A Wish.

In a land of absolute normalcy, and nothing out of the ordinary, there was a girl. A girl who was completely normal, ordinary. There she was, in class that day, the 20th of October. The professor droned on and on, but her fragile mind was on other unnecessary and unimportant things. The girl was nostalgic. With her heart split across three continents, this wasn’t an infrequent condition. There were smells she longed to inhale and voices she wanted to hear. There was a certain temperature of the air she wished was there.

She thought of waffles and shortbread. She thought of flavoured yogurt and freshly made finger fish. With beans. And sweet corn. And flavoured water.

She thought of a house that would be warm and comforting against biting cold winds. She thought of the maternal presence in that house. She thought of the last time she had hugged her. The way her short plump figure had completely encompassed her entire being in a split second. Perhaps she had not realised what she was to the girl. If she had, she would’ve held on longer. She thought of all those times she had woken up from unpleasant dreams to find a familiar, comforting snore gently rock her back to sleep. She thought of all the times she had been fussed on upon, the many summer holidays spent in ignorant bliss. The way her grandmother had tried to make the most of the every meeting, to somehow cover the distance of an entire continent.

She thought of a tiny bundle of joy, blessed with the most beautiful smile, barely a year old. She thought of her niece, the way she giggled when she was thrown in the air. The way her smile melted the hardest heart, the way she spread love and joy indiscriminately with just her presence.

There came to her mind an old, fragile-looking man too, with endless grace and dignity. A man who was a living miracle (literally). A man who was the most splendid example of resilience, hardwork, determination, and above all, will power. A man loved and respected by so many, but she considered herself so lucky to be loved by him. A man she looked up to, her grandfather. Countless times that old wrinkled face had smiled upon her, as if her insignificant being was actually the source of his pride. A brown face, sometimes appearing in her memory sitting in an intense Punjabi sun, other times laying on a pillow, sleeping in front of the fire, cozy against the frost outside that so many Punjabis yearned for but never experienced. Most of the times, though, he was either dressed in a three-piece suit, or a crisp shalwar kameez, actively pacing about, never a dull moment. The best storyteller.

There were other memories on this continent, some personal, others not as much. Her wandering mind, however, moved to another continent, one she had never been to, but which contained a piece of her heart. A family, more beloved to her than belgian chocolate, if chocolate was a scale. A family she hoped to see again, soon. But the prospects looked dim.

Finally, the third continent. The continent she currently found her physical being on. A land containing almost all her memories, some sweet, some sour. A land where she was thankful to still have some of the people she loved and cherished. Her paternal grandfather, a man with unwavering faith in Allah. The most patient man she had seen in her life. Born to be great. And that was what he had achieved. Though not as expressive as herself, he had loved them in his own way and shown it. She knew him by the words: bravery, wisdom, chivalry, gentlemanliness, discipline, tolerance and trust. A man of endless dignity and grace, a man she looked up to. A man was respected greatly and deeply by everyone. A man who taught how to respect, simply by showing it. A man who led by example.

She was still nostalgic. She wanted to have everyone and everything within her grasp. She wished it was so. But at the same time she knew she could not be ungrateful for all that God had already blessed her with. So, she said a quiet, heartfelt prayer and thanked Him for all the blessings she already had.

The bell rung. She was forced back to Earth.


This prompt came along at the right time.

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Hints of Pleasure

I saw a woman once

With droopy eyes

And a face of

Permanent gloom.

And though she was young,

Her wrinkles conveyed

Age and depression.

So much so that,

Even when she reached

The epitome of ecstasy

Her face portrayed only

Hints of pleasure.

 

 

 

Writing prompt:

Here

Vacant Stares

The river, it flows

Reflecting images in its course

It gushes forth, every second

A new image

Images never seen by humanity

Images the river hides

Images. The rocks’ secrets.

Of everything that took place

But wasn’t ever seen by eyes

The eyes that

When witnessed miracles

Nature’s greatest

Blinked.

And turned away

Often looked down

At artificial screens

In the presence of Grandeur.

So nature, in revenge,

Feeling insulted

At something the Creator

of the moon created

Being rejected,

Took away their sights

So that they never saw

And all that remained

Were vacant stares


I know I’m not doing these prompts everyday, and BELIEVE ME I had some pretty cool ideas too, but I just didn’t have the time! Also, I love how they make me think! It’s so fun. If you haven’t tried this already, why don’t you check it out here? Also, I’m doing two different prompts at the same time. So you can check out the other one in the previous post.

Check this one out here:

https://puttingmyfeetinthedirt.com/2017/10/01/october-writing-prompts/

A Lost Key

They say there is a land. A land composed entirely of thoughts, feelings, emotions and most importantly: words. They say there is a land where words flow in the streams, words accumulate in the oceans, words pour down with the rain. They say that the words are not hateful and full of spite, nor do they contain malice. It is a land full of clear intentions, crystal clear. They say it is a land where men and women are judged and respected based on their words and words alone. They say it is a land where people write and read and write and read. They say it is a land where respect is based on the quality of words, where nobility is expression. They say it is a land where people need not worry about careers and money and materials. It is a land for the creative. A land for expression. They say it is a land where words run free…. where there are no chains or borders or limitations in vocabulary. They say…

They also say it is a land amidst beauty and purity. They say the land is guarded against anything that could be potentially harmful. They say there is a high wall, electrocuting anything that threatens to invade. They say there is only one way to enter: a gate. The gate has long, iron bars, with gold spheres on top that glow. They say it is an extension of Jannah (Heaven). They say that on that gate is a single fragile-looking lock, made of white gold. They say the lock is actually deceit, it is the strongest lock there is. They say that the only way to enter is to unlock it with a key. And, that key is lost.

That is where my heart lies.

In a lost key.


Had a hard time with this post. I just couldn’t think of anything! Oh well. Here it is now.

Check out today’s writing prompt here:

https://zoyakubra.wordpress.com/2017/09/23/october-writing-challenge/

The Journey Beyond

There are several underpasses in the Canal Bank Road. I know only nine, and for some unfathomable reason, I seem to have memorised all their names. But that is beside the point.

If you take the bus every morning, and find yourself on that road at half six, you will be forced to observe every little detail every single morning. It doesn’t matter wethar or not you want to, but the fact remains: it is impossible to sleep on that bus, hence you rely on your observations to keep you amused and, well, awake.

However, it is a completely different experience in a car. A smooth ride, noiseless, peaceful, no sudden jolts attempting to disintegrate your vertebrae. You could sleep if you want. When you pass through an underpass, there isn’t much of a spectacle. Just another bend in the road, though downwards.

On a bus, though, it is quite an event. Keep in mind, the windows of the bus are always open, unless there is a particularly difficult passenger who insists to torture all those other people who were not fortunate enough to get a window seat. Along with the not-so fresh air and dirt and toxic fumes that come in, there is, also, a whole lot of NOISE. Not just the traffic outside: motorbikes, tractors, trucks, cars, rickshaws, vans, wagons(yes in the early mornings all these vehicles are allowed too). But also the constant sound of the bus itself, its engine roaring consistently, never letting you forget you are in a bus. However, on the road, these noises are an open environment. Spreading out in all directions. Nothing specified, no collectivity.However, passing through an underpass is a quite different story. The sounds, now confined for a moment of time within the walls, reflect back and provide you with a collective impact. Bouncing back, they combine at the epicentre: that instant in which your bus passes through the centre of the underpass. For a brief second, (that is, if you are awake), you experience a strange sensation. A sensation that I could never truly justify with mere words. A combination of frequencies that were never meant to be combined. And if you overthink it like I do, you shall experience a weird sort of contentment. As if the universe revealed some of its secrets to you.You want to stop right there. Stop time itself to live an eternity in what is a split second. Perhaps because you dread the monotony of “routine”. Perhaps. But you know. You know.That you must venture into the journey beyond.


This would’ve been better suited had the prompt been “overthinking about petty things” rather than The Journey Beyond. But oh well. Heh.