The smog blinds me obstructing my vision.
Yet, I gaze at the sky,
I see it in pain.
It speaks of no promise, it has got a dampened soul.
I look for it's reflections,
The lone writer struggles over his typewriter,
His cigarettes reduce his hopes into ashes.
And the air captures his whispers,
"How do I let her go?", he scribbles for the third time.
The creased bedsheets by his window speaks of her lingering presence.
He smells her in each inch of his skin,
Yet, why does the city not leave him at ease!
He looks at the lanes, devoid of hope
He lights another smoke, pulls in puff of despair
He was rotting in that city which had lost it's soul.
I pull my hair together and hum a tune,
I think and I rethink until my thought overpowers.
I stand on the lanes leading to his home,
I look at him parched by his window.
And I free him from his past afflictions,
I free him from her lingering smell,
I free him from his tormented thoughts,
For I, I carry the soul of the city.
Do you see me?
I am the eldest grandchild in my family. And being the eldest, I was pampered a great deal by my grandparents. My aama (grandma) and baa (grandpa) always shielded me from every possible dangers including thrashings from maa. I have pleasant memories of evening story sessions as grandpa took me to bed. Aama would oil my hair and tie pony tails which resembled coconut trees that I used to draw. Sundays meant elaborate sessions with my grandparents. Baa would trim my nails, aama would fondle me to sleep. Their bed room was literally my playing room, my story book reading room, my painting room and what not. With time, as I grew, I got a room of my own but their room was still my favourite one. When I left for hostel, I missed them more than I missed my parents. It was in the year 2014, I had come home after my exams when aama received a pressure stroke . She couldn't make it. I had spent a month as he lay sick on her bed. All of a sudden, there was a role reversal. I could
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