Somehow, Motia and the need to do something important will always lead to dropping everything and resorting to my blog. Have to study. Exams from Wednesday. Don’t even know the complete syllabus. I will flunk on the basis of my attendance (or lack thereof) anyway.
Three gajray..two lacing the door handle, third sitting next to my face on my pillow with Emma. Every now and then someone likes my Facebook status demanding solidarity against a misogynistic event in Lahore. I draw in a deep breath of motia freshness. It fills me up. My astrology report says tomorrow is tough. Some planet is going retrograde and confronting, I don’t know, Pluto perhaps. Eyes cringed shut, I nestle my nose in the white petals tickling away, breathing life in. It’s almost as if the scent of the flowers spread powder pink and ice blue manga illustrations through my otherwise black and white pen & ink sketched lungs. Whoever retrogrades, Motia will help me through it all. Selective flashbacks. Frock daaman, chock full of motia, running around the porch at ammi’s, then meticulously stitching them together on an asli pari ka dhaaga (cotton thread) whiter than the moven-pick-vanilla-white flowers themselves.
I can marry Emma, Motia and my Pillow.
twirling, swaying, gliding astray, as fragile as can be, reaches the ground getting lost within the crowd of its kind
Sunday, August 07, 2011
Motia
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Every snowflake yearns to touch the ground, to melt, to change it's state, be something it isn't yet, whether it's water, ice or a snowball. Change is but a constant. Keep Commenting...let me know what you think.
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