Soumya Scribbles...

When I was young, Ammu would cycle through paddy fields, Come home and tell me stories of farmers who see the Sun off and rest. Mustard oil, rice, onion and a green chilly - Luxuriously on some days, a potato, that is when I will know she was in mood To tell stories. I will walk up to her lap, Alert so as to hear them all and sleep off in the misty smell of her hair oil. Magic was to find myself in my bed, tucked in, the morning after. Ammu would ask me to look as big as the birds flying high and migrate to places to bring in more stories. Her eyes, wet and voice at times betraying, she would tell me about neighbours who did not flee but fly. And so did I. I came back with hundred stories. Ammu would sit on the small stool on our earthly courtyard with a paan in her mouth. Her eyes will lit up, like the bird who has just found a new country. Her ears keen on hearing every word. One night when it rained heavily and our muddy courtyard gave away a bit of earth and a bit of that earthly...

...We could count the bricks. Twenty-five years after we left our house in Mukteswar - it was still stubborn, still standing and losing parts of itself with each winter. The ferns, banyans - one root at a time, they have re-arranged and re-decored like a dutiful tenant. Not so long ago, Maa and Ranu used to share the same lamp to pray in that yard. On the Tanpura, our days were marked. Summers were usually quiet. Maa and Baba used to keep their fights for stormy nights. Their sensibility to keep their children happy went through seasonal sacrifices. I never mistook father's hushed shrill voice during thunders and Maa's measured weeping with the harmony of rains. Ranu's paper boats used to be bigger than mine. Mine used to be faster. To her, I was selfish to build them for myself. But I had to win. Our family days were numbered. Baba was poor but no way mean. He poured his heart and pocket into buying us colorful dresses during Puja. My eyes did not mistake the happy tears...

Johnny was a sinner. And feared no God. He had deep eyes and a shadow Bigger than him. Johnny climbed mountains And ran through deserts Like you and me; Unlike you and me He wrote letters to the sky And the stars. Johnny loved more, Always more, Deeper than bottomless ocean And his lovers’ indifference. He had a bicycle And a tangled headphone And a few orchids. One night Johnny went to the sea With fifteen pebbles in his pocket And one letter in hand. He did not have a boat. He was no sailor. .

This winter has taken a lot from him. The saffron blanket, And the green chataai. He has seen Pari go, And Parveen never came back. Between Namaaz and chants He used to make his own collage. His friends tell him, They just don’t play either anymore. On the mic far away, And among his whispering friends, They note down numbers. One such belongs to him. On an empty footpath, With nothing to lose And no one to care for, Jai Singh Hind murmurs his number And sleeps cuddling himself. He sees dreams, One day he won’t be 1789771, And the footpath will still be his.

Today, I took a rainbow to reach your door. I walked the colours, Equal steps on a wet curvy road. Travelling through shades, I came down and knocked. You answered with a sunrise. The rains last night Looked so fresh, still in your room. Your face, warm and pink, Welcomed a shivering me. Yesterday, I had dug a tunnel To our pasts And to a few unopened boxes. I read the letters we wrote to our previous lovers. And the ones we did not write to each other. I know We will discuss them today And there will be clouds. But it will rain, again. For it is only a rainbow that will take me back home. Any monochrome, otherwise, Is always too dull for you. Dear, Come see, The birds you sent to call me, Have built nests in my room. They will stay. .

One square meter of floor. I made some drawings and kept it there. Then came my elder brother and kept his toy pistols. I claimed that place. He reclaimed. Our parents came n gave us a lifetime. One square meter to a Thousand square feet apartment now. I claimed one corner. He claimed another. We were old enough to want less. That night we slept for seventy years of peace.