Carefully crafted…

254526_10150288162500931_7915622_nWe were born in the age of telephones, and though our grandparents and distant uncles still wrote letters to us, we haven’t ever had to learn the art of letter writing. We didn’t have to. Whatever we wanted to say was just a phone call away. And the easier it became to make a call, the further we went to penning our thoughts down. We became careless about what we said and took offense on what we heard. There was nothing to fall back upon. Memories became distorted, till we found a way to store every moment of our lives in our pockets. Intimate moments needed to be picture perfect, like fairy-tales, and so we started to weave our moments around the picture. We became lesser than the moments captured, and feelings became a tool we played with..

It’s been some time now I’ve been wondering, how words used to cherish our feelings in those carefully crafted letters. Letters that we cherished all the more because of the long wait, the anticipation, looking for the postman every morning. Letter from your mother telling you about the nest in the courtyard tree, or your grandfather reminiscing about football with his brothers in the long forgotten village. The nostalgia of finding a yellow worn out letter in your favorite book with times long gone, but with the hint of rose.  Of all the arts dying in this world, the loss of letter writing is the close of an era.

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A warm summer afternoon

One day I will write a story. There will be flowers and sun, and water and green, and it will be oh! so beautiful! The moonlit roads would be walked by lovers holding hands and antique windows framed by bougainvillea would glow by the light of the candles. Peacocks will run through shaded courtyards, and girls in colorful skirts will laugh and dance, while the men in sober hues would pay compliments with their music. Grannies would sing lullabies and children would fill the air with their innocent laughter, and the gentle aroma of freshly crushed spices and barbecue in the open.

Oh! If only I could pen down my thoughts! But, no words come to my mind when I sit to write; it’s only when I let my mind go free, and just lie on my bed, thinking about all the things that could be; when there is no book, or tv, or work, and I just sit in a corner, images flash through my mind, one after the other, waiting to be strung together in a thread. Oh! One day, for sure!

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