Pencil Dear

Pencil: at work.
Image by Jorge L. Mena Reyes from Pixabay
Only when I couldn’t find the pen today, I picked you to write my random thoughts down. Not so sharp, but nice and silvery, I wrote some charcoal rich lines.
That you are not related to permanence, that all the lines written can be erased and that I was thinking about permanence before I reached half of the page, made me ponder.
Life was different as a child, when I scribbled, played the dot game on the last page of my notebook and the famous noughts and crosses.
I was chaotic and fearless, almost heroic when you and I first met.
The journey that started with you and the sharpener versus me and the eraser faded humbly away.
Then it was me dreaming and toying with you, all the while pretending to study. You were also delicious, the woody taste mixed with many dreams, you became my best pal.
Together we circled round and round with the help of the compasses and halted the sun, the earth, and the moon in my notebook.
How and where did this happen, I am not sure, but I dropped you somewhere when I forgot to see the sky, the mountains, the river, and the birds.
A memory knocked quietly, and I had a word with it. Remember the drawing of a mountain range, a river flowing by, a small house, a few trees around it and birds in the sky, and a tiny boat sailing in that river?
Yes! I said.
Then came back the doodle stars – small and big, shapeless and funny – and I was in a wink’s time deluged by colourful butterflies dancing around the crayon flowers, the happy trees swaying with the wind, the cartoons copied from magazines and comics exploding with ‘boom-bang’, the abnormally proportionate national flag and curiously round mother earth.
I never began without you and my friend eraser whenever I drew.
Time snatched you away from me and warned me to study, learn, grow, and get a job. It was the time-bombs’ fault, not mine.
Deliverance came to me one fine day and I was free. It was all too funny and therefore, I laughed madly.
It happened after some years of that time-bomb explosion. I noticed I wasn’t dead and nothing was as bleak as it looked. I wanted to draw!
I took a deep breath and reached a fork in the road and saw you there. Delighted, I picked you up and the rest you know.
The last sketch I drew was sublime for me.
I have started enjoying the illusion once again and living the ephemeral me happily, thanks to you, Pencil dear. 

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Carved and Alive

Meditating in permanence.
Image by Jagriti Rumi.

Centuries have passed and I have witnessed it elegantly, quietly.

Countless diyas have washed my feet and brightened my space. The lanterns took my shadow along and I crossed the steps to reach the temple.

I have enjoyed my permanence. I have blessed them all.  

The sound stays forever and if you try to hear honestly, I have so many stories to tell. The echoes are playful and I vouch for this fact.  

But there is nothing like the music of the bells. The small bells try, always, to tune with the bigger ones. Every time the result is harmonious.  

I like flowers, both fresh and old. The fresh ones are fragrant and the old ones make a wonderful husky sound. And I collect sound.

All kinds of prayers, musical, non-musical, the chants, the whispered wishes and loud blessings are there in my collection.  

I am different from the ones who come to see me here. They are opposite to what I am. I stay still and collect sound. I was made to meditate. While they can move all around and express. It must be their way of meditating.    

She comes here a lot. Somehow, I can see a resemblance between this lady and me. She is mostly as quiet as I am, she reads a lot, maybe she collects through her eyes.

She is the one here who can listen to my collection, my stories. But maybe not now, she is busy collecting.

I’ll wait, nevertheless, and collect the sound of ruffles when she turns the paper.

The rock-cut cave temple, Pataleshwar, in Pune.
Image by Jagriti Rumi.

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