World of Small Things

Dear Readers, Today I write to you in a more mundane state of mind than usual. Huddled in a corner of a bus amongst other ruffled inhabitants of the city, I feel grounded, yet entangled in the inexplicable threads that help this metropolis move. In my hand was a crumpled piece of paper on which I had penned down a few words in crooked handwriting. Seated in the sanctuary of a dilapidated bus stop, gazing out at the swarming street, my mind had wandered. I had written: The first gust of monsoon brushes gracefully through the wilted leaves, Her locks of sienna and hazel surrender to the frenzied breeze. The dusk serenades in orange and gold. Swarms of feet toil in the drizzle, Rhythmically they stomp and shove. The once dusty roads are now abstract paintings of the eerie sky above. The rain has granted reflections to all. All sans one. The dusk was slowly being invaded by the darkness of night. The faint moonlight filtered through the sm...

Panic. Confusion. Hysteria. I cannot fathom where I am headed nor where I am. The colours around me are blurred and blended into terrifying forms of a troubled artist's handiwork. Cold, menacing winds pierce into my bones. Slowly, I float. In the mortifying silence, I smile through gritted teeth. Somewhere in the freefall, I shifted focus. The persistent cold and the tumultuous colours seemed to fade away. And then in the hurricane, I found bliss.  Now I struggle to make it stay. I looked outside at the soil that was slowly cooling down after surviving the ferocity of the midday sun. Scalding streams of wind were kicking up dust and sprinkling it over the road. The world outside was bone dry, unaware of the tempests which had enraged the seas of thought in which I was struggling to stay afloat. Stationed at my table, looking over the dusty summer evening, I tried to ground myself to reality and plant the tree of thought back in its place again, afte...