Scribbles and stories.

"Omanathinkal Kidavo", A familiar song, but an unfamiliar voice. It's been years since Rahel and Estha have last heard this song. She used to sing this, very often. This was their song, Ammu's favourite song. Today, after all these years those emotions rush back and hit them all of a sudden. Had they forgotten her? That long black hair, eyes full of sadness and hands which embraced them.  Full of love; Their Ammu, their mother.  Holding hands, they listen to the rest of it.  Half asleep, they are in a far away land. Where love was not questioned. For love was the answer.  With Ammu by their side, holding them close. They smiled at the familiar song, now sung by the familiar voice.  For now, they are home. They are loved.     "Omanathinkal Kidavo, Nalla Komala Thamara Poovo, Poovil Niranja Madhuvo, Pari poornendu thande nilavo"

She sat on her big veranda and slowly opened the cover. A letter inside. Aamaya was always fond of letters. For her, a letter is not just a piece of paper filled with letters but rather emotions. As she unfolds it, her heart wrenches. There is hope, a part of her is curious and, another devastated. As she starts reading it, she smiles through her tears. She can hear that voice reading it for her. It's not she who is reading it, but them narrating. Those stories, moments, words brought all those memories and all of a sudden everything hits back. Nostalgic? No, much more than that. And that moment, that very moment she wished for the universe to pause. The smell of old paper and blue ink. And that handwriting, she could never forget. As she touched it, she felt their presence, those emotions; raw and just. As words became sentences and sentences to paragraphs; she wished for this letter to never end. Vigorously she reads but not wanting it to end. How selfish we become, sometimes. Is...

She now lives in the world of an other,  of people unknown  and stories from far of lands; Finally,  the fallen flower found a new home.  

The Rose         This tale is sure to be old, But is never known. ~ You watched me wither away, Losing hope Locked me up in a glass Cuz you're afraid I would fall? You looked around for love,  But alas, you never looked at me; With each falling petal, you lost hope Yet, you never knew how hard I try for it to stop, Every. Single. Time. I was the cure for your curse, they say Yet, you look at me with sadness  You kept looking for love, And I;  Kept sacrifing my life so that you learn to love; Denied of freedom, Of light, Of happiness. Suffocating inside the glass, wanting to break away Yet, I caged myself. When the last petal falls, You'll love; When the last petal falls, I'll wither away, so that you can live; When the last petal falls, Will you know of my love? ~ For it wasn't Beauty, But the love of the Rose that saved the Beast.                                   ...

When you write, you simply write. It's letters and words, of which you make a meaning.  But when I heard them say, "A writer has to feel strongly about whatever he writes." I was baffled. I thought to myself, then why is it that I'm not able to write about you? Words doesn't match, and sentences stop midway. Such an injustice. I find myself staring at blank papers. Maybe, that's what it is about. Stopping midway to think. To think it over. It's easy to write about things that doesn't concern you, but it's far difficult to write about things and people you love. For sometimes, there is no enough words for them. Maybe, love is such. It's never enough. Nither the words nor the emotion. 

"Bliss was in that dawn to be alive, But to be With You was very heaven." I looked at him and laughed, How easily he managed to make me a fool in love by just changing a word  ' With You' "Wordsworth wrote it beautifully, But I love yours more" I said,  "I know" he laughed, We sat on that half broken bridge as he read from my favourite poetry book, He carefully picked up the poems I loved, But little did he know that every poem he read will be my favourite, He never completed any poem, he always left it half way,  "Ain't endings the most beautiful part?" I asked him one day, He smiled and told me, "Never"  And was it why you left without saying anything? I wonder, Today after all these years, I took my book of poetry again and completed the poem you left that day, "Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer and these the last verses that I write for her."  I smiled, how ironic...  I smiled, Neruda lied. ...