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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

Words convulse emotions digress, we are at loss, as how far to progress-- at times it feels like stopping here at times meandering ways, at times it's ponderous, at times idioms fail. A poem delves deep enough, the only medium I relate I never know its origin and where it escapes-- in a trance or in senses in real or in fiction, truth or the facade it takes me to realms of dreamlike imagination, a source of seamless digression. Into the recess, out of the closet it seems at times to play in the midst: a deliverance of emotions, a repertoire of memories, spilling in excess. has always been a Saviour in the weather of Life when all appear meaningless and dry... By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

I often stare at the painting of the bull in my living room. Such intricate work, such finesse, and the amount of patience that went into making it amazes me every time I look at it. I have many such Madhubani paintings at my place, a few of them even superior in theme and execution. But I keep coming back to this bull named Nandi. Yes, He is none other than the ardent worshipper of Lord Shiva. The reason which drew me to this painting was His enchanting eye. Only one eye is visible since it is a two-dimensional painting. The more I look into it, it appears to reveal some truth...as if, they have words of their own...trying to speak a language I have long lost comprehension of. The other day, my yoga teacher, Mrs. Dixit dropped in at my place without any hint of doing so. I was totally abashed and unprepared. I was having my lunch and everything was lying helter-skelter. I didn't know what to say and how to react. Silently, she entered through the entrance door as if that was quite normal and expected of her. "Why didn't you come for your yoga class Kavya?" she asked me with a worried look in her eyes. I was puzzled. My half-finished biryani was staring at me. How could I say the truth that her yoga steps were driving me crazy! For three days I had been trying to ace dhanurasana and twisted my left leg badly. After much coaxing from her, I tried to stand on my head leaning against the wall. The world around me seemed to be revolving after I stood on my feet. Either my upright position was not correct or the headstand went wrong. I felt dizzy and quickly understood that yoga was not tailor-cut for me. "Actually, I don't think I can continue with my yoga classes anymore," I jabbered out my words. Nervously awaiting her reaction, my eyes guiltily pried towards my biryani. I wished that she didn't mind my unapologetic behavior. I gave a cursory look at her. To my utter surprise, she was not looking at me. I followed her gaze and found her examining the bull's painting. "Doesn't that eye seem mysterious to you?" she asked thoughtfully. "the mystery is in His eye or in the beholder, the bull seemed to have hit its target- appeared as my Saviour..." By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

Yesterday, in the evening, I went for a pillion ride on a scooter with my friend. It's been a long time since I had been part of a trip on a two-wheeler. The scooter zoomed through the roads, slowed down while taking turns, and then screeched while it stopped near a street food outlet. We decided to gorge on some as we were famished. We savored pani puri and papri chaat , devouring them as if we had not eaten them ever. I must say they were delectably spicy and mouth-watering. After that, we went to one open ground nearby with intermittent grasses spread throughout. The vacant plot was waiting for the multi-storied to be built on it. No construction work had yet been started but a billboard bearing the name of the builder was shining through the darkness which just set in. The soil was yellowish and dusty at most of the places; it often took its course along with the wind. We sat near a small outgrowth and talked our hearts out, not having met since she had changed her neighborhood. It was already dark and our tete-a-tete was not yet over. "I think you should start talking to him. It's already been three days," I suggested. "But how could I? First, he should apologize," she grimaced. "Again you have started that same vicious cycle," I retorted as I passed an annoying look while adjusting the edges of my shirt tucked into my jeans. "Today you are going to talk to him and solve this silly matter altogether." Both of us stood to leave the place as we were getting late. "Well, I will try but..." her words trailing off into the air as she started her scooter, rumbling out of the dusty land. I was in two minds, thinking whether to sit putting my legs across or to one side. Every time I ride a bike or a scooter, this question crosses my mind. As the vehicle zipped through the air, I felt like flying my scarf into the air like a filmy heroine but then dropped the idea since that might irate my friend. She was on a mission- going to do something she had never done before. She had an altercation with her husband three days back. They have a pet dog. The dog fell ill due to food poisoning. First, her husband accused her of not giving a proper diet to the concerned pet. She immediately retaliated and the argument went on for hours. Only when they had come to a truce on this point, the second problem crept in-- who would take the dog to the vet? Eventually, my friend had to take it to the clinic and since then she had not been talking to her husband. I really don't know whether she would take in my suggestions but I was enjoying the ride to the full-- through the air, I fly humming a song of clouds and spring, and then I remember my pressure cooker is still on the oven unattended... By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life

Last Friday, my friend and I went shopping at a renowned marketplace in Delhi. Well, this time not in her scooter. But by metro. The place is quite far off from our place, so we decided on public transport as it would keep both of us free from traffic hassles associated with road travel. We had embarked on this metro journey after a long time since Covid infiltrated into our lives and created havoc on it. As the rail pulled off at our destination, we got off onto the platform. We used the subway to reach the other side of the road. "I am sure my husband is either watching television or hooked up with his clients on the phone," said my friend while adjusting her dupatta. A weird-looking man in a brown rusted coat and shabby beard was staring at us with glittering eyes. An eerie feeling swept up my spine and we both hastened towards the stairway opening to the pavement outside. Nothing really happened as he kept doing his work and we ours. We encounter people at odd places and their behavior stuns us in inexplicable ways. Stunted bushes, neatly pruned, adorned the edges of the stoned pavement of the marketplace. Intermittent benches for taking rest in between sweep-of-your feet shopping have been meticulously set. Bargaining was of no use at this place, all fixed prices. Soon we had our hearts full with shopping. We were famished and could ravenously eat a plateful. We eyed for a modest eatery as we were running out of money. Excess shopping had made us penniless. We entered a small, dark, and airless restaurant. The air was redolent of spices and stew. The restaurant was a typical one, in the nascent stage perhaps. The cooking pots and utensils were set up in a makeshift kitchen at the right side of the entry door, put out of sight by a red muslin portiere. We were looking for the table when we found that there was no counter to receive orders. A young couple, in their twenties, were having coffee. However, we found a table and sat on the slim-legged chairs. A young chap happened to pass by us. "Can you please help us with placing orders? We are a bit confused about this place," I asked trying to fit my shopping bags under the table. "Sorry ma'am, I don't understand what are you saying," said the boy "We are hungry and so please bring the menu card quickly," my friend interrupted "But ma'am there is no menu card. We prepare meals according to the choice of the production unit and actors," the boy informed We gave each other a shattering look and then glanced at the place again. It was a set for a teleserial, put up on the open ground by the sideway. The shooting was on halt due to lunchtime and what we thought of as a makeshift kitchen was actually so. And as regards our longing for a plateful to satiate our ravenous souls, let's discuss it in the next episode... "When frogs jump in your vacant plot and cents don't suffice, you can play the flute to bring some respite" By Nandini Sengupta @metaphors_of_life