Soumya Scribbles...

I have your letters - The ones we wrote, sitting together. and few that travelled miles. I read them on winters as they remind me of falling leaves. In Summers, I sun bathe them. Blue parchments, yellow postcards, hurried white - Inks have been blotted in places. And they have your touch, ridge skins, printed. (They talk about) The broken table lamp we had, Constructive madness, correctional grammars and faded restraints - You have it all (here)  said, unsaid, implied, avoided. I have your letters - The ones we burned together and few that burned hundreds of miles.

The Blind: When it rains, I see a little boy, in torn pajama and with no shirt, running out of his small room. He stretches his hands to capture the drops -  all of them. When it becomes dense, unsolved puzzles play on his face - one for the success of the ones he could hold, one for the misses. He looks at the burial of each of them as the drops fade away on earth. He mourns as if it's his responsibility. His mother comes out, consoles, scolds. But the dutiful doesn't stop, can not stop. A few more, saline this time, fall and fade. There is none to pray. The Deaf: There is an old woman, a pianist. She still plays the piano on weekends and creates new tunes for herself. She looks at her little audience, looks at their eyes - when they are becoming indifferent, showing a little reluctance, feeling engrossed, catching tears - she plays on -  for all. She knows the reeds by heart. What she doesn't know is how she sounds when she plays. At the end when ...