You wanted me to be a faded ink stain in those worn out pages of ruffled memory,
I was not born to be a blot, I was born to weave magic.
You chose to cross a desert thinking we wouldn't cross paths
But look, I can still blow through your skin in a heartbeat.
Time, you thought would wipe my memory
But your heart knows not what it is like to forget,
I am a blister to your wound,
A lingering smell clinging by your skin.
I feed on your soul, I tread on your dreams.
I can cross mountains, swim through oceans
And yet not be seen!
Moonlight streams through my hair, the ocean feels my heartbeats
I walk through sand ribs, soft,yet enough to disrupt your existence.
The empty shells by the rocks would hum you my story
Come someday leaving the world behind, would you?
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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