The Page Will Turn..

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 46; the forty-sixth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. 

  The tip of the kohl had turned blunt with use and the cheap glamour it afforded had faded with time. Smita had to repeatedly smudge its black lining to shape it to perfection, highlighting her eyes and adding that touch of mystery that drew clients to her ill reputed lane. The night was her ally, its dark cloak shielding her from the ugliness of her profession as men flocked to her to seek pleasure amidst the bustle of the city. The red shine of her lips glistened in the dim light as she adjusted the flimsy straps of her dress designed to bring out her voluptuous curves.

  Smita failed to recognise herself in the mirror. A pale beauty with haunting eyes stared back at her, the eyes devoid of dreams that had once drawn her to the city. For a moment time stilled as the past came back with startling clarity to torment her. The mirror adorned with artificial flowers felt like a window to her soul but the flowers with their mock splendour failed to soothe its upheaval.

  As a child Smita had loved flowers. She would bask in their fragrance, their natural beauty elevating her to some divine world where she wove them together into garlands of love, hope and joy. The village people called her ‘The Floral Beauty’. She would rescue dying flowers and paint their petals with shades of hue, using them to adorn the village during festivities. She would bunch fresh flowers into huge bouquets and sprinkle them with her hope and love. She had known in her heart that she was meant for something more and had moved to the city with floral dreams garnishing her hopeful eyes.

  But harsh reality had intruded soon enough and job in the city had turned out to be scarce. The meager amount of money had been insufficient to harbour to her needs and hunger, debt and necessity had driven her from door to door seeking jobs that might help sustain her in the ruthless city. She had sold her soul to the very devil when she had come begging to these doors, destitute and desperate, hungry for a morsel of bread and clean water to quench her thirst. And with her soul, she had sold her body.

  Smita drew in a deep breath, but no fragrance came to enfold her in its warm embrace. The touch of synthetic petals, devoid of life, provided no strength against the agony her bruised body suffered night after night. She left the dimly lit room and stepped out, the chilly wind cold against her bare skin. As she stood beneath the street light waiting for her clients to show up, she looked at the flowers hanging gracefully from the boughs of the tree. Their scent lingered on the streets, bringing hope to her shattered soul with it. Someday she would weave garlands of dreams again... Someday ‘The Floral Beauty’ shall sprinkle droplets of joy over the flowers of the city.

  A car drew up against the pavement and rolled down its window. After the usual hassle over the night’s bargain, Smita stepped inside her client’s car . And as the car drove past the tree Smita drew courage from her dreams, holding on to them like a talisman endowed with powers to heal her soul, knowing in her heart someday the page will turn.

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Little Things..

A child always dreams of growing up. The day he/she moves from primary to high school, from pencils to pens, from ruled papers to blank copies, from knickers to jeans, etc he/she is one more step closer to this transition. I remember the day when I held my first fountain pen. I felt so grown up and wisely and worldly mature. All that mattered at that point was growing up and seeing the world and now that we are grown up all that matters is going back to those blissful days of oblivion. Just the other day I got down from the metro and accidentally took a longer route to the entrance. And found myself in a passage full of drawings. I was dumbfounded for a moment and couldn’t stop myself from reaching out to those drawings. All of them were drawn by kids between the age group of maybe 9 to 11. And they were beautiful, portraying how much we have when there are millions out there in this nation who can barely afford two square meals a day. The thoughts gone behind the drawings humbled me and I started recalling all those painting competitions my mother would drag us kids too.

As I stood there gazing at the hundreds of pictures I looked around to see and was stunned to notice no one but myself standing there and gazing into the pictures. The crowd hurried by in a rush, pushing each other in their haste to reach the exit as soon as possible. None seemed to be aware of the drawings on the walls; some would gaze with blank looks and then hastily look away as if those drawings would infect their minds with poison. Adults seem to forget and appreciate the small things in life; the nostalgia of childhood memories, the beauty of gazing into the night sky, the joy of being childish at times, of spending lazy weekends having breakfast in bed, of tripping and falling and getting up again, running around the playgrounds chasing friends, blowing bubbles and acting crazy at times. No one can even comprehend of finding peace and beauty in a metro station and very few people look out for it. We rush through life like zombies struggling to survive and prove ourselves. Make impossible wishes, look out of the window of the bus when going to office, go on a painting spree (even if you are terrible at it) and help make someone’s day worthwhile. Because in the end you do not want to leave this world with regrets; you want to take great memories with you and make your presence felt even after you die. You want to live on in the little things that bring joy to the people you love; in the garden you built for the kids to play around, in the hammock u made for your wife to lie on, in the photographs you took on a family vacation and the friendship you so willingly gave to those who needed it. Because all that matters in the end is not to become an insignificant figment in someone’s memory; what matters is living on in their hearts.