Soumya Scribbles...

Bricks get burned to make a house. Red, rectangular they are. Never knowing that burning with siblings will comfort many a laughter, many a tears and much more. Women burn with jealousy. There is no comfort in that. It is red, squarish - even from each side. They are like camphors. they burn to get into ashes or into airs. Men burn in indifference. They never know when their souls were stoned and they made bricks out of it in fire - sheltering only themselves. Houses never become homes. Who is love? Feelings are funny. They have many a crossroads inside you than you know. The shortest route to reach a heart is a mathematics. But to stay there is humane. After making love, in the morning when you look at the walls and the bricks that burned themselves to let you have the comfort of a home, there is a woman who sleeps next to you wrapping herself up in a wrinkled bedsheet. At that point of time, there is a reality check. If the bricks were for that woman, that is love. There are secrets ...

Early mornings have their own essence. It owns people and places. Fog that reluctantly fades away not knowing if it should come back, people who walk to celebrate life, the old chaiwala who sells tea with a nonchalant but smiling face, the red brick house from where the oldest of songs are played on a dying radio - All of it is so perfect and yet casual. It is like the essence that comes with your deepest of emotions in the beginning. The softness that percolates through the souls, resonates with others and hears itself playing a beautiful tune. The perception of the world is in its diffused happiness, then. A gentle breeze and just that. With the day's burns, comes the sweat. Even a realization is annoyance then. You wish it will pass but it stays back. Hours threaten and hangs until the soul tires. There is no secrecy. It is a time when you lose your personal belongings. There is the sea of humanity. You go and mix. Its when the magic heads downstream. Keeps are worth selling. Ni...