A place where love is born, fed, brought up and shed is the
place where colors are brighter, where sounds are clearer, where sights are
more obvious, where smells are more familiar.
A place where love is born, fed, brought up and shed is the place of freedom
and bliss, where the self is nurtured in the wildest of care, where dreams are
made with sudden dares, where life learns flight, where wings are broken down.
It is the
place soaked with unknown familiarity, drenched in forgotten yearnings, pregnant
with mystical myths, it is a place where every detail is known to be known for,
and every door is opened to be closed….
Where history echoes in every
corner, those laughter are still held in the air, those shrieks are still somewhere, under the
sky and above the earth, is a place where spirits live under the stairs, and
man in the painting constantly stares.
It's about a trance where stars
are above watching, an unknown audience, watching every move, sometimes delighted
and sometimes gloomy, where air around is rejoicing over the arrival of
springs, where flowers were brought to
be drooped, where dreams were made to be doomed.
A place where love is
born, fed, brought up and shed Is the place of various languages, chillies, and
wheat flour. Where that tea strain is still somewhere speaking of its story,
those dust grains pushed to the corners are still waiting for their trial,
where secrets are still their under the hollow space between the cabinets, where secrets long forgotten are still
prevailing.
A place where love is
born, fed, brought up and shed is the place where lizards have lain eggs, where
ants parade under the hedge, where doors once creaked, where windowpane were
broken down, where autumn brought dried leaves, and storms brought layers of
dust, spring brought flowers of rejoicing, where winters were passed beside the
fire, where waiting was once the only option.
Where emotions are not vague, where music is also made, where guitars are
played, where the songs once sung stay. It is a place where toys are brought to
be broken down, where secrets were hidden to be forgotten, where care was once
taken to be deserted, where attentions were once given to be forgotten, where
the footprints are still the evidences of crimes done, and broken dolls are the
memory of rooms once decorated.
Where fairy tales are still
fabulous, where the prince went away from the backyard and never came back, and
the princes cried behind the guava tree, where the deserts produced flowers,
and gardens produced thorns, where nature was reversed, were rules were turned,
where loved one cried and the devil rejoiced.
Where angels sat on the shoulders, and prayers were offered at the top
most attic, where walls were climbed, were mischief were dealt with, where
love was offered some day, and rejection was the fate the other day.
Where
foundations were laid, and doubts were born. Where insecurity crept within,
where darker truths faded away, where conscience is clear and the soul is at
bay...
A place where love is born, fed, brought up and shed is a place where mud was once played with, where gardens were once maintained, where
mud was left to become dust, where gardens were left to be destroyed, where
honour was kept above all, and idols were thrashed into parts, where stories
were stolen thousands of, where trusts were broken many times.
Its a place where habits developed, where intimacy prevailed, where silence speaks of
those weeping souls, where opening of windows brought joyful news. Where small details are still untouched, where small realities are still
unravelled, where that unknown corner is waiting for centuries to be discovered,
where God of small things is still a picture of no recognition.
...Where the
trunks are still locked, and gutters are still blocked, where the books are
dusty for years, where pages are still to be turned, where familiarity has crept
deep into the unknown, where surprises are gone away to stray, where there is
no cause, where there is no awe, where everything is boring and soul is
bounded.
Where future was dreamed, and present
was lived, and past was gotten. It is a place of nostalgia and of past, of
mystical paths and mythical pavements, where drama was tragic and the audience
was awestruck.
It is as soft as the cradle of mother, as secure as arms of a lover, as
regretful as thorns of the past, as painful as the memory that lasts.
A place where love is
born, fed, brought up and shed is a place with different destinations where
love has always been enough for us to hate, go away, and
eventually come back. Where love has always been enough to let us leave. The place where everyone belongs, a place
safe as home, a place called home.
