

Fell from the “hope tower.”

Now I see how right they were.

That all I am is girl of blunders.

Wrong doings and devastations