I smell Xewali as I silently sneak in the misty evening.
October it is, the dusk settling in through timid flakes.
The dotted white and saffron streaks brighten the night sky.
The smell of xewali pierces the evening gloom
And take me in a roller coaster ride.
I see a girl with a missing tooth carefully bending to the ground
She picks xewalis each morning to adorn her grandma's hair
How happy, how carefree her life seems
A blackening cloud drip drops out of a weeping sky.
I get jolted back.
Back to the ground,
Back to this October gloom,
But, the smell of xewalis linger as I move back.
"Read between the lines", I heard our professor say. We were in midst of a Victorian text. I looked at her point blank. She had spoken about something which I had no clue about. "Ma'am, would you please elaborate? ", I tried framing this sentence in my mind but my introverted self overpowered my inquisitive soul like everytime. I hopelessly waited for an explanation. Ma'am started explaining about how beyond the surface meaning of any written text, there lay a wide plethora of meaning which wasn't explicitly stated. She talked about finding a void between the written words and our imagination, that void which shapes our interpretation. That explanation opened doors to my perception of reading a text. It wasn't that I had never considered about the possibilities of meanings that lay coated in words until then, but, what perhaps I lacked was to look for that void where I questioned the layers of meaning, where I put myself in those layers of wo...
Memories are a means of time travel. That's the only thing that defies all the physics to give us a ride to our past. And it doesn't carry any butterfly effect which makes our return journey to the present a safe one.
ReplyDeleteVery true. So, it's like being etched to life through memories. Time flies but memories remain.
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