The Boy in my dreams

                - Sukanya Chaudhuri

I saw him again, in my dream

sitting alone by the stream.

His emarald view took over my soul.

With just a glance, my heart, he stole!

His flawless straight black hair.

His scent lingering in the air.

His serene eyes were a hint of brown

What a lovely majestic hue!

His skin, lighter than ivory.

His inner beauty was like mystery.

His cheeks had a chubby feel.

and in the centre, a delicate nose.

His shining lips were luscious pink

I stared at him without a blink

His dress was all meaty brown

With a pair of specs shining with intellect!

With a guitar gripped by his fine hands.

His intense looks did sweep me off my feet.

I then realized- the boy in my dreams-

Is the man of my life.

This one is dedicated to the man I love. I wrote it I was just a girl of eighteen and he too was just a boy. I am grateful to the Almighty for sending him- the most precious gift of my life.

WITHIN THE SOUND OF SILENCE

--- A random series of events, posed with questions and a surreal answer.

The drums grew louder in its beats, befriending the guitar in a note that could now possibly enchant a dimly lit castle. The music allowed the mind to wander and float in a cloud of figment imagination. Along with characters like love and betrayal.

Trees bloomed often in thoughts and the eyes look more extraordinary, sometimes even exquisitely beautiful - etched in perfectly crafted sentiments.

The violin would stop every time she turned and looked back and a strand of soft hair fell strategically on her face, covering her eyes. 

And then the music changed to sudden tension - the violinist having a wonderful time with his agile hands, lifting the music to a level that was absolutely fantastic. He even shed a tear while coming back to the situation. 

Something horrible was going to happen.

Something that makes the music stop for a few seconds before the singer turns up her pitch, drums on the side. Everything happens in quick, rapid succession. Love is lost, friends deceive, mothers die, sisters cry at funerals, the bus hits you in the face, the bus hits the dog for its life, and you find yourself having a popsicle on a lonely bench, near a lonely riverside in a lonely world where you would find no one but you.

The saxophone pushes its air into your lungs while you sit at the table, having a glass of fine wine. The pianist sitting across, winks at you with affection. Because for once, you asked him to play his favourite song.

-- So what if he is late? He will be here anytime.

Someone starts singing a cover of 'The Fix' and all she hears is "And the odds that I got, were delicious". You wonder if the chandelier will drop in the tension of the song. And just then, he arrives.

The chandelier drops in his wait, crushing its crystals into lovely sharp delicateness all over the floor.

There is silence, there is love happening.

There are acoustic guitars with no strings attached.

The background is now full of saxophones and pianos and horse carriages by the sea

***

What if the songs of the sea had something to do with the orchestra or the bass?

What if they were songs for strolling, played on a cello waiting for its musician? 

***

The castle now has a predator or a soul. Its form isn’t clear.
It resembles summer, the bright sun and its rays. Plants grow in the veranda where once there lay moss, clinging to the cold cemented floor. The ceiling is decorated with delicate carvings of captivating, sultry figures.

The top floor of the large hall now arranges itself into an Opera balcony and you listen to the melody holding a book, ironically helping you understand the emotion. 

You flow with the emotion, meeting a song with thunderstorms and a rush of instruments you don’t recognise rings in your ears like a change in the altitude, a loud humming of the waves of the sea.
 

--- As Long As You Love me.. 

What if you don’t make it?

What if the world ends like yesterday? 

With anxiety comes love.

Love and a whole lotta love.

And when a thousand years pass by, maybe even an eternity;

Will there still be love, like the whole lotta love?

Everything swirls into a whirlpool,

And darkness comes to talk with you again,

Within the sound of silence ---

A STORY OF SECOND- HAND BOOKS..

A little torn, coffee stained, a blot of ‘daal’ dried over the years, a signature, a forgotten bill. A story of second hand books and their hidden stories.

I am obsessed. Though I feel obsessed is a very strong word I am yet to find a word that would perfectly describe this feeling. Saying I love books would be an incomplete statement. What I actually love is second hand books. Scratch out love. As I said I am obsessed.

Its not the big, shiny, dust free book shop that I love. I love the tiny, with no space to stand, books stacked in no order, books on the floor, near the entrance, on the cashier's desk -- those book shops. Yes, one of the reasons is that I rarely have the money to walk into a book store and buy a new copy. 

There is a certain joy in picking up an old book, flipping through its yellow pages and yes of course smelling them. This love for second hand books is as old as my relationship with books. As a child, my parents would make sure that I save all the money I received from relatives for my birthday, festivals, for finally getting a Math problem right.I feel like those old books are waiting to be discovered. To be picked up by someone like me who will not look at its yellow pages and make a face, or keep it  back because the edges are torn or the back cover is missing. Waiting for somebody to hear their story. These stories are what pull me towards them.

All second hand books have their own unique story. Yes, some are 'brand-new' second hand books which make you wonder whether the previous owner even touched it. But the others are what I look for. Some have a signature on the last page; a phone number scribbled hastily. Maybe the owner noted it down while standing in a crowded train with no paper to spare. Some simply have a name and a date, telling the world who the book will always belong to. Some books have a stamp of the library from where it was taken and maybe never returned. Some have little notes on some pages, notes into the mind of the previous owner. There are books I have found with forgotten pieces of paper, receipts, bills, business cards.

In a copy of the book Nancy Drew:The Crooked Banister by Edward Stratemeyer, which I picked up at a second hand book fete in my school  I found an envelope which just had three words – From Aunt Betty. It made me wonder whether when Aunt Betty was sending a Christmas card, a phone call had interrupted her and then she'd completely forgotten about it. In another book, the name of which I don’t remember I had found a paper with lines from the book written on it. It was an untidy writing – the words hanging impatiently between the lines. After that whenever I read a book and found good quotes or lines, I started jotting them down. Some books have a huge dedication. I have a hard bound copy of God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy in one of my friends’ collections which has the following written – ‘Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad. Hope you enjoy the trip. We gift you this book in the hope that you will enjoy reading the story. Love.’For days I wondered why they gave the book away. Or may be they lost the copy while at sea and it travelled all the way to Kolkata(that’s where my friend bought it from) through various travellers to her.

All second hand books make me wonder the same thing. Why would someone part with the book. Why would they give away something that was once I am sure dear to them? Did they not like the story? Did they forget it in the train? Did they lend it to somebody and like always never got it back?

But then I silently thank these souls. If not for them, I wouldn’t have read my first Harry Potter with the torn cover bought for Rs. 80 from Marlyn D’Souza, my senior at school. It was not till the second book released did I know the face of the wizard boy. I thank them for keeping a little of themselves with the book and then giving it away. So that the book would now tell two stories – one told by the author and the other of its previous owner.