There are too many places on earth that don’t exist on a map.

A black pebble beach you can see from the top of the cliff, but cannot spot the ladder to descend to. A shop selling home-cooked lunch that moves from one corner of the station to another every day. In the monsoon, a puddle that sits in the middle of the street that you must manoeuvre around if you’re on a bike, and holds rainbow-like colours if you look at it at the right time. A small cramped space below the bridge where skateboarders meet to smoke, where a lost baseball waits.

A path in the woods that will lead you to a freshwater pond, built only by repeated bootprints and patches of uprooted grass. A village with no addresses where people eat on banana leaves right below a red dot with a name.

Google maps does not recognise the two steps before the door where you have passed timeless evenings talking to your sister about spring and moving to the city to find a job as a separate place, even though that is what you think of each time you say home. The just-befores, the in-betweens and the places you must walk to after the last bus stop. The yellow cottage you passed by on a pre-planned train journey to Scotland? Nobody will give you directions to if you drive by the tracks on another Sunday and stop someone to ask.

But if you’re lucky you might still find these places, or they’ll find you, especially if you aren’t following a blue arrow on a map that doesn’t look anything like earth, that has no awareness of makeshift swings hanging from trees, the roads that could be, a route with no pitstops to pause and stare at the cows grazing in full meadows before mango sunsets.




What Comes This Morning


Rain falls like broken pieces of a long silver thread. Reminds me of the silk you wove around your fingers, wounded your hands in until your knuckles were dressed in cages. Cages made of little malleable rings that can be broken with whispers. This rain sits like a clue on my window when I wake up in the morning and brush the curtains aside, like words from a language I cannot speak but love the sound of, like your German. It sounds like the music from an old English fairytale, the kind you would read to a young girl before she went to bed if you lived in the 1300s. This rain is from another time, a ghost that came knocking last night. It is gone now, but has left traces, like footprints lingering in snow, in its passing. When I wake up, I first see its specks of silver on the glass, and then, the ground outside, untouched. The sky has ruffled its grey coat, worn it inside-out, no threads waver from its confettied stitches. But now the memory of rain saddens me deeply, for I have missed the morning’s song, a beautiful bedtime story, all your words rolled beautifully into one, morgen, liebe, plötzlich.

My Cycle of Goodbyes


It isn’t easy to let you go. It is like sending a soldier to war despite knowing that he shall never return – either the defeat will destroy him or he shall succumb himself to the struggle for victory. We are, but like, these weeping parents sending our child to fight another absurd battle. And in a way, when poets say that the clouds are weeping when it rains, they are true, for weep we do as you leave the skies and sail towards the bottomless world.

I wonder how you gather the courage to undertake a feat of such measure and uproar. How you gather the spirit and courage to leave the freedom of the skies – a freedom sought by an entire universe that walks without wings, with feet coupled to the ground – individuals who can only look up to the open firmament with an unattainable desire of attainment.  But the trophies of the free sky never impressed you my young, for you are noble and wise, just as you are tender and full of empathy.

You travel the heavens to quench the thirst of a hopeless, unsolicited dry land and bring boundless joy to an ignorant earth.  I wonder how you gather such happiness from your own fall. “But mother, I am friends with the wind and the boats, and in love with the laughter of young children who dance to my song,” you say. You are gracious my love, and full of a courage I know you did not get through lineage for we are earthly and incapable of such bravery.

I see you as you leave me, without pain or sadness, and the sands drink you up greedily and I think of them as selfish. But as I sit and ponder in the metaphoric sea of thought, I suddenly see a glimpse of you in a seven color spectrum in the sky. My love, I smell you in the fragrant waves of wet sand and I see your trace in the happy dance of thriving trees. I hear your music long after it stops playing, my love, in the smiles of famished children.

And at last I see you rise above again, in changed form, and give birth to young white clouds and rejuvenating purity. And I realize that you are immortal, my darling, and you continue to live in hearts and spring in souls.  I know now that you are the personification of complete happiness and hope to a sad people.

You live in end and after death my beloved. You are a martyr. You, dear Rain, are eternal just like the happiness you have always wished to entice.

Your Loving Mother

The Cloud

Eagle Course


I am standing in the shade, at quite an altitude, and someone is whispering rants in my ear. Concerned, melancholic, distressful rants. I am offering an ear, and after some time I turn deaf. The sky is fair and readying for sunset: a little blue, still a little white, purple at the closest horizon. It is full of mighty black winged birds retracing their course in one single direction. They are returning home. But it’s much before their ebbing time today.

I can tell by the way they flap their wings and fly, that they are eagles. Mighty soarers, and high flying species. They are the crown-wearers of the sky, they practically reign its vast empire.

But they are retreating to their nest, sharp at six tonight. I fuse my eyebrows together, no longer concerned of what my companion is saying, concerned why. I map the sky, and it doesn’t take long for me to understand.

A huge black cloud is following their trails. Caressed and dominated by sparks of lightning on its ends. Followed by gorging thunder and colossal sounds.

The white and black clouds fuse together and stitch the little window through which I watch the mighty eagles fly back home. They do not chirp or make calls; they have absolutely no folklore for weathers like today. No warning, and red calls or music of danger, no fear of the storm. They retreat the same brave-heart, steel kings, they had gone.

The sky remains empty for a moment. Grey, and vacant yet anything but serene. And out of nowhere the eagles appear again, flying in random paths, crossing each other paths and refusing to collapse their journey for the day out of their fear of the upcoming storm, but their course has lowered. I can almost touch them. I just need to tip a little toe.

The thunder bites in. Followed by a bolt of light straight into the land. As I turn my gaze to the sky again, the eagles have vanished. They have surrendered to the urge of the storm to take over the sky. They have accepted the superiority and precedence of the rain above them. They wear the sky’s crown of steed, but the rain looms over the throne.

There is just one large black wing, making its way to shed, not flapping its way and cutting through the air current like eagles do, but flipping all the while like a mismanaged kite for the same cold wind that gushes between the skin of my bare legs, refutes it.  The wind with the silence before the storm, the wind with the same ice it has had all month, brewing into its demonise powers.

The sky is clear once again, and the eagles have withdrawn course to let nature have its way. And after a long month of cold winds, and sheer wait, the rain has transpired unto my land. The soil soaks in the water, and the snow is mixing with its sisterly love. Water spurts by me. It patters like stones of iron clad on my face. And at last, after tarrying and tarrying and hoping to see the drought end, winter has come unto my land. 

I stand still, the eagles are watching me feel delight in their rout.

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