She … conflict with time..



She is in conflict with time. She loves to waste it when she has plenty at her hand. She knows well that it will snap back at her hand like a broken over-stretched rubber band. She sometimes wishes that time was like the tape in old audio cassettes that she could rewind with a juggle of an ordinary HB pencil.

She used to think of her life in time labelled boxes ... tens, teens , twenties. She feels less need of boxes now as twenties box has some teens stuff and the stuff of the childhood spills everywhere. (There is some even in the new thirties box.)

She doesn’t want to be a time traveler. It would be too much to travel in time. Jet lags of advanced stage might kill her mental decorum. But she won’t mind if a time traveler comes to visit and shares stories of his exploits and thinks of her in special terms.

Her problem with time is that it passes away. It is not patient enough for her. It never stops to give her time to know herself. All it keeps doing is changing her, making her older and never fully equipped to finish things timely. Her plans spill over and get delayed. She abhors devicing time-tables . They make her look incompetent.

She loves the word timeless. This is why perhaps she prefers diamonds.Love as a feeling per se she feels may be timeless but when attached to people who are attached to time perhaps it becomes prone to change.

She keeps looking for something timeless within herself.


SHE… frees her eyes.

It’s about midnight and she, for the first time in hours,frees her eyes from the screen that claims to show her and connect her to the ‘world’. She spots the sunny glow of the bunch of chrysanthemums that had been sitting quietly for past two days dipping their feet in half the glass of water.Definitely not musing over the clever notings of the optimist and pessimist associated with it.

They have been gently sipping that plain water fasting unto death while she has been looking deep into the screen for so long.They secretly craved for her eyes.

But now she stares at them and wonders at the genetic mathematic precision of the whorls and the fibonacci series flashes in her head and before she could start 1+2+3+5+8+13…the still fresh yellowness distracts her again … she knows they will wilt in about a week despite the only water diet they been preserved on ..and then she wonders why has she has not looked at them so far…

The eyes can only see what the mind knows …the eyes get blinded when in love … beauty is in the eye of the beholder …but what about the eye which is not free … which is too busy to connect with the world that it actually loses sight of it…

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She …needs poetry, prose , lament…

She looks at the pink blossoms that silently appeared overnight without warning. All of a sudden in just one night ! The casual walk in her garden turned into a mesmerized stare.

She looked at them wanting to say something marvelous. But she knew they are not waiting for exchange of words. They had no need of applause , poetry or prose. It was her need. She felt good about their simplicity and anonymity, more then their healthy pink beauty.

Two days later she witnessed their wilted brown shriveled forms and knew that they don’t regret or lament it either. It was her need.