I wander lonely as a cloud

Writers are like thieves, they like to get inspire by their environment.

Sometimes they simply steal ideas.

Like WordsWorth in Daffodils who wanders lonely as a cloud. Today, I too allowed myself to become a cloud.

In the glittering shine of calm January Sun, I was feeling light-hearted and considering myself in a WordsWorth’s world, I took a chance to wander and appreciate my surrounding.

It all started with the arrival of Rofus Treepie in home today.

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This Indian Treepie who belongs to crow family likes to come at the time in morning when there’s still darkness in sky.

Birds are early riser but this specific bird wakes way too early.

While going to park, I took this picture.

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There’s something special about different shades of green in it.

Leaves are yellow, they’re of dark green colour and they appear light green and when the sun is allowing them to make shadows on ground, I like the leafiness of those trees in background.

Under this bridge is a way for a small stream to flow.

In winter there’s no water in it but when there’ll be summer, the coolness of water and kindness of trees will provide much needed relief to a wanderer standing on this bridge beneath these trees.

After bleak winter days, sun sprinkled it’s glitter on earth today.

Standing in my yard, when I heard chirping of birds up in a tree, I can’t help remembring these words by Hellen Keller

“The best and the most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched_they must be felt by a heart.”

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This post is in response to ragtag daily prompt wander.

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Indian treepie bird  courtesy:

Google Image.

Imagination

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When I was young, we for some time lived in a home where there was a small neat garden.

I liked doing cycling in sunlit court-yard of that home.

There was enough space in a house for playing but my favorite spot was in the garden.

In the evening, I would take my kitchen toy set with me and after plucking some leaves, I loved to make my own very food under the green shady leaves of tree.

Child as I was, I imagined my cooking pots were real. Those were the days when I considered real world was fake.

With the passage of time my perspective has changed. Today, I know that real world is not fake but my belief has become more strengthen in a fact that with little bit of effort, I can re-create my life from my imagination.

This past Sunday, I was under weather and for some change decided to go outside with family. Once in a car, I observed street ahead, it was all covered with fallen leaves. I thought of changing season and imagined that fallen leaves were my own past days which I had left behind only to move forward. This very thought gave me such strength that I found myself quite energetic during rest of my day.

After all Roald Dahl is never wrong when he writes

“And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.”

Image Courtesy: DevianArt

Creative day

white-flower

Sound of lawn mower

Singing myna, hopping sparrows

My haven for writing,

Embracing this form of day

I have fallen in love with life.


Lately, I’ve been noticing this change in my writing habit that stillness of night creates hindrance in my creative writing process. During the day when there’s the sound of life on the street outside my home, my mind remains active.

This morning, when I could hear the sound of lawn mower in my neighbor’s garden and twittering of sparrows on my terrace, I was thinking nothing but this very line that “I’m in love with life”.

This post is response to Silver’s Weekly #Tanka #Poetry Prompt Challenge #5 SHAPES & HEART.

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For heart I’ve used love and for shapes, I’ve used form.

Image Courtesy: flickr.com

Story: Linda’s Life

The life without children was lonely for her and in order to fill that vacant space, the kind old Linda showed great care for her flowers.

Standing in a window of my room, I often observed her garden. For, a neatly trimmed grass and the colorful bushes of flowers were a refreshing sight.

All day long, Linda kept herself busy in baking. In the evening she used to sit in her garden and the children from neighbor gathered round her. She was a great raconteur and while listening to Linda’s story, they also enjoyed eating her delicious cakes.

Painting was her way of expressing her feelings. Her house was full of her drawings.

I knew she was getting old and I was worried about her. Once, I tried to make her realized that she required some rest but she said

It’s true that I’m getting weak but I won’t like to sit idle. I’d like to die in harness.”

Today, the garden is for children to play and enjoy themselves.

As for me, I can imagine her standing in her garden doing painting.

Linda died with her boots on.

(186 words)

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Many thanks to PricelessJoy of Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. The photo prompt is provided by Graham Lawrence. It is a beautiful picture.

Once it happened in a garden!

bench in a garden

The bird uttered a melancholy tone of loneliness and the autumn leaves gave a crunching sound under their feet’s.

Hand in hand, they entered the garden. Sarah with her firm hold on his hand was walking steadily while the man with his rough brown hair was faltering behind her.

“John, look the kids are playing. Do you want to join them?” she asked, but his vacant eyes and expressionless face made her feel dispirited.

She gently placed her hands on his shoulders and said, “John, you need to speak up. You need to share your feelings.”But he continued to stare at something and following his direction of gaze, she saw an old woman sitting on a bench. That old lady was busy in knitting a sweater.

Sarah felt something strange in John’s eyes. He freed his hand from her grip and started to walk towards the bench.

Holding needles in her wrinkled hands, Susan got surprised by their presence. She cast an inquisitive look upon those strangers and before she could say something the man felled on his knees and started to cry like a child. Tears were rolling down his eyes and in his hysterical voice he was saying,

“You looked like my mother please let me see your face for a while”.

Susan felt as if someone had clenched her heart.  The distant image of her lost child appeared in her eyes. She saw the man in front of her was sobbing uncontrollably.

At that very moment, the crusty brown leaves reflected the golden sunshine and Susan took that youthful figure in her fragile arms. She gently stroked his hair and whispered,

“Shhh!  All your sorrows are ended in my embrace”.

The little sparrow uttered a musical note of joy and Sarah smiled contentedly. She was happy as at last John had decided to share his feelings.

image credit: (www.wallpaperup.com/)

writing 101: Day Nine (Point of view)

It happened one night…

dove

 

 

 

 

The wind blew furiously and soon it started to rain. After a hot day, the cold breeze brought much-needed refreshment and we all became very happy.

I was in a kitchen, making a tea for my family, when I heard a pathetic chirping of a bird. Our flowering shrubs had been home to many birds. So, I got alarmed by that voice and asked my sister to come with me.

What we saw outside was a baby dove huddled against the wind. The poor bird was probably blown away from its nest.  The little bird was frightened. We got worried and the whole family gathered outside. Everyone proposed his or her own idea, but my father gently took the bird in his hands and carried him inside.

My mother placed a basket in an inverted position and my elder sister wrapped the bird in an old shirt and carefully placed him on the sheet of paper.

Children were especially very excited. They kept sitting around the bird and continued to examine it. At last, when it was very late, my mother scolded them and asked them to go to their beds. The morning was bright and sunny. So, after breakfast, my father took the baby dove outside and gently placed him on the wall.

The window of our drawing room opened in a garden. So, we all gathered there and started to look at the bird. I must admit that never, in my life I had ever seen such a touching scene.

There it was a pair of a light brown colored “mourning dove”. The father and the mother doves were grooming their chick. They were cleaning his feathers and gently pushing him with their beaks.

The golden sunshine was filtering through the green leaves and was gently caressing the happy doves. It occurred to me that the cOO oo-woo-woo of the dove was no more plaintive. In fact, it was a happy song of the delighted heart of a dove. The bird who was earlier mourning the loss of his baby was now singing the happy song of reunion.

That beautiful scene is still fresh in my mind. I can never forget that care and love of a dove for its chick.