An Uncle Graham

I’m remembering so much of the past these days. Perhaps because there’s time enough for recollection. Or perhaps because I feel far removed from it, as though I’m only recollecting a story that is someone else’s.

I’m remembering my younger days in a cardboard box. And the years I lived in the city studying literature. I’m sometimes also remembering a lover from yesteryear and inevitably remembering a part of myself I had begun to forget.

And today, I’m remembering an old Uncle Graham.

I did not consciously choose to remember him, as though it’s in our power to choose who or what we remember.

Uncle Graham was a silver-haired Englishman I met on a vacation. The year was 2008 and the location was a seaside resort.

I was 10-years-old then, but I still remember most of it. We first met in the dining area.

“Good morning!” He wished my sister and myself as we passed him by.

Read more

About a Cardboard Box

Was it always so? Did I always need a little space of my own, my solitary abode I could retreat to every now and then? Or is this need for solitude a new awakening within me, one sprung from the same desire that makes me stitch words together?

I remember a cardboard box from my girlhood days. It perhaps came with a refrigerator, or maybe a computer when they were built massive. Or was it not a T.V. carton?

I can’t tell exactly how it came into my possession. But I was more excited about the box itself than the valuable item it was made for. I asked my parents if I could keep it. (My mother still calls me a collector of all things useless.)

For a whole summer, I called the cardboard box home. In the afternoons, I would carry it outdoors and lock myself away for hours. I remember asking papa to carve a door in its frame (I wasn’t allowed to use paper-cutters then). I also made a latch of sorts with bits of cardboard so as to keep intruders at bay.

Read more

I write for you

Dear Reader,
If you are reading this, do so with all your heart, else stop! Abandon this piece and return not. Unfollow The Artist if you may, but please don’t ruin this piece of my heart with your heartlessness.

I write for you…
When in possession of ink and virgin sheet,
Where my thoughts- a movie, starring you and me.

Read more

In His Memories…

two hands
(c) Google image search

Now that he was gone, his fragrance was felt no more,

his voice seemed like a distant past, yet his memories alive in the heart’s core.

That bright winter morning, that chair, that hot cup of tea,

where nanu sat drinking, with his arms around me.

Read more