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   On the streets of the old bazaar, there sat a man  in rags. Every time I passed by , he smiled and looked away. Neither was he handsome nor was he wealthy. Still I thought about him. Why would anyone wait on streets for years together ?  I  had seen him there since I was a kid.

An autumn morning , I heard he passed away. On the street. No one heard his  dying words. No one offered him gangajal or tulsi. He died unmourned , un-noticed. The bazaar still smelt of spices and perfume.

Years later, I heard his story. From an antique woman. In his prime, the man was a successful merchant. He had a comfortable home and a lovely wife. One  morning, his wife was on her way to the temple on the hillock. A raging earthquake hit the city and razed the hillock to ground. The lovely wife was lost, never to be found. May be she had died , buried under the rubble.

The merchant  never lost hope. Gradually he began to live on the street, hoping that his lovely wife would return. Gradually, he lost his wealth. With age, he lost his health. He lost his mind. The society abandoned him. They called him mad.
But his love for his wife never abandoned him.

This forsaken madman was the epitome of ever-lasting undying love.Whenever I pass by the street where he sat, I smile at it. And then walk away.


Tulika said…
Simple. Strong.
Kavitha said…
Simple yet Beautiful! :)
Scribbling Gal said…
Wow...such love still exists in todays time :) So divine :)
hmm...sweetly a love touch!
Kumar Bibek said…
Good morning. Nice read for a Tuesday morning. Thanks. :)
suruchi said…
amazing na, what true love can make us do:-)
Bikramjit said…
Touching story.. Love is amazing it makes one do things which we would not otherwise ..

~Serendipity~ said…
Straight. Touching. Beautiful Fiction :)
Teritopsy said…
Wow...that's all I could say...just wow!

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Enchant me.
And keep me waiting..
Waiting for you.

Amidst Soul-lessness

There is smoke somewhere. 
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Has it been home here ?
Perhaps. Maybe when it did not rain.
Or maybe when it rained and it did not matter.
Maybe when I walked alone, smiling to myself. 
Or maybe when I realized I was okay.
Had it been always like this ?

Not really. 
Things clicked, took effort and blood. 
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P.S. : Penned at Candies, Bandra on 11th January 2017 


I cannot remember my mother,
only sometime in the midst of my play
a tune seems to hover over my playthings,
the tune of some song that she used to
hum while rocking my cradle.

I cannot remember my mother
but when in the early autumn morning
the smell of the shiuli flowers floats in the air,
the scent of the morning service in the
temple comes to me as the scent of my mother.

I cannot remember my mother
only when from bedroom window
I send my eyes into the blue of the distant sky,
I feel that the stillness of my mother's gaze on my face
has spread all over the sky.

~Rabindranath Tagore
Note : This was one of  the earliest poems I read,loved and cherished.