Myriad Musings

Who are you today?

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Who are you today?

I often wonder

Have you geared up to tackle blunt realities or are you still clouded by conspiracy theories?

Are you still a cosy armchair expert or are you jumping into the field and getting your hands dirty?

Is your full-time job what you’d like to do in leisure? Perhaps, you published the comics, that the seven-year-old you unleashed on walls and chart paper alike.

If genetics wins the Nature vs Nurture debate, then perhaps you’ve found your safe haven in education. I bet you’re raising hell by inspiring your students to rebel.

I hope you’ve embraced your awkward self and still happily flail on the dance floor, fumble song lyrics and stay wary of glass.

I pray you still get lost, every now and then, and go through a memorable adventure to find your way back. Who knows? Maybe those days are long gone and you’ve turned into a visuospatial whiz now.

Do you still talk in your sleep, rush to the sports section in the newspaper and like your coffee strong?

Is your sense of smell still your superpower? I can imagine your distasteful glance when you sniff out spoilt milk in the kitchen, all the way from the terrace.

Does your mind still get its flipflops done by solving puzzles on the commute to work? I picture you multitasking, with your enthusiastic ambidexterity.

I can’t see a bumbling play pal strapping on the boots of parenthood, but enough time has passed for you to build a sweet home and a sweeter family.

I wonder if you’re saving the world, one brick at a time like you always told me you would. You tend to spring into action when it comes to charity.

I know you mastered many a foreign tongue to visit alien lands across the globe. Are you happily experiencing a different city every day? Perhaps, that’s why you’ve never returned home.

Can you imagine, in the world where everyone seems to know everyone, we managed to lose touch and stay lost?

Well, I found the suspense we were looking for in the detective novels we sprinted across. I’ve replaced them with my wondering about you, which is a consistent source of thrill.

At the end of my guessing games, I always come to the same conclusion:

No matter who you are today, I wish you were around.

Copyright © Roshni Ramanan

Goals: To introduce a third person to the reader through an ambiguous, possibly unstable author.

Offer the reader enough space to determine what to believe and what not to, so as to build a caricature of the third party, who may entirely be a figment of the author’s imagination.

To instil a sense of nostalgia, melancholy and loss where ‘loss’ could mean a parting of ways or a more permanent separation, like death.

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Myriad Musings

Remnants

“ ~Show mercy on the poor old woman ~~ Give alms, without qualms – oh, oh, ohh- show mercy on this poor old woman ~~,” I sang. I know the word around town paints me as the “loony grannie.” Perhaps, I am. My life certainly carried sufficient trauma to justify the insanity I am accused of. A lady clad in silk by the temple drops a hundred rupee note on to my weary palm. A generous tip but my eyes don’t leave her purse. The purse draped in soft blue, like mine once was, as though wrapped in clouds of shyness and secrets.

I had accidentally forgotten my soft blue purse in the canteen, caught up in daydreams and fallacies as twelve year olds often tend to be. Lo and Behold, it turned out to be a blessing. Who returned it but the most desired chap in our grade ? One of the TDH guys- Tall, Dark, Handsome. My purse was safe, with all its myriad contents intact but for one. My photograph was missing.

I swagger up to the tea shop and pick up a newspaper while sipping my cup, uptown girl style. Vestiges of the past remain, you see. The owner still smirks at the idea of a literate beggar. Even after a routine two months, my curiosity for the news amuses him.

We were pouring over the newspaper, me and my TDH guy, surveying national problems meticulously, enraged and proud at all the right places. He says, “Our empty words are not making changes. Being is futile without doing” and I agree. My mind turns the page of every social service option until the unexpected word is hurled at me : Soldier. That’s what he wants to become. I can see his resolve in the tightened muscles of his lanky frame. I try to wear a sense of worship in my eyes, but they betray fear.

Ongoing Peace talks. Student Union Strikes again. I read the headlines mechanically. Old habits that refuse to leave like unwelcome guests. There’s one headline that clutches my heartstrings : Ring finger wrings hearts. About a celebrity’s engagement.

Tenth grade. While my peers were busy with Figures of Speech and Trigonometry problems, me and my fiancé were concerned with flower arrangements and guest lists for the wedding. The gleaming diamond on my ring finger emitted a foul smell, perceptible only to me, for I foresaw what was to come. A life of abandonment. Penniless. Widowed. Moving out of a house that was too close to “us”, away from a town whose street corners and pillars spoke my husband’s secrets. Estranged. Widowed. Penniless.

An array of excited school boys ran past me, with the vigour of an army about to launch their collective forces. A sports team. Cricket, Hockey, Football – Football, I decided. Seeing children and lamenting my childless days was a thing of the past. A pain I had grown numb to. Still, at the sight of their uniforms, a cold dread wrapped around my heart, disguised as a safety blanket, while it was in reality, a prickly porcupine shawl. I always have the sense to  go into hiding on Republic Days and Independence Days. I should’ve added Sports Day to that list. What torpefied me into submission once now startled a wail from my unsuspecting throat.

The sight of the tricolour symbols on their uniform.

Symbols that cost two lives.

One dead.

Another buried alive.

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Myriad Musings, Poetry

Into an amnesiac’s memory- Poem

I live, as though, in another’s stead,

Images Crisp, flash in my head.

Dancing around the shrubs, one summer break,

Served sweet potato fries and delicious steak.

A spring evening, walking down the aisle,

After years of courting, married off in style.

As autumn hit, I hugged my willow tree,

Worried it would shed: My last memory.

Now winter is here, I’m only a recluse,

All it brought me was apathy and abuse.

I’m told my remembrances are false,

By aliens who define me by my flaws.

Apparently, there was no beckoning food,

No diamond rings or the willow wood.

Yet, these pictures light up a present bleak,

Give me strength, when I feel weak.

So I let my desperation and hope speak

And hold on tight with all my might

To these vivid images that just feel right.

Wipe away these memories, my past is dead,

Believe you me, with no question of ‘instead’.

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Myriad Musings, Poetry

Spotlight- Poem

Catapulted into frenzy!

Life snatched out of helpless hands,

Time ephemeral as shifting sands.

Flashlights and fickle fame,

I miss when I was a nobody

And life wasn’t as gaudy.

When I had four four AM friends

Instead of fevered, frantic fandom.

Solitude stubbornly evades me

What’s the world but one giant CCTV ?

Every word and deed, weighed beyond rational need;

The critics’ gleeful feed, just to watch me bleed !

Waiting like hawks to dent my image

Clawing away until I’m bent out of shape;

To force me to drown,

So they can usurp my crown !

Shielded and sure, that was the promise :

Flawed ramifications of a fallacious premise.

WordPress Daily Prompt : Catapult

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