Not everything that goes around, comes back.
'When I was five, I didn't threw dice;
I fervor being aloof, yet people didn't regard me sugar and spice,
Instead topped me with the cognomen of everything nice."
Memories as sages of historic ages said are pristine, keep them in sync with your hymn are all those only a bygone of a passage of time? I rhyme, still its my own mind. As clear as a crystal, it's not a reminiscence if you're pondering on; a souvenir as one quotes, that's what today I embark on. Ah! I have a lot to narrate, but wait you'll not tell that all I'm doing is orate. Let me take you to my nostalgia; of a sixteen years old me, a 2003's damsel. Roads having a block like motif, yes, that's where I was born, where I dwell. 'Memories', heaped up as stocks of velum in my mind. Yet, I'll not overtly blurt out all of those. But the one's which held, holds and will always hold me to goosebumps.
Yeah! People, including those in my own fambam; my clan members not only muse but also say, "khushi, yaar tereko kabhi dada aur badimaa (dada's sister in law) ki kabhi yaad nahi aati?" To which I'm always a bundle of bare winter snow. What to retort to these folks of mine, an introvert like me, has a passel of packed, placid memories which I keep, I keep to myself; apart from the world, from those cruel eyes of things I fear, which haunt me. Now, when I'm speaking on a topic so, I'll say, I'm not a timid, I also have feelings and a lot more than all of you. 'Dada rikshaw par chalenge' despite having car, my dada used to pamper the once pompy-ompy me. And....barimaa what to tell of her, after her sudden loss, I've learnt to find the affirmative essence of every fruit. Her unbearable loss, made me feel, made me ponder; that my visceral vanity has tonnes of 'things', a bunch of 'good bunnies' who are omnipotent in my life, but I've never paid a penny's attention to them. I curse myself for this! Why? How? Could I do this to the people who were my 'god-angles'? My memories are many ranging from taking my dada's walking stick and gushing all the way round to the main door and literally ordering him to walk, without a stick or any random support. From influencing him to making me eat 'Rajnigandha' in our esoteric to asking him to bring popcorns for me on his way back home from club. At night, from spoiling and completely sitting on the top of his well set 'taash' to saying him to play 'blind patta' with me.
Some memories are such you can't create again with other folks rather than the ones you've created, and enjoyed before. Some are, which are just stained, quite showy in prospect. But some of those outrageous ones, which I experience; those which I can't share and only feel, wetten my bedsheet (as I'm not a pillow-cell) at night and dream about their coming, their loss, agony and grief.
I fervor being aloof, yet people didn't regard me sugar and spice,
Instead topped me with the cognomen of everything nice."
Memories as sages of historic ages said are pristine, keep them in sync with your hymn are all those only a bygone of a passage of time? I rhyme, still its my own mind. As clear as a crystal, it's not a reminiscence if you're pondering on; a souvenir as one quotes, that's what today I embark on. Ah! I have a lot to narrate, but wait you'll not tell that all I'm doing is orate. Let me take you to my nostalgia; of a sixteen years old me, a 2003's damsel. Roads having a block like motif, yes, that's where I was born, where I dwell. 'Memories', heaped up as stocks of velum in my mind. Yet, I'll not overtly blurt out all of those. But the one's which held, holds and will always hold me to goosebumps.
Yeah! People, including those in my own fambam; my clan members not only muse but also say, "khushi, yaar tereko kabhi dada aur badimaa (dada's sister in law) ki kabhi yaad nahi aati?" To which I'm always a bundle of bare winter snow. What to retort to these folks of mine, an introvert like me, has a passel of packed, placid memories which I keep, I keep to myself; apart from the world, from those cruel eyes of things I fear, which haunt me. Now, when I'm speaking on a topic so, I'll say, I'm not a timid, I also have feelings and a lot more than all of you. 'Dada rikshaw par chalenge' despite having car, my dada used to pamper the once pompy-ompy me. And....barimaa what to tell of her, after her sudden loss, I've learnt to find the affirmative essence of every fruit. Her unbearable loss, made me feel, made me ponder; that my visceral vanity has tonnes of 'things', a bunch of 'good bunnies' who are omnipotent in my life, but I've never paid a penny's attention to them. I curse myself for this! Why? How? Could I do this to the people who were my 'god-angles'? My memories are many ranging from taking my dada's walking stick and gushing all the way round to the main door and literally ordering him to walk, without a stick or any random support. From influencing him to making me eat 'Rajnigandha' in our esoteric to asking him to bring popcorns for me on his way back home from club. At night, from spoiling and completely sitting on the top of his well set 'taash' to saying him to play 'blind patta' with me.
Some memories are such you can't create again with other folks rather than the ones you've created, and enjoyed before. Some are, which are just stained, quite showy in prospect. But some of those outrageous ones, which I experience; those which I can't share and only feel, wetten my bedsheet (as I'm not a pillow-cell) at night and dream about their coming, their loss, agony and grief.
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