Part III The Morning After

Meenakshi didn't open her eyes. She recollects her thoughts about the previous night. How blissful the night was. It rained all night, and the air did smelled of wet fulfilled earth.

In the veil of the darkness behind her eyelids, she imagines her fear - was it all a dream? were those touches she felts not long ago not for real? Were those comforting words the tricks of the winds?

Before opening her eyes, to confirm her too human curiousity, she holds her breath and feels around the bed. A warm answer of flesh on flesh answers her inquiring fingers. Only then she dared to pen her untrustful eyes.

Rahul sleeps beside her blissfully, his eyes restful and closed. Meenakshi watches him thus for unaccounted moments, trying to drink in the handsome face of youth. An unchecked smile plays on her face, telling the story of happiness, love and hopes coming alive.

Part I: The rain never came
Part II: Of squalls and thunderstorms 

Part I The rain never came

It didn’t rain tonight. Not that she expects any. The night sky glitters in mockery with clear twinkling stars which gave no comfort, only a little distraction while she imagine her fears. She sits on the chair on the porch waiting for something, maybe a little waft of zephyr breeze or someone else. The night slips by with only the moon to accompany her. The moon reminded her of the story where the moon waits for her love, the sun, but is forever destined not to, a dream which has no path to come to the realm of the real.

A breeze passes by but she didn’t notice, only the branches sway in acknowledgement. And Meenakshi, with a heavy heart sits silently, and waits for the non-existent cloud to give her some rain, with hope that the rain could quench the thirst inside her.

Part II: Of squalls and thunderstorms

Part III: The morning after

A turning in life

There are times when life screams with the sheer heaviness of melancholy, and the feeling of loneliness arose to such height that you feel utterly forlorn and lost. And at such times only I must be strong. But valour first needs a strength and then a weapon. But when all hope is thus lost, where shall I find strength? And where shall I look for a weapon? The rusty axe have served me well, and now must retire; the courage, now too frail, cannot rise to hope.

Of 3 scores and 10, 50 more to go, and with weary feet must I pursue? Must I stay? And when all things seems utterly lost, and when the end beyond all means is looming, then and now I must despair. The old that is strong does not wither, they say; aye, it is true, but they do turn into stone, forever carven and set on solid earth.

Life, its fervid autumn heat wasted, must now pass on to the desolate winter, from where shall pass on the next great journey...


A flash of light
A myriad of colour
Of loud bangs and sudden disappearances

Where went the youth? Ask of the wind and the sun and the moon, but tell no tales of the youth. Where now is he?

What it is to die and live again? A blossoming of heart, a glimmer of hope, so bright was it, as if, Earendil, the evening star, most beloved of the elves have come down to rest upon there.

With eager feet I must now follow, and take some longer road, where then, I cannot say.