things there should be songs about

things there should be songs about

trying to hold hands. on Sunday afternoons, cotton dupattas drying in the balcony. mornings dyed with indigo and mist. raindrops on car windows. old songs in wallpapered taxis. old wallpapered taxis. softly singing with the music. yellow pink blue balloons at the traffic light.  goodbyes that end with see me again. 

what Love reminds me of

4. Wind before rain

The rain is beautiful, isn’t it? I love the smell of wet mud it leaves behind, like a song you continue to hum after it’s over. Rain falls carelessly and completely, drenching the trees, the houses, the bridges humans made to walk over water.

Sometimes when the rain turns into a storm, there are powercuts. As the lights go out, everyone in my house slowly comes together. We spread around the uncarpeted living room. I like sitting on the floor, the marble cold under my skin. We go around telling stories, interjecting, laughing, answering questions, listing cities we still haven’t visited. Then the lights come on and everyone finds something to do.

When I think of July, I imagine standing in the balcony as the hot afternoon dissolves into a cool breeze that will bring rain, maybe even a powercut as we wait for dinner. The chalk-white branches of the eucalyptus trees outside begin to dance. I imagine the first drop of rain falling on my cheek and disappearing. And I think, perhaps, it will rain.

London

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I can see the charm of the city now.

It’s made up of so many little things. People from all over the world and their deep, moving lives, rain and storms of raindrops polka-dotted on the boots walking its stretches. The pips of buses pulling in, smiles, so much music and the sparkling sun-kissed water of the Thames.

It’s a city made entirely of people, whose moving, harlequin lives form the pulse of its coveted heart.

Maps

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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.

 

#MarchMosaics

What Comes This Morning

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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

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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