The Sunset Sky

Streaks of purple and tangerine, as far as the eyes can see. Somewhere I see a hint of blue, peeking out from the gradient of colors. Birds are little pecks, wandering about in empty space. Trees are dark shadows, silhouettes against the sky. The air is still, retiring for the day. The atmosphere isn’t electric, but rather melancholic. The sun steals glances from gaps between buildings. And as the orange giant bids goodbye, it leaves behind soft rays that grace the sky.

 

This transitional moment is a magnificent sight. Every moment, is consistently random. Every sight, more beautiful than before. Every day it’s the same colors, the same sun, the same sky. But something makes it unique, every time. The slowly changing gradient accentuates the vastness of the sky. Never in the day is the sky more interesting. The sun keeps setting, leaving all his artwork behind. Eventually, the artist, tired for the day, spills ink over the canvas and rests for the day.

The Old Beggar

Heavy luggage in each hand causes both my shoulders to droop. They have this incessant urge of falling to the ground, as if they’re troubled by their own weight and feel like laying down for a while. The searing pain in my arms is trying to pull my nerves apart. I briskly walk through the crowd in hopes of getting this over with quick.

 

I feel disgusted by the mob and the heat, “Why is the railway station this crowded so late in the night?”. Then my eyes fall upon an old lady sitting on the railway platform. She’s sitting upright with her legs straight out. Like sitting in attention.

 

She looks old and destitute. Her hair’s all frizzy. I don’t know if her saree’s always been brown or if it’s due to the dust and pollution. It certainly doesn’t look new. It’s half torn to reveal her legs up to her thighs.

 

She seems to be searching for something but looks up at me when I pass her by. She can’t afford to miss out on anyone. The rarity of a helping soul who can alleviate her grievance compels her to do so. Her eyes are teeming with emotions. Hope, fear, longing and distress. I pass her by quickly, before she could even begin to beg for help. Before her pleading eyes could bore into me. I’m a hypocrite.

 

I couldn’t help but wonder. Who would care about them? Who would want to help? How long until they get better? Will they ever? Would I be helping her by giving her money that brings her respite? Or would I be helping her by giving her nothing, to teach her to live on her own? I can never answer any.

My First Kill

 

Yes, I shot him. He was after all an enemy, wasn’t he?

I asked myself, am I inhuman for doing my job?

I looked into his eyes, they were moist.

Probably remembering his wife and kids back home, remembering those moments which led him to choose the path that resulted in his death.

So, I asked myself again, am I inhuman for depriving a child of her father, for depriving a wife of her husband?

I looked around and saw mutilated bodies; some were of friends’, some of strangers’.

So, I wondered, would this be my fate too?

All I know is, I’m a soldier and I have to kill and die for my country.

The Pleasant Bus Journey

I stick my head out of the window. Wind gushes past my hair. I experience a soothing sensation of nirvana. A wide smirk smears across my face. I close my eyes to shelter them against the wind. Nothingness engulfs me momentarily and I’m detached from everything and everyone. Black. Empty. Serene. I like that.

 

I open my eyes and look up. Street lamps pass in successions. One by one. All identical. The light isn’t glaring, it’s soft on my eyes. And I like that.

 

I slowly lower my gaze, and stare off into the horizon.  A humongous matte white cloud drifts slowly in the sky. Ashened by the dark of the night, it looks like cotton dipped in light coffee. I cover miles on the road, but the cloud doesn’t seem to budge. I don’t imagine fancy shapes in it. I never see anything. I just continue to stare and admire the beauty in it’s simplicity. I like that.

 

A song rings in my ear which is in perfect resonance with my situation. I hum the song and mouth the words. I leave everything behind, pushed off to the back of my head.

 

I’m going too fast. My longing for that feeling seems to be longer that the moment itself. A tiny snippet of pleasure that is barely satisfying. I wish it could slow down. I wish the road was endless and the moment timeless. But would all that still make it priceless?

A change of place, a change of heart

I don’t like change. I feel reluctant to accept it. Changes I bring about by myself are okay, but those inflicted on me aren’t.

 
The mental turmoil I’m forced to endure to adjust to it is tiresome. I find it hard to believe. As if I’d just woken up from a pretentious dream in which everything’s static.

 
It takes me a while before I eventually give in. Not like I have a choice. I never find myself welcoming it with open arms. Maybe I’m not versatile. And I thought I’ll never be.

 
Recently, I began to differ. I just see it in a different perspective now. I don’t try to fight it anymore. The initial reluctance still persists, but it doesn’t eat up my mind.
I slowly learnt that it’s easier if I kept my mind off of it. Well, I knew that before too, we all do. But what’s fascinating is that I had come across situations that had helped me do that.

 
College took up most of the burden of distracting me. With so many people around, the thought about the change just slips my mind.

 
But the one I found most helpful was to talk to someone new. Or Someone I hadn’t talked to in a while, for a change. Ironic isn’t it. One change to cover up another. It probably masks the other one. Temporarily.

 
The only change I’m open to, is a change of place. In me it brings, a change of heart. Different emotions rush in me and I’m piqued by curiosity. I immerse myself in engorging the surroundings and take comfort in the beauty of nature.