An eagle spreading its wings like a kite plummeting down to the land perches on to the shimmering spec of beauty swimming in the pool of life. This eagle had its wait like me sitting on the shore of the river at my grandma's place  looking at the water that was in a desperate hurry to pass by me. The bright sun at its peak fail to touch my skin as the canopy of leaves cover me like a bee inside a flower. The afternoon wind has a music to it with a tone so familiar that I long for a sleep. The water splashing on the stones speaks nothing but a message undelivered as I still remain unknown to the tones that they speak. The fumes coming from the chimney has a smell of burned wood the ones that lost the battle with time. I can still hear my grandma calling in for a sumptuous lunch that she has made. There is stillness in me, neither the sound of the hen scavenging the parched soil nor the fishermen in the river distract me from a sleep that I fall into keeping all my senses awake. The swing on the mango tree right behind me waves with the wind calling me for company as  the wait has been long. Time has definitely given its mark on the rope that has started peeling off to dust like the tears rolling down the cheek. I remain aware off all that as this is where  I belong . Grandpa sitting on a basket chair occasionally peeping from the veranda to pass a note of supervision happens with every tick of the clock as this river and its beauty had an enchanting call that they always feared off. The occasional pop of the fish like the shooting star falling from the sky lacks amusement to my eyes as all that are just part of my space where I call heaven. The rose apples ornament the tree like a decorated elephant for a procession and when I turn my back I know there is a conversation happening between the birds that perch on them like a feather getting stuck in the trees. There is a slothful pace with the time, the thud of the husk getting beaten  to rope on the other side of the river has a rhythm like the beat in my heart. The white soil shining like diamonds on earth have memories beneath them ,the mud houses that were made and the pancakes that we never tasted  all remain piled deep within like logs in a pyre. There is always an act that everyone does to cheat the time, and this is what I do .My intentional venture into the land I call Heaven .The place that gave me memories not to be thought about but to be lived in. My grandma's home  the place where I made my memories to live my life.

I always think ,what happens to those stories that ends? Do they have new beginnings or do they take a death? What would the characters do once the story has ended? Do they wait for the next reader to play the plot once more or do they yearn for a new story to be written for them? I still ponder how can a story end? There is always a story after a story is read ,there are unwritten conversations that the characters do even after they are put to sleep. Do we really listen to them or do we just ignore them like the dark that gets ignored in the light, or like a smile that gets forgotten with a tear. There is a story in me and a story in you, don't know whether it is a parable but for sure a story that speaks to the self. I listen even now to them, I hear what they speak ,I know those were mine but not anymore as I have lived that part of me and that part is just a line in the story that I say is mine. I have characters whom I have forgotten to give lines to speak and I have ones who speaks volumes that I don't understand. I do have faces who keep vanishing like the rainbow clearing off after the rain. I know I have written my story not to be read but to be lived. I still ask myself where are those thespians whom I portrayed as mine in the story. Did they forget the lines or did  they just run away from the lines. In all the bundle of questions I know somewhere I missed some line that I should have written. No apologies to those performers of mine as my story had to be written wrong. To all those troupers of mine who waved goodbye and to all those who got absorbed with time and to those voiceless echoes that still rings in me tones that I never get ,I say a thank you for being a part of my story that never got read as that book never got found on the shelf. There is always a story after a story, a story  that will never get written but lived as your life is  a big story that can never be trapped in words.

 There is always a whisper that passes by the wind untouched and unnoticed. The calmness of a still sea and a setting sun gets trapped in words that were forgotten to be whispered back to the parting beauty of the evening. There is always something that reminds you that you are always bound  by the past. The breeze that had scents to remind you of forgotten path stays still pretending to be an onlooker of a game gone wrong. The notes of the wind chime that sounded passing moments in the never ending conversations remains hanging on the thin broken threads of hope. The words in a song that painted a face of recognition ponder to frame a smudged figure appropriate to set the pitch right. The earth that had to bear the thud of firm boots galloping to embrace a visual beauty remains tied back to the invasion of an absent purpose. Life is what you make of it and past a story to read when all that is left in you is a parting goodbye that you forgot to say, A whisper that still remains unsaid and unheard. To that thought with an address written wrong and to that time that stopped ticking to give life to a dream. There is nothing to be conquered neither anything to be invaded upon as all that got possessed and all that got lost remains blown to smithereens of vanishing dust.

 What is in a tear that drips down like a blood from a retrieved sword. I ponder ,as always there are things that gets ignored. The façade of a withered hope or a burnt dream that still fumes within its ashes ,all has an embezzled truth by the reality. It's said let go off the pain as the more you hold back you get pulled down to the abyss. There are contradictions in life and one can definitely prove with ones life. The pain that gave a scar on your heart like a scar on the forehead for potter ,that's what that makes you survive ,as its not just the breath that keeps you alive. There is always a walk back to the cemetery of past as one still hopes a rebirth, though there is a proclaimed notion of being atheist. Its like  a cassette playing back the side all over gain just to know there are lines that got left unsaid. Emotions are truly the biggest magicians , as a moment of laughter that once was get's  swapped with tears with a trick. What really gets trapped in a tear ?,this question repeats all over again. The tissue into which that tear dripped down like the final icing on the cake  would dry off  with ease in the sun but the moist mind still yearns for a peep back to the past. It always remain a fact ,somethings are never forgotten in life or better said somethings are best when they are never forgotten in life. To the memories that still wakes me cold in a sleep, to the smiles that still talks back to me and to those  faces that never fades with time ,I write again a  goodbye note knowing within me some goodbyes are never meant what it really means.