Family Ties

The beloved monsoon has finally arrived. Every nook and corner of the city is alive with the scent of fresh wet green leaves; sometimes the scent is interlaced with the invigorating aroma of ginger-tea and hot onion bajiyas. As the city comes out on the streets to celebrate, there is someone in some corner of the city longing to be home, to be eating those bhajiyas with a house full of people they grew up with, and to be home at last. As children jump in those puddles and enjoy the splashes cool water all over their face, one face drips with tears of longing. The rain, for that heart, is the tale of its woe and lonesomeness. The rain drops recite a different poem for a heart in pain.

When the rains pour down heavily on the barren lands, splashing drops are hurt by the unperturbed
cracks in the soil. The cries of a million drops are heard as music by plenty, some know of the agony they face to soften a hard heart. Pain never dies out completely. Like any other energy, it can only be transferred. Sometimes, it is transferred when your love is uninterested, sometimes when angry, but it does pass-on. The little drops come with all their might to splash thy face with a freshness it longs. Little do thou contemplate their pain as they break down unto a million pieces when they touch thou.

With a heart filled to the core with nothing but longing, and a mind that prohibits talking, untold stories haunt the soul like none other. These ghosts of the mind are the most powerful in the silence of the night. The desolate hearts cry tear-less in the tranquility of the dark surrounds and dry eyes search for light inside the soul. Stuck amidst the constant fight between the two worlds conjured up by none but self, a torn figure, too desperate to kneel down and let everything go, manages to walk forward with the only thing fueling it is the burning of hope and strength, that diminishes every minute to make the figure a little more weak with each stroke of the clock’s arm. Terrified of letting go and incapable to continuing, the dilemma never ceases to exist.

Shards of a shattered desire prick the feet, of spirit. Bleeding bruises ache lesser than a hollow heart that was dismantled piece by piece by the yearning of its own. The hankering never sleeps, not even in the odd hours when the black shrouds cover the skies. It eats the essence that is you and gives a concave heart in return.

To all such hearts, I wish to say, hang in there as this is only temporary; hang in there for happy endings are real; hang in there, for there is no other way. Giving up leaves you with what you dread, but hoping leaves you with a dream to work towards.