Soumya Scribbles...

Holding a pen after a long time, when your hand shakes and fingers betray to keep a symmetry of similar letters, is a pleasure. You feel like coming back home from a far-away place and finding that old scent that you had left it with. But now you are new. Coming back is always like that. It makes us feel new to our old places. How old is our past? Does it start with the moment before and end with your paperboats of childhood? For some it is like the backward journey of a night train. The stations are known by the whistles, sudden brakes and old station-master's familiar voice. The green flag looks black then. But you can still take a deep breath and just know. There is no past in an arrival. We all search for patterns in our life, in others' lives. When we find one, we rest; when we don't we call it consequence. Sentiments, deepest of them, are a lot like glue. They can not let go. They stick to one's heart and hurt the most when you try to detach...

Transition is not a phase but a wise regulation. It is what we hate and the same we love. Likewise, our life. We revolve - around a few people, a few objects and a few thoughts. They are not moon to us, we are. They are as silent as the respiration of flowers, but essential to the tree. In between, the cohesion spreads its arms and knots a few doubts to welcome the new. There is no glory, no ambition in it. It has deep sleep and a calm. As unassuming the sea is, the desert is and the hills are at night - yours and mine, the lives of others' are too. There the ink dries and thoughts flow as it has nowhere to reach. It runs. Poetries and novels become seismographs. They bend down on all the memories that were and will never be wise but neighbours all along. Somtimes we write because we would want the story to end in a certain way, abruptly. Certainty is blasphameous for a lost soul. It is that when the old frog jumps from the sea to the well and feels nothing h...