Believe it or not, I spent all of yesterday in front of my computer, gaping at my blogger dashboard. I had least expected anyone to view my blog. But then, (forgive me for flaunting) I got 185 views in less than 18 hours. Gaaaaasp. Wait is that good or bad? I don't really know, since I'm blogosphere's newbie (some of the views were even from South Korea). Thank you all from the bottom of my heart for taking time to drop in to my blog, and please do keep visiting!
Today, I decided upon posting a short story. My favourite among the ones I've written. This was the last piece I wrote, before I took a break from writing on account of my 10th grade board exams earlier this year.
The short green blades prickled my back as I lay down on the grass of my favourite park - Quail Ridge Park. I lay right beside a pretty indigo flower. It looked a beautiful indigo in the moonlight. It was 9:00 p.m and I lay there looking at the dark sky, poker-faced. My eyes were fixed on the full, luminiscent moon. There were millions of stars in the night sky. To me, they seemed to be spelling one word. Her name. Ashtami.
I beheld on the face of the moon, the most gorgeous woman ever. The face of Ashtami Shankar. I remember her with me last year ; same place, same time, wearing a saree, of the same shade of indigo as the flower beside me. She was lying by my side that day, just like the flower. She stargazed, while I Ashtamigazed; at her big, expressive eyes, at her funny but pretty nose,at that smile to die for and her wavy hair that was swaying gently in the breeze. Ashtami was my divine Goddess. A simple yet stunning girl.
I sat up on the sprawling grass, hugging my knees and resting my head on my thighs. I picked the purple flower from the soil and fondled it's purple petals. The yellow pollen inside of it reminded me of turmeric. It took me back to her baby shower. It had my mind reminiscing the gaiety of that day. I remembered her smiling from ear to ear as I rubbed turmeric on her cheeks. The leaves on the flower reminded me of the green glass bangles I slipped on her hand that day. She looked oh so fine that day in a traditional Kanjeevaram.
Somewhere near the park, somebody was conflagrating their garbage. The process warded off a foul smell that I hated. I hated it as much as what it reminded me of. It reminded me of the putrid smell the hospital ward emanated. The ward where my Ashtami slept. She was in a white hospital robe and the IV was strapped to her arm. I remember leaning over her, hearing her breathe ever so gently. I remember warming her cold hand with mine.
I stood up and started heading home. It was 10:30 p.m. I walked down the hill of Quail Ridge Park, past the mulberry bush, when a little girls headband caught my attention. It was stuck between the twigs of the bush and had a pink ribbon attached to it. I reached for the band and pulled the ribbon off. I made it into a cross. It reminded me of the reason why I could'nt see Astami again. My wife died of breast cancer last week.
Ciao for now :)
Today, I decided upon posting a short story. My favourite among the ones I've written. This was the last piece I wrote, before I took a break from writing on account of my 10th grade board exams earlier this year.
The short green blades prickled my back as I lay down on the grass of my favourite park - Quail Ridge Park. I lay right beside a pretty indigo flower. It looked a beautiful indigo in the moonlight. It was 9:00 p.m and I lay there looking at the dark sky, poker-faced. My eyes were fixed on the full, luminiscent moon. There were millions of stars in the night sky. To me, they seemed to be spelling one word. Her name. Ashtami.
I beheld on the face of the moon, the most gorgeous woman ever. The face of Ashtami Shankar. I remember her with me last year ; same place, same time, wearing a saree, of the same shade of indigo as the flower beside me. She was lying by my side that day, just like the flower. She stargazed, while I Ashtamigazed; at her big, expressive eyes, at her funny but pretty nose,at that smile to die for and her wavy hair that was swaying gently in the breeze. Ashtami was my divine Goddess. A simple yet stunning girl.
I sat up on the sprawling grass, hugging my knees and resting my head on my thighs. I picked the purple flower from the soil and fondled it's purple petals. The yellow pollen inside of it reminded me of turmeric. It took me back to her baby shower. It had my mind reminiscing the gaiety of that day. I remembered her smiling from ear to ear as I rubbed turmeric on her cheeks. The leaves on the flower reminded me of the green glass bangles I slipped on her hand that day. She looked oh so fine that day in a traditional Kanjeevaram.
Somewhere near the park, somebody was conflagrating their garbage. The process warded off a foul smell that I hated. I hated it as much as what it reminded me of. It reminded me of the putrid smell the hospital ward emanated. The ward where my Ashtami slept. She was in a white hospital robe and the IV was strapped to her arm. I remember leaning over her, hearing her breathe ever so gently. I remember warming her cold hand with mine.
I stood up and started heading home. It was 10:30 p.m. I walked down the hill of Quail Ridge Park, past the mulberry bush, when a little girls headband caught my attention. It was stuck between the twigs of the bush and had a pink ribbon attached to it. I reached for the band and pulled the ribbon off. I made it into a cross. It reminded me of the reason why I could'nt see Astami again. My wife died of breast cancer last week.
Ciao for now :)
Goosebumps! :O
ReplyDeleteDoesn't matter if you take time in between, keep the tales flowing Rohana.
Athishay :D thanks a lot man!
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