Cottage: The one in Woods

It was a new place for her. The new town furnished with green air and humbleness in abundance. She wiped her past in her pinafore and worked as a maid in that cottage. Through the little window in her workplace, she made it possible to perceive a portion of people’s life whenever someone passed by.

There was a bridge on the way to the cottage. The one she never got slightest of opportunity to cross. A brook flowed under this very bridge, the quaintness of which was so appealing the passengers were compelled not to cross the bridge without pausing for the moment. This very moment the brook helped her see the very image of their being. 

An old man passes by the bridge every day. He sees sunshine when he leans to penetrate through the depths of flowing water. He was a widower with no children left to take care of. He sees sunshine because that is the way he feels walking back home after spending a long day at orphanage with children keenly listening and applauding his stories. 

A young boy passes by the bridge every day. The brook, as soon as she sees him, gears up. The boy then throws a pebble down the bridge in a way nuclear bombs are bombarded in world wars. In the most artistic way possible, fine and concentric ripples are formed. The brook gets an equally artistic smile on the face of the boy.

A sister from the Baptist church passes by the bridge every day. She bends down to see the face of brook which hustles in a way psalms are chanted.

These people had somewhere occupied a place in that girl’s daily life. Besides, the girl waited for someone else. The person seemed to exist not in the proximity of her conscience. A person to who even the brook did not answer.

Even he passed by the bridge every day. To him, perhaps, the brook spoke of nihility. Neither did the water whine nor did it grizzle, but simply flowed.

All she did was waited near the window each day for him to come, each day for him to come and the brook to answer to his questions or rather her questions.

P.S.: There are numerous facets of life. One fine day, try out living without experiencing a particular one.

'You' but your 'Memories'

Its not always that you choose to love.

It is not always you love to love.

But at times when the heartbeat fastens and stomach turns numb,

beautiful songs are forged.

She ponders over the days bygone and those to come.

She says she does not know when she fell in love.

 

I dont know when love has just begun.

Dunno when it was first i felt for you.

Was it when you had called me the other day ?

or was it when you first took my name?

I loved you for more than a single instance..

Once while holding hands under the streetlight,

Once in the CCD sitting besides..

A lot happened over a coffee..oh yes !

And once when we babbled till dawn,

And when you texted me in early morn.

I loved you

I love you only more.

Didnt know that love had already begun.

Didnt know it has to be short and sweet.

I love you for more than a single instance,

I love you for a part of my lifetime.

Believe me when i say...

"i can someday loose you...you but not your memories.."

P.S. : She says she does not know when she fell in love.

Story `

This is when happiness gives birth to memories !

Dipped in hue, she came. Happiness. She gave me her wings to fly and it filled me with butterflies. I felt like dangling amidst the clouds. If there were numbers to clouds, mine would be nine. From up above there, i saw a rainbow. Mesmerising the view was. The colors of the rainbow went from horizon to horizon. Slowly, the colors dimmed. Out of seven, three remained. The sun shone brightly one day and the clouds started disappearing. All the mist and chillness of air subsided. Weather was pleasant, neither the heat nor the cold bothered. There are twists and turns in living. Happiness comes when it is most unexpected and so does the sadness. The sun grew vengeful to burn me inside. All the butterflies flew away.A sweet little faith was held that one day day she will be back with her butterflies and the cloud number nine.Yet another day, those butterflies returned to me. A smile spread. Happiness came from within. Clouds covered the shining sun, though the number nine was lost, weather was pleasing again. It was time for her to come.
It was time for the memories to come..


Memories..the daughter of happiness..