Dear D, I have often come across a thought, a particular one in fact. With age, this thought is gradually turning into a realization. During my childhood, I was never confident about myself. As I grew up, I always knew in my heart that I was capable of doing certain things, but never had the courage to do them. I was not matured enough to understand my thought, the reason behind this lack. That thought was SELF-BELIEF. I never believed myself enough to be capable of doing things I ever wanted to, never loved myself enough to have belief in my self-worth, never respected myself to receive that respect from others. They say everything starts from us, within us, to perceive them in the real world. With time I have realized it, felt it, and now try my best to allow it. Innumerable questions hovered my mind ever since this illumination dawned on me. What is my purpose? What is the purpose of my living? What am I supposed to do? How should I start? In fact from where exactly? Will I be able to start all over again? As I was struggling with these dilemmas, I decided to start from the start. To begin from where I left. When people should be quite comfortable with their lives and jobs, I am going through the initial teething problems. But I take it as a challenge, not a struggle, rather an opportunity, not a loss of time. And I am enjoying it to the full. At least now I know my worth, am capable of loving myself unconditionally, respect my values and integrity. I no longer listen to outside chaos, but my inner voices. I actually feel alive rather than being just living. Now I have a purpose to live for, a dream to fulfill, and roads to travel by. What more shall I ask for? That's all for today. Now I must go and have my dinner. "circling around the tree in an aimless vision I forgot to look up, the sky was not far- but I was busy tending the grass..." By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

My dear D, Today I don't know what I should write. As I sit down to jot my thoughts, I stare at your page blankly. I feel like holding this moment forever, a state of total blankness-a state when thoughts bother you least, when nothing absolutely matters to you--you enjoy this bliss in a state of foreverness. But then arrows of impermanence find their way into that state and you are again drawn back to reality. Quite early enough I found myself enjoying this blankness. While I would sit down to study in front of the window, I stared at that pink flower, its olive-green leaf, eaten from the edges by an insect. I don't remember the name of the flower, several summers have passed since then. Sometimes, a bee would come and nestle there. A passer-by, holding a plastic net bag would hurry for the fish market. Sounds of crying would travel from the neighboring house where a schoolboy was admonished for not preparing for exams...I would sit still, with my chemistry book gaping at me, almost pleading me to read a page or two. Once, I was standing at the bus stop with my family. After some time, I heard a voice, probably calling out my name. I turned back and found my mother waving at me, calling out at the top of her voice. It took me some time to register that the bus had come. I didn't notice. I was looking at a man carrying two large tins of water on his shoulder. I was perhaps lost navigating his footsteps as they curved to alternate sides. Such a weird task I was involved in! In another instance, I went to the largest museum, located in Hyderabad, with my cousins. It was huge and numerous artifacts from earlier times adorned the glass cubicles. I was so engrossed in their intricate works in a state of absolute wonder that when I looked around, no one from my family was visible nearby. I somehow ran, looking for them. It was reality escaping me or the other way round, I don't know. But with time and age, this innocent and dream-like existence found its way out...the childlike mind gave way to adult realism...Still, at times, it tries to peep out from nowhere, reminding you of the person you were... Taking your leave for today. "the insect still eats the leaf the man still cycles to the market the museum still stands there the bus stop still awaits only the child is lost somewhere in the jungle..." By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

My loving D, You are the repertoire of all my thoughts and delicately captured moments of my ever-growing life. As I sit down to write, you become my sole listener and me, the speaker or writer. A narrator of sorts, dolling out monologues with no pauses per se. Time flies, sometimes really fast, and at times not so. When we are over and done with an episode of our life and look back on it years later, we perceive it in ways, entirely different from what we did then. Today, while cleaning up my shelf, I accidentally came across one school book of mine. Every time I clean the shelf, that book keeps popping up and I shove it aside. It's an essay book which I used during my school days. It's hardbound, with a cover in pink floral patterns. That pattern used to be quite popular during my school days. I don't require that book anymore. But today, I felt like opening that book again, a sort of deja vu feeling swept across my mind. But the most surprising part of opening that book was that, I found a letter, folded into two parts. Out of sheer curiosity, I opened it. The letter had been sent by a dear friend of mine when I was in high school. I had almost forgotten about the existence of this letter. And with time, her memories resided only in my subconscious regime. We were not best friends, yet we connected so well. She had left the school when we were in 12th grade. She went to London as her father got posted there. The letter, which she had sent me from there, was full of her experience and feelings. How she missed me, about her admission into a new school, the subjects she chose and that she had to repeat a year. Her house was in the outskirts of London city, a very long drive from Heathrow airport. She had described her house in the letter. It was on two floors. The ground floor had a living area, kitchen, washroom, and storeroom. The first floor had two bedrooms, a study room, and a washroom. That time we used the word toilet in place of the washroom. With time, diction has changed but the function of the place still remains the same. She had asked me to reply to her. "Please do write to me. I miss you." Her last words in the letter. But I never replied to her, though I missed her as well. Now, when so many years have passed on, I wonder why I did so. As I reread the letter several times, I felt like replying to her. But a huge time has lapsed and it's too late now. Her father must have been retired by now and she must be married with kids. I don't know where she is but I bless her with lots of love and a fulfilled life. We cannot undo our life backward. Yet, if my writing ever reaches her heart, she would know, I still miss her somewhere down the memory lane, in a small corner of my heart. I must stop here. Ample works piled up for today. Adios!! "you dwell in my heart in that very space in those loving moments we shared together those peals of laughter in our Hindi class horrible solutions spilling in the chemistry lab and then you were gone leaving behind, a void forever ..." By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

Dear D, For a long time, I couldn't open your pages, lest I fill them with unpleasant memories. I want your pages to be filled with hope and love. So that when I open you in my awaiting days, days when my feet feel like dragging in discomfort, you appear as pleasant memories, reminding me of days passed in joy and not just in hopelessness. While I was a child I always aspired to have a house of my own since we lived in a rented one. Alongside this dream, I also nurtured a fancy of having my own garden too. I would observe my landlady plucking flowers as an offering during her prayers. The curve and swiftness of her dainty fingers while she collected them, accorded an aura to the entire activity. She would carry a small netted cane basket hanging from her left hand while plucking flowers from the other. I would sit near the barred windows lost in my own wonderland. Years later when I was reading Naipaul's A House for Mr. Biswas, I was in my own beautiful house, happy with the thought that I need not go through the same trials for long. Speaking of the garden, I make do with my own small one. Cocooned in the small area of my balcony, the garden feels quite a happy place to be in. When planting a new sapling or adding manure, the soiled hands have a surreal earthy experience that can only be lived, not explained. This tactile experience makes your senses alive to the small, delicate workings of nature. I particularly love the climbers, holding onto but still rising, lending a vintage look to the balcony. The blushed flowers of bougainvillea dangling from a branch remind me of days that can't be revisited again. They seem cheerful in the morning and gloomy in the afternoon sun. Nature has its own way of healing your shortcomings and gaping bruises. It seems to own your silence, words that never took flight from your mouth, understand meanings which you never meant, a mirror to your true self-- whole and enough... Jasmines were never more persuasive than the last night when the windy rain showered its long camouflaged love on them. In fulfillment, they danced the night away... It's still raining outside, nature in its creative bloom. I want to pause this moment and get lost in this process. Meet you in a while... "the arid land in my recess drenched in the water of love sing the melody of the piper from the town of Hamelin afar" By Nandin Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

Just 'D' Today 'dear' feels out of space. No reasoning whatsoever. Certain aspects of life always remain inexplicable. Trying to write something out of nothing after a long gap. A lingering pause has settled in between the thoughts and words... Today, words are hesitant to escape out of their deep chasm. Like humans, they are content being where they are, reluctant to face the world. Often, I find myself relatable to their plight- reveling in the cocoon of known discomfort rather than confronting that dream awaiting my doorstep. Monochromatic images of memories sail through- some broken, some sewn while some joyful ones too. Over the years, I have accumulated a mammoth baggage of learning- through tiny moments of self-revelation, living in an unending sea of doubt, and uncomfortable circumstances. Here lies the irony- learning never seems to stop and I never cease to make mistakes. The entire process seems endless and forever. With time, I have learned to enjoy my own company, leaving behind the insecurity of being alone in the crowd. I feel this solitude makes me more of a writer than anything else- a time I get to spend with my thoughts, uninterrupted string of imagination, and freedom to create a world of my own, even if temporary; a suspension of reality or maybe a rendezvous with the real self. You can take it any way you like. I feel it's the conglomeration of both worlds- somewhere in between- a no man's land of sorts. Living in that state has its perks- a private space, no one can intrude. I resemble that gypsy trapped in the desert's dunes, not knowing where the road shall take her. While I write, the words that flow out are uncertain, they don't know where to pause or how long they need to travel. They halt on their own. The end seems predetermined but variable at the same time. Hope to start working on a new story very soon- less reflective and more engaging of course. That image of the magician with a hat appears before me: a rabbit emerges, and the audience is dumbstruck. Similarly, I want stories to appear before me from nowhere- if not from the hat, but from my head for sure- the grey cells need some watering. "One from the bush, one out of the truce; the genie rubs the lamp and the stories appear soon..." Goodbye for now. By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

Peeping through the glass door six year old Amu could see the infant monkey nibbling an apple with an unwavering gaze on the object of his consumption. Cradled in the warmth of his mother's frame, our young forefather overlooked the stare of his evolved version. Her wet tresses dampened the back of her peach coloured frock as her small fragile frame pressed against the glass door. Amu's family had recently shifted from Dehradun to Shimla, after her father secured a new job as the manager of a resort, reclined on a hilltop. "Look Ma, the baby monkey is eating an apple. I don't understand where he got the apple from?" "I don't have any idea Amu, they keep on picking things from random places,'' her mother replied while arranging clothes in the cupboard. It was Christmas. Amu's room was full with gifts, parceled from various acquaintances in different locations- her aunts, uncles, and few friends from her earlier school as well. But her favourite was a big blue ball gifted by her best friend Adi from Dehradun. She would often play with the ball in her balcony and at times with her father as well. One sunny afternoon, on new year's eve that baby monkey paid a visit without the mother. Amu was playing all by herself. As soon as she became aware of his presence, she alighted back with fear. She didn't expect this guest in her personal territory. The ball was still lying on the floor. Amu didn't move from her place. The monkey initially seemed puzzled; then moved forward and took the ball. Amu started crying looking at her precious possession. The young ape rolled the ball towards her and started chuckling. She took the ball in her grip and smiled. The most unexpected bond was created at that moment- a bond where language seemed inconsequential. They played the entire afternoon till Amu was called by her mother for having her evening milk. The next day while Amu was playing on her terrace garden, the mother monkey approached her. The young one was also there. The mother came near her while Amu stood speechless. Her droopy eyes, full with fear couldn't utter a sound while her blue ball was being taken away. Drops of tears fell on the uneven floor. Silently she went in. In spite of repeated coercing by her mother, she refused to budge. She stayed awoke that night staring at the darkened hills overlooking her balcony, through the glass door. Next day she didn't go upstairs. Her mother was worried. "What happened Amu? Why are you so quiet? Tell me my darling," She glanced at her mother with a look of suppressed anger but remained quiet. Her mother held her dainty hand and led her to the terrace. As she alighted the steps, the recurring thought approached her-"How could he?" Now that she was at the door to the terrace, she turned her back to come down. "Look Amu, you have left your blue ball on the terrace. Now I understand why you were unhappy. Go and play with it." Amu could see a halo around her mother's head while her lips moved as she spoke to her. The sun was just behind her. With renewed enthusiasm, she ran to pick the ball. Her sparkling eyes were searching around the terrace. She smiled. The baby monkey was sitting on the water tank above. Her mother didn't notice. "She is happy for she knows they are friends for now and ever" (*A short tale of friendship and trust for children.) By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

Escaping through the traverse of the ever flourishing mustard field, her tired soles no more feel the rough texture of the rolling dry land; the field has not yet been watered, her bleeding toes know no bounds of her ever approaching steps gliding through the winds of the yellow land, she pauses for a while- turns back at the life she left far off. The dwindling image of the man her parents chose to marry her off, standing near his hut made of mud and straw, her would-be-groom kept staring in awe. She never knew she could come this far- her trembling feet and arms could perceive her inner fears, her skipping heartbeat uttered a subdued cheer. Escaped she has after years of slavery of her ever invincible soul, the chains no more could entwine her in roles. She left them all at the steps of her house that was, as she opens the Door to her awaited vision in ardour. By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

At once understood and misunderstood-- the words once let out of the box, assimilates into the universe- can work wonders and also cause thunders. Language is a miraculous weapon to be meticulously studied and effortlessly put out. In spite of blabbering, munching and crafting them, a whole lot of our inner workings are left to be explained and understood...words seem inadequate, time inconsequential, the inner space still occupied with those unspoken sounds... The universe is said to be created out of a sound, sounds led to words and words to meanings- all by humans- they twisted and maneuvered it according to their lack and abundance-gave rise to several languages- all sounds in different spaces and time zones. The rhythm of a laughter, emitting such joyful vibrations need no words- the sound says it all...a child looking with bewitching eyes can only emanate love- such are wordless words, even language seems irrelevant... Once in the heart, out of the mouth and into the lover's eyes- the language of love- most of them heard, less is said and a whole lot to be understood with time. At times when everything seems out of place, these words come as a rescue-one must know when to speak and where to pause, when to hold on and where to let go...the inner voice knows it all. As aptly said, knowing a language opens a whole new window of the mind, explores a whole new thought- words roll out of the book, we need to catch those henceforth. A new tongue, a new nation with a whole new mirror of life, a mirror we never knew existed- dusted, explored and admired- a reflection of the new self-raw and promising... "Circular or rectangular it doesn't bother, need to reflect the Real Me; Traversing the barriers of any language, either of the heart or the mind, Stand true to the words spoken into my eyes- mirroring my Soul to Me..." By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

Let the waves surge the tides too shall move on with time, as strings of the sitar are pulled through, the images of reverie break apart; the dawning of the sun illumes the conscience the clouds assuage into an outpour, let them flow into a stream of ecstasy while it merges with the ocean of absolute nothingness; with the flow of time will acquire its worth the clear sky will reflect the real you all were but waves of the mind you were always You. By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of _life

I will not sleep for hundred years for the raging soul aspires to be poetry of your endless nights a dreamer of your dreams. I will not sleep for hundred years for your love searches the divine in me when sinews of your prophetic verses coil around my corporal being. When those diaphanous words will spill your upturned folios when every letter will reverberate with love my essence will find its core your name, its long-awaited purpose. Those hundred years then evaporate in time and space those nights sing in harmony while you behold me in your embrace and I repose till eternity... By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

When everything seems meaningless and rubble, when you are floating in a bubble, consider you are in trouble. When the heart denies the working of your mind, even when you feel it's not right, let yourself know you are in love-light. Save from falling when you hear the call if you dare at all! Mysterious it is for none know it's enigma of origin, how it appears and then disappears! Traces of it are left all over it will take you ages before you finish to gather them ever. It's a respite for none for every soul, it runs when it befalls, thereon- The fire within refuses to douse when sleep deprives you and you confront knockouts, do keep yourself stout while the sapling sprouts. For your heart is innocent dreams of benevolence, fortunate are you if repaid in balance. If the bubble bursts and the void is known, never despise your dream, remember My Love it all started Within. By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

Tuli would go to the park in her neighborhood with her grandfather every evening. She had turned six last month. With light eyes and dark brown hair, she resembled her mother in many ways. The sun had not yet set totally. Its vestiges were still visible in the crimson blue tinge of the sky. She intently gazed at all the other kids taking the swing as they flew high towards the dawning sky. In spite of repeated insistence by her grandfather to sit on it, she would not budge. Creepily, she set her feet towards the merry-go-round. She twirled around as she looked at the sky in merriment. "Grandpa, look the sky is moving in circles," she shouted while her hair tossed on her face. Her mother worked as a housemaid in the morning and cooked for a family in the evening. Every day while Tuli left for the park, her mother would go to work. Her father was a security guard in a nearby locale. His duty was mostly scheduled at night. Tuli went to sleep listening to stories narrated by her mother every night. Stories of Goddess Kali, and Durga, folk tales spanning thousands of years, of heroes and princesses. Every morning, as she woke up from sleep, she would play around with those fables in her mind. How one day she would gather enough courage and sit on the swing and fly like the princess in the story to some neverland. But as she went to the park in the evening, the sight of the swing would grapple her with a nameless fear. She imagined herself falling off the seat and rolling onto the ground while other children laughed at her. "Maa, could you ride the swing when you were of my age?" she asked her mother with a worried look on her face as they slept together at night. The two-room house they lived in belonged to her grandfather. It was a cemented house with layers of brick held in plasters of cement. The roof was covered with heavy tiles. Streaks of moonlight escaped through the gaps in the tiles and fell on their bed. After much thought, her mother tossed herself toward her daughter. Running her fingers through Tuli's hair, she replied, "I never got a chance to sit on a swing. My mother died when I was five. My father had no time to take me to the park. I never went to school. But you are. I work hard so that you can study and enjoy your childhood. Why are you afraid of a swing? You are born to fly. Don't think of what others will say..." she dozed off to sleep before she could complete her sentence. But Tuli understood what her mother wanted to say. The next day, as soon as she came back from school, she dragged her grandfather's hand and went to the park. "First have your lunch Tuli. Then we can go," her grandfather's words trailed off into the air. Standing in front of the swing, she stared at it for a long time. Holding the chain, she sat on the wooden seat. A rush of unknown fear passed her entire frame. She closed her eyes, and thought of her mother and her shining eyes, looking at her with expectation and hope. Her tiny trembling hands could hardly hold her mother's dreams. The chains became moist under her sweating palms. "Grandpa, look I am flying with the sky..." tears of laughter smudged her small round face. How could she let her mother down! "fly and fly high for you got a chance your feet know the way to school and freedom..." By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life