Rise again

Drop 1

Osira stood at the edge of a cliff with her toes eager to take off. She could feel the wind sustaining her intention on her back. No shivers. No fears. Afterall, the wind could not be wrong. Her long black tresses curtained her face like a head covered before an execution. Whispers in the wind sang out to her and called her names for being a coward... in good humour of course. The dark curtain on her face hid a smile that screamed of dares and adventure. She was about to listen to her friend – the wind.

She nosedived. Neck cracked.

Blackout.

Drop 2

The wind was still calling her names while she stood delicately this time. The face was still curtained behind her wildly flowing locks. No smile.

The toes were curled and firmly gripping the edge. ‘Osira, you nitwit! Don’t you believe in anything I say?’ howled the wind. She slapped her back strongly against the wind. A broken neck was her recent trophy. With clenched fists and rehearsed dynamics she jumped.

Got swept away and hit a rock. Broke her legs.

Bloodied vision.

Drop 3

The wind felt somewhat stronger now. Not that it was. ‘There has to be a better way’, thought Osira. She leered over with her head hung low - trying to map her way down. Blood trickled down her hair. She loved watching the drops fall and disappear after a while.

The wind cackled and gave her little nudges this time. It was delightful to watch.

She had to figure it out right away. Flung herself over.

Crash!

Drop 4

This needs a strategy. There’s definitely a better way to do this. Osira is sitting with her legs dangling from the edge of the cliff. Stooping and wondering. There has to be a better way.

The wind’s name-calling is mere noise now. She is swaying with it. It soothes her muscles and numbs her pain.

She is observing the blood trickle down and disappear.

‘There is a better way’, thinks Osira while she is waiting to heal.

*

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Mademoiselle

All I could think about was how to survive the week while I lugged my tired body back from work. Scrunched between two burly ladies with my face nearly shoved into the belly of another jelly being, I could not have been the cheerful self that I’m famous for. There was no way any happy thought could have managed to pursue its way through those sandwiched bodies inside the tiny metro compartment. The noises were loud. The smells were musty. Happy thoughts do not venture in such regions. They avoid and disappear. Poof! Did someone just fart near me or was that the last bit of happy thought leaving my aura?

I sat on my seat and waited to reach somewhere; talked to myself and almost started an argument. My head hung low and my conscience tried to focus on the music that was playing in my earphones. It would have taken more than a ‘nuclear fusion gone wrong’ for me to lift my head and look anywhere other than the train floor. Not that the train floor had the best view at that moment. There was a dried orange peel, a toffee wrapper and some ugly feet that kept me occupied for a while. But something managed to pull my attention and made me look up. I took a last look at the hundreds of faces that occupied the metro compartment. Each face had a story to tell, but I was hardly interested in listening. Breezing across the countless faces, my eyes stopped at one.

I must have imagined a huge Buddhist gong go ‘Bong!’ in my head at that very moment. Time stopped. Smells disappeared. The music in my ears faded into a vacuum. There stood in all her glory a woman so attractive that she hardly felt human. Short hair, bony face, round deeply set doe-like eyes and the perfect lips. There was no smile on this face but it promised happiness. Those high cheekbones were capable of carrying a winsome smile to those twinkly black eyes. I had never seen her smile before and yet I could feel my heart skip a beat when I pictured her breaking into one.

My eyes slowly trailed down to her neck. Slender and long that disappeared into a possibly beautiful collar-bone which was irritatingly hidden by the collar of her shirt. She was so lost in her book while her short hair flirted with her face. That’s when I almost smiled at her beautiful fingers that were trying to tame her hair. I also noticed the shiny silver ring she wore on her finger. That’s when I took a break from gawking at her. Took a quick glance at my own hands and played a little with my silver ring. The train floor suddenly seemed so boring.

She was so thin yet so strong. She had broad shoulders that framed her bust. There was a sense of accomplishment in that face - a confidence that could not have been acquired at birth. She had earned it. She had earned that attitude and that peace with which she stood against a pole and read a book in the middle of chaos. She was not the kind who would use the fact of being a woman as an excuse. She exploited it. She suddenly looked up and my heart skipped a beat again - this time with the fear of getting caught staring at her.

I heard the train announce my station name and something sunk inside me. The moment was about to pass. I had to leave this perfect moment and go back to my world of lesser adventure. I didn’t even get time to find out what her name was. She didn't know me. Time was running out and I forced myself to get up from my seat. The moment before this, my being didn't even care to be recognized. I never wanted to exist; I just wanted to be present. As I ruffled a few feathers around me and got up from my seat, something travelled across those million faces and brushed against that beautiful face. She looked at me. She kept looking and didn't even blink. We maintained eye contact for what seemed like a lifetime and I almost felt naked at that moment. Did she know? Was she aware the whole time? It couldn't possibly be. I started walking towards the door and took one last glance at her. The object of my admiration was still staring at me! Had the roles suddenly reversed? I may have unintentionally slipped her a smile because I almost saw her break into one. But before I could ravish myself in her smile, the crowd pushed me out of the door and I was left standing on the platform in no time. I struggled to look back through the window to catch a last glimpse of what could have been. But she disappeared within seconds as the train started to move.

I stood there on the platform trying to compose myself and prepared to walk out of the station. This time my heart was heavier than before. It was like losing a part of me that was good. A part of me that was promising. A part that screamed out happiness. A part that was gone! As I reached the exit of the metro station, my lover received me with a hug and a kiss on my cheek. I managed to give a faint smile when he said, “My my! Don’t you look pretty today! I wouldn't mind waiting a lifetime for a girl like you.” We walked away together in silence with his eyes constantly on me; adoring me the same way, like I did a few minutes back in that little compartment of pure bliss.

Let's be Grown Ups

Being adult about things in life can open a chapter of perceptions. People change. Situations change. There are highs and then the terrible lows. The lows that kick you in the shins and point and laugh at you. For some, being adult could mean sucking it up, making a few reforms and marching ahead with a remodeled brain. For some others, it could mean submitting and accepting a side that they were unaware of. For the other brilliant ones, it’s just a billing period for the fabulous high right before they touched the point of no return (or so they would think).

Being mature probably means not placing trust without a bargain. It probably means how to weigh your words before speaking your heart out. It could also mean having a new secret compartment in your cupboard for your favourite stuffed toy that’s too old to sleep next to you in your bed now. So, how does one really “grow up”? Who does that to you? What makes it the most crucial part of your survival? When did it hit you like a million rocks tightly packed in a jute bag across your pretty face? Did you bleed (no pun intended!)? Did it hurt like a thousand sharp swords skewering your ribcage slicing the guts and choking the life out of you? And was it all worth it? The pain is almost physical and out comes a neatly laundered ‘You’. Ironed and dry till you face some more dirt. After that begins another laundering process and then another and so on… till you wear out.

It’s a brilliant place to be. Being Adult. You finally know it all. You are so sure. Nothing can dupe you into believing anymore. You’re not a cynic. You just don’t give in that easily. You wear your wounds on your sleeve and flaunt your worry lines. The frequent cackling laughter has been replaced by an occasional smirk and wandering eyes. Your towering confidence is reeking of insecurities. And the face now wears a brilliant porcelain mask painted with wisdom. You always have a lot to offer to the 'still innocent' with a disclaimer, “You’ll know with time”. There is a published book of theories you hold in your hands with definitions written across a hundred pages. The pride you take in the pain. The pleasure you take in the tears you shed. You love it! The sweet masochistic pleasure. If that’s not called being grown up, then I don’t know what is.