'Sweetheart' A name you would often call me by... Today I celebrate our love. In the aroma of flowers, you gifted me that day, I still seek your fragrance. They are dried now but are still resting on my window sill. I couldn't throw them away. They too are waiting to be touched by your warm hands. I surmise they are shying away in silence lest you read their thoughts. They are their secrets. I had a dream last night. I embraced thee in my arms, my love, held thou tight to never let you go. In my dreams, you are with me and I am yours. Through my poetry, you are remembered every day. In my lines, you are loved and cared for. The clouds shall be my messenger; the wind touching your wisps of hair shall be my friend in disguise, whispering my words of love into your steel ears. They don't mind man-made barriers. My ardour was borne of you and yours of me. The hands that touched your essence were none but of me. The drops of tears that fell on those flowers while I was bringing them home are dried now. They don't mourn anymore. "with gratitude I end this letter with dignity I set myself free" {She keeps this letter in her box along with other numerous ones...} By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

By the seaside I was there, waiting for you lost in the turbid water of the animated sea as it made its way through those triangular rocks in the early hours of a busy morning, I was still there while the evening ushered in with a longing to return to the obscurity of night I turned back many a time in case you haven't noticed me in the golden tint of the sinking sun as it put the sea to a slumber with its lullaby Then I got up, shook the dirt off my sleeves and placed the rose on the rock in case you arrive by mistake after I have left... By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

Laura was doing her laundry. It was a Sunday afternoon and she was finishing up all her pending work from the week before. She worked as an assistant in the office of a wedding planner. Her work barely gave her time to tidy up her house or to finish up her cooking. For the last four months, she had been surviving on noodles, cereals, and sandwiches. Her high cheekbones became more promiscuous. Today was the day she decided to cook a full meal for herself. The vegetables were all chopped and washed. The tofu was diced and marinated. The kitchen looked alive after months. The utensils were splayed across the countertop, waiting to be heated and sauteed. Their wait was getting to be over. It was just a matter of a few minutes. As Laura collected her clothes from the floor, her honey-colored hair partially hid her curious eyes around the edges of her face. She noticed a square purple stone falling from her shirt's pocket. The stone was tiny, square-shaped, and shining. Laura picked up the stone and looked at it intently, trying to remember how it arrived in her pocket. She had joined the company in Texas to work as a trainee. She had plans to start her enterprise after a year or two of hands-on experience. The doorbell rang. She left her laundry and scurried to the main door. She peeped through the door eye. She couldn't see anyone. "Maybe someone has rung the bell by mistake," she thought and went back to her work. She started the washing machine and went to her kitchen. The bell rang again. She waited for a moment and went towards the door. She again peeped through the eye but couldn't find anyone. Just when she turned her back to return to her work, she heard a voice. "It's me, Leo." The voice was faint yet distinct. It was familiar too. Laura quickly opened the door and looked down. Six years old little Leo was staring at her with blue eyes. He looked worried. "What happened dear?" "My magic stone is with you." "Ah, yes. I found a stone today in my shirt's pocket." "It's mine." "But I am surprised. How did it come into my pocket?" "I had put it when I came to your house yesterday with Mom." "But why?" "So that Mia doesn't take it." Laura laughed and didn't say anything. Mia was Leo's younger sister. They lived in her neighborhood. She gave him the stone. He took it with a huge relieving smile and went away. She too went to the kitchen, surveyed the mess, smiled, and resumed working. A sumptuous meal was served on the small white table which also served as her workstation. And thus she treated herself to her first real meal after four months... (Slow music played in the background) "Little things, little joys little smiles and playful toys; A child brings memories of our lost days spent unalloyed." By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life *(It's a story of childhood innocence pitted against adult realism.)

the crazy me went on to weave an unrealistic dream spun out of the void that very day crossed my mind today the day i waited for you near those blue houses by the narrow lanes and then you would come out of nowhere we would hold hands the warmth that lingered even when i went to sleep dreaming of you in my dreams too the steep steps of the jhalra would scare me off you held me tight close by your side felt our oneness in that moment today it rained again like that very day we had no umbrella waiting under a drooping tree for the rain to stop silly me, didn't understand that was our last day together i still dream of you still weaving dreams of you in my dream the blue houses still stand there many of them have lost their colors people aspired to new hues that blue has turned old silly me, still pass a glance whenever I cross by those lanes of diminishing blue houses lest you stand there waiting for me incase i lose taking note of... By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

"In uncertainty, I find my freedom In the crowd, I find my voice My stories are the pieces of a game of puzzle that we essentially call Life." (by the protagonist) Clad in a saffron robe with a clean-shaven head, he would sit on a vast boulder adjacent to the river bed. He was just fifteen when he found this place while he had a fallout with his friend Raman one evening. Heartbroken, he arrived at this place aimlessly. He sat on that magnificent assemblage of earth and intently studied the river's flow, its gushing sound, the silver dancing of the moon, and the music of flying herons. He kept returning to this place time and again after that fateful evening. Six years had flowed with the river since that day. Several events followed and countless stories were being churned out. Agastya was a monk by then. He understood early on that life was full of mysteries to be unraveled, and he took it upon himself to solve them all. Every day, he would sit on a rock and write a story, drawing inspiration from his personal experiences. As a village boy who had never been to a town, his stories revolved around the people he encountered in his locality. But each one was replete with meanings he took up from his life: lessons he learned, hurts he endured, people he met, the ones he lost, and the friends who remained forever. Every story encapsulated strains of empathy he imbibed through his unique experiences. Agastya had been initiated into monkhood by his Guru who lived in his village Muktigram. Whenever he was in a dilemma or had a question, he would turn to him. But that year his guru was not in his village. He was in another village named Anandgao, far off from the one where he lived. And Agastya had an answer to seek. He needed guidance from his teacher. Now the main challenge for him was to travel that extra mile to reach there. He had never been anywhere outside his place. But getting the answer was equally crucial to his imminent journey. After much deliberation, he set his journey on foot. It was not easy on his part. He had no idea about the exact direction of his objective, the route that would lead him to his guru. But he knew he would have to undertake this journey to find his answer. He asked his villagers about that village and based on their information he undertook his mission. It took him one whole day to reach the village of Anandgao. En route, he met a young boy playing with a tyre of a four-wheeler deftly running it with a stick. It didn't lose its balance even for once. Even after such long years in spirituality, he was yet to master this level of focus and dedication. He understood he had a long way to go and continued his journey. After a while, he felt thirsty. His bottle was empty and the village being on the outskirts, didn't show any sign of a well or waterbody. He was thirsty and exasperated. The sun was on the top. He had traversed only half the distance. He couldn't drag his legs. They were swollen. He wondered how this could be. He was a monk, not an ordinary human being. After pulling through some more distance, he saw a tree. He sat underneath and fell asleep. When he woke up, it was already evening and he had a few more hours left to finish his journey. He quickly stood up and started walking fast. He must reach his destination before the end of the day. His legs ached, and his throat dried, yet he continued his walk. At about nine, in full darkness, he reached his destination, the beautiful village of Anandgao. He was indeed feeling happy and fulfilled. As he stretched out his hands, looking up in the sky, drops of rain fell on his face, then his lips and then he was entirely drenched. His thirst was quenched. He now knew his answer: the answer he had sought for such a long time. He quickly ran to his guru, fell to his feet, and started crying. "I always thought I was a monk, away from worldly desires and limitations. I thought all these years I had learned a lot. But today I realized I was distracted from my goal, the goal to serve people whole-heartedly, without any ego." "Go and share your stories with the world. They need to be shared and read and not treasured," his guru smiled. "the monk on the rock the rock is of the soil all stories reside there you pick the one of your choice..." By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

I will meet you in a life hereafter in a different land away from this chaos where all barriers will cease to exist where all your lies will turn into golden truths where all your denials will evaporate into acceptance where my lovelorn hands will find thee in my embrace where your eyes will pierce through my heart and garlands of flower will emerge from my peals of laughter. I will meet you in a life hereafter where your invisible kisses will implant them on my lips where caressing your being will make me find myself which lost itself into invisible paths of darkness your hands touching my tresses will emanate a fragrance of love the infinite one safely locked in my treasure trove of madness. I will meet you in a life hereafter where this distance will cease to exist where all our misunderstandings will melt into nothingness where 'us' will exist neither 'you' nor 'me' where our souls will reflect our hearts borne of oneness. There shall I meet you where you will come as you and only you for me and for me alone... By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

The grand perils of cooking the steaming hot khichdi in the making: to stir and when to stir the eternal dilemma while tasting. The proportion of spices is the door to its fame, if gone wrong, will make it lame. One pinch less or one pinch more that salt is the king to the core. To cook or not to cook? my mind approaches me every day the fork and the knife awaiting at the table answers without delay. To feed your mind and stomach of your dears a day off is always so rare. A mother must cook if not a wife a smile beams on your face when in a full stomach your child cheers in grace... By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

Of kings and dragon tales, Of mysteries and fables in place, Of lobsters and fishmonger, The night sky deals in all. Have you ever gazed at the sky? The old woman still spins in spite. Have you noticed the polar bear? At times it turns into a deer. Just close your eyes underneath the vast starry dark sky, You can listen to the tales of Rumpelstiltskin and Snow White. Not all dark is fearsome, Not all mysteries are unsolved, Not all tales told yet, Some are buried withal. The night sky stitches a hundred tiny tales of hopes and pleasure, wrapped in boxes of treasure. By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

An excerpt from a letter written for her love with love: The moment you smeared me with your colors of love, I was no more me. As your lips rubbed against my naked vulnerable frame, my water-blurred vision rolled down into my ears. The nameless soul that looked for you so long, couldn't believe your presence. All my life I have kept loving you and you. So many complaints, unfinished disputes, and every thought spent accusing you, melted into that moment when I looked into your eyes so full of love and numbing pain. May this night never end, may the scent of my tresses falling on your face, make you forget the passing time; the hand touching the edge of my lips and neck, keep caressing me forever. Let me tell you how I spent the days without you, how I have missed your deep loving voice, your words seeping into my very being, kept reverberating in your absence, how annoyed I was with you for leaving me, how I wanted to hold you so tight. I wish I could pause this moment forever, eternally in your embrace, where all my aches will dissolve into nothingness... {She left this letter on his table while he was still asleep.} *An imaginary piece borne out of momentary trance. Stay tuned for the remaining letters. By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

The human forms were not visible clearly as the sandstorm blew its part over the rolling desert land. It was a tiny village set in the northwest of Rajasthan. The gypsies set their caravans on the outskirts of that village. Their camels stood nearby. No one ever cared about the name of the place. Bela was preoccupied with her doll: wrapping a red dupatta around it, putting it to sleep, and bathing it the very next moment. She never played with other children of the entourage. Walking with her feet delicately placed on the sand, she intently gazed at her footprints. The sand would blow them away. The village had sparse grasses and few Khejri trees. Bela chose one and sat beneath it. The tree was almost barren. Few leaves hung on its branches. The fruits have all dried up, making them useless for human consumption. The lore had it that the tree was once an abode of an ascetic. The ascetic left and the tree was left with few leaves. She studied the leaves with utmost dedication. After a while, she questioned her mother who was working nearby. "Ma, why are there so few leaves on this tree? "I don't know beta. Maybe it's dying." "How come? See the barks are still strong. I think the tree is unhappy." Her mother smiled back at her. "Then what will you do now?" "Nothing. I will play with it and it will become happy," assured Bela. Her mother knew that Bela had always been a playful and kind child. She would often find her nurturing small birds and feeding tiny ants. The next morning she brought her doll with her and sat underneath the tree. She would talk to the tree and sing songs to her doll. Then she started bringing other toys as well: a handmade boat, a string-drawn cart, and a few wooden utensils. She cooked for the tree and fed her doll. A gust of wind blew, and the leaves fluttered, nodding in acquiescence. New leaves started sprouting in a few days. Other children joined Bela in her play. Initially, she disapproved. But with time she learned the joys of the company as well. The children made a circle around the tree and sang folk songs they heard from their grandparents and parents. It's been two months: the time for the gypsies to leave this place and move to a new one. The head of the group had decided to move to a happening place where their business would flourish. The village hardly had money to buy their camels or goods. The tree was verdant with leaves and fruits. It had fodder for the animals and food for the gypsies. But Bela had to bid adieu to the tree. She hugged it and cried. Years passed on. Bela grew up to be a beautiful woman. But she could never forget that Khejri tree. She decided to visit that place with her father since she didn't remember much about it. Only the calming breeze of the leaves was etched in her memory. As she reached that village, she couldn't find that tree. She had forgotten the exact place. There were numerous such trees though their numbers have dwindled over time. After a prolonged search, her eyes fell on the broken branches of an old Khejri tree. Only a few leaves remained of it. The branches were weak. She went towards it. "Pappa, I am not sure if this is the tree." "It doesn't matter. This place and memory do," her father said. Bela hugged the tree and smiled. She remembered her friend: the days she played with it, the nights she slept under its shade. The wind blew. The leaves danced in happiness... "I am a gypsy, you are a tree with roots drawn deep within: My wanderer's heart seeks respite beneath your caring retreat. The earth that holds you bear me as well, the hands that made you fashioned me as well. You are a tree, I am a gypsy the incongruity doesn't matter anyway..." By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

That night has arrived, after a prolonged and agonizing wait: he would embrace her in his arms while her bangles would make a jingling dance into his maze- a passage, never trodden before the core only touched once a haven etched with her name for all the lives to ever come... With dewy eyes, enmeshed in kohl her tresses touching her anklets, bridled with the aroma of jasmine they accompany her in her wait- in ardour and pure ecstasy her eyes refused to close since the day before, lest he arrives at her abode premature... Impassioned in the fire of love for her beloved, she dreams of his approaching footsteps, narrating their tales to the village belles carrying pots of water and hay... The dusk arrives as the sun merges with the ocean, He comes and passes by her while She falls asleep at the steps of her doorway for just a brief moment... By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life {*Inspired by raag Jaya Jayanti. The raag narrates the story of Radha and Krishna. Radha waits for her beloved Krishna. She feels guilty for having closed her eyes at that very moment while he had arrived at her doorstep...}

Dear D, Last night I couldn't sleep properly. I tossed around with the blanket, not able to register how should I place it to feel comfortable. Sometimes, I was feeling cold and then within minutes, I felt like sweating. I was unable to dislodge those conversations from my mind. It kept coming back to me in hours of silence and shadows. In broad daylight, when there is so much clamor, I somehow sweep them away to that dusty corner of my memory bank. But with time they show up with cumulative interest. I had almost successfully placed them, covered within a soundproof cubicle. But yesterday, as I was dusting my almirah, that book fell down from the top. Those pages, almost turning yellow, were fluttering in the wind. It rained yesterday. The window was left open as I was watering my plants. As I bowed down to pick up the book, a red rose, now turned brown came out of it. With time, its petals have lost their softness. Now they have crumpled up. With a mere touch, they got detached from the fragile stem. It was a poetry book by my favorite poet. I had almost forgotten its presence. With time, the poet remains no more my chosen one. I have abandoned it long back. Those poems remind me of days spent with a dear one-- reading them together, laughing, going to places I never knew existed...I didn't know it would later become only a memory-- images that would take me years to dissolve in the water. The water is now puddled. I don't drink it anymore. From there rise wisps of unfulfilled promises, still lingering around those pages... Once I thought of throwing it into the bin. But then, I couldn't. I kept it back to its own place... Next time, while I dust that place, I would be careful enough not to touch it...Some memories and bruises are best kept untouched... "I look back and laugh In mirth, I shed my sorrow, Every tear has some purpose We learn tomorrow" (This diary entry is a figment of my imagination.) By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life