Swings of a rhapsodic mind

Xunaru (Laburnum) was one of the few trees that captivated my attention as a kid. It's rich golden hue outlining a blue sky was my favourite view that the window of Class V, B could promise . My classmates always dreamt of reaching fifth standard for we had this fascination of being in the first floor as our previous classes were arranged in the ground floor of the building. They would run across the stairs whole day long, peep out of the veranda, whistle across the corridors to show off our promotion to the first floor. But I was more happy because I could be closer to the Xunaru tree which shyed away near our classroom window. There was something about this tree which kept me hooked the whole summer. It's filmsy petals filled my geometry box out shadowing the cruel looking Compass and divider. My way back home from school in a rickshaw brought me stories from the laburnum. Our Kokaideu who used to pull the rickshaw had his own stories. He used to narrate how he had plucked...

And for once let me come home to you Behind the cobwebs of your fading memory I will build my palace: thread by thread I will sing you lullabies, fondle your cute curls I will stay as your innocent chuckle I will bring sleep to your tormented soul Let me stay, let me be your dream. For I would come home to you each night I would stay like a dream and echo under your skin And when I leave, I will shed my skin and bathe in your colours I would die in bits But I would live a little more And in those dreams, I would come alive Slowly and all at once. So let me stay, will you?

I am from the land where the mighty Brahmaputra holds our lifeline. I remember visiting multiple places within Assam as a kid and no matter near or far, the bus ride always promised me a glimpse of the mighty river. My pious mother had instilled within me a faith that this river was not a river alone, it was our deity and needed to be worshipped. Each time we crossed it, she would jerk me from my sleep and fold my tiny hands into a "namaste" to show my obeisance towards the river. I was also taught that each namaste had to be accompanied with a slight bend of your head to show how humbled you felt when faced by the mighty river. Years rolled, I grew from a kid to a confused adult. Confused is the apt word to describe my state because I am preety clear about the fact that a river can't be God and as a matter of fact I even can't explain who to relate to as God but even now some unseen force makes me fold my palm into a "namaste" followed by a brief nod (thou...

A friend of mine got in touch recently after ages and the first thing she said was, "Girl, you still are your happy self".  I was amused by the way she had so easily confirmed my state . I tried to sound intelligent and thank her for complementing but I couldn't fake it. I quietly smiled for in these many years one thing that I have realised is you needn't explain yourself to people with whom you engage in small talks. She took my smile to be a confirming nod and further began narrating how lucky I was to not have those share of struggles which supposedly she had. She began complaining about everything under the sun and I stood looking at her transfixed. My mind was not at all registering her words let alone her pain. "Empathy ", I remember the first time I had learnt the word at school . I kept on repeating the word while cycling back to home for I had found my word, I wanted to be one such human who could smile at everyone and step in everyone's sho...

The burnt ashes of warm feelings Drown in a timeless slumber I trudge forward, A heavy heart pulls back I hush it down, I won't let it scream "One step at a time", I hear my mind order And I plunge not asking why. Someday, I shall make it home I assure my indignant soul.

The burnt smell of jaggery over coconut savoury, The hearth sending forth the aroma of pithas, The sweet sour odour of masor tenga. Jetuka dyed fair wrists of gabhorus Dancing to the beats of dhuls and pepas. The frail crisp sound of muga mekhelas swirling Each time they bring home guests. The sight of kopous in tamul gos. Of brighter days and lesser gloom The  onset of Assamese new year. Of feasts and blessings and endless laughter Welcome home, it's bihu in my part of the world .

I wish they had warned me: Of what it takes to live And leave and yet live. A thousand paradoxes, a hundred sighs of lament All down the throat camouflaged by a smile. A hushed tear here, a defeaning wail there. A sense of foreboding, a fear of the known, Of love decaying into musty diary pages Of dried roses and fresh wounds. Of little victories and greater losses I wish I knew it all