Just for You

And I did not want to stay any more
Away from you up in the cloud,
Your eyes called me more than you meant,
And they reminded me by yelling loud.

Your longing made the air go crazy,
And the winds showcased the chaos in your soul,
And I still kept hanging up there
Wanting all to stay back and hold.

And the flowing branches,
Stuck all leaves to your hair,
And you were lying in garden of your senses,
Looking at me up there.

You closed your eyes that moment,
I believe to call me in prayer,
And it did reach the ears you aimed at,
Breaching all the layers.

And no more I wanted to hold
Just wanted to drop and kiss,
Peeping inside till the deepest end
And show you how much I too missed.

And just willing to live in the moment,
I am falling down through,
Willing to die in the coming moment,
Living just for you.

Manowara Chowdhury

P.S: The narrator is a raindrop

The Red Flower Tree

A house is a store house of events, a symphony that requires no song, no rhythm, no words yet its in perfection. The walls become a canvas displaying pictures from the past, present and some you envisaged for the future, the roof just seems like a nostalgic canopy of twinkling years where every one of them is having a story to tell and the just that little space, where if you have a garden you recall the moments in sun, mud, rain, in winters, in summers and in festivals, the gatherings, the noise, the silence and just that place which made you feel this is where you belong to.

It was hard for us to leave the house. We had been staying there with all my childhood and adolescence captured in and around. When we shifted, the house did not have a garden, but my parents were fond of gardening and hence they added a flavor to their lives and gave us a perfect place to throw milk, hide in a corner, quarrel, get punished and build a castle of memories where I had a Cinderella dance with my prince charming at one instance, and at the other, I did think about kissing a frog what if it turns to a prince waiting for me. Looking at the mushrooms I wondered why it doesn’t looked beautiful as the lady bird, and if caterpillars could really talk, or if a glow worm would be my little garden star for ever. “How beautiful is childhood”, I smiled to myself all the stories seemed real, no theories, no rules, just plain simple life, full of dreams, full of colors and flying butterfly connecting all the links.

The small garden had an enchanting beauty, with nothing extra ordinary but still unique in our block of the apartment and everyone liked it being around. We had some flowering plants, I an still confused between a herb and a shrub and in the days of actually learning them my garden had all sorts of examples to remind me of it. Some flowered all round and some were perennials, but my favorite was the one with red flowers.
There was something very beautiful about this, since I had been in grade sixth, I remember a pair of Bulbul bird came in every summer build there nest and stayed with us till the little ones could fly on their own. The first time it made its nest it was a joy to watch. I remember we would come from school throw away the bags and just sit watching the birds. It was a delight to watch them, to see them collecting twigs and making a nest. We had got some distinguished difference between the two, making one the mommy bird and the other the daddy bird. And then came one fine day when we knew there were eggs in the nest. We collected an old wooden ladder and kept a watch on the eggs all the time, sending a smile to mommy/daddy bird sitting on them and eventually came the day when even a stone hitting the leaves popped a bunch of hungry beaks. And every time they popped, it popped a smile and it gave a feeling that only the smile could express.
The flowers were vibrant red, and the leaves majorly darker shade of green, with sprayed lighter shade and pinch of lemon. Some branches wore a fruit, small capsicum like, too smaller version of the big capsicum, harder than the huge one, and if you could break it open you would find some kidney shaped seeds inside, amidst transparent fluid that left a shivery irritation. The flowers were a delight to the eyes, a combination everyone liked every moment. And the rain, just made it all the more picturesque. Some plucked it for offering it to their gods, some to make garland for their dolls and some to just keep it with them till it gave them the joy and smile to carry it. And I was the happiest of all because they were from my garden. The wind loved it too, it carried it along and scattered it far and wide. And all around the apartment anywhere I saw red flowers, I knew they belonged to me and some times beyond the apartment those red flowers just meant from my garden.

It had been a year since my dad retired and we had to leave that flat which had been our home. For the first time I felt an immense pain inside, I wanted to hug the house n cry, moments were flashing in front of my eyes, hide and seek with dad and dad knew I was hiding behind the curtains, cricket in the drawing room, making sure we do not hit the TV screen, and if we did just run out into the garden and sit under the tree with red flowers.
I did pretend to be stronger outside, but I wasn’t inside, I felt like the kid ready to give away all the coins in my piggy bank, just so that I could have the toy everyone had, but here the toy was a storehouse of my memories and moments and it was forbidden to feel the pain, very ironical it was.

We left the place, with a heavy heart silently promising my awaiting birds to know I am going to pass by as summer comes asking the red trees to bloom to the fullest allowing the winds to always bring it to my face with a smile.

New house, new rooms and life got busy decorating and creating new memories, collecting moments and building stories. And just like that, a pair of bulbul bird one day took notice of my wandering eyes and reminded me of my promise to them, thus re-planned my route and visited my old house just to be shattered that my garden was broken for someone’s new extended house and now the red flowers tree no more existed for the bulbul’s nest!!

Manowara Chowdhury

A Pineapple Smile

“You need to avoid pineapples and papaya” she said, smiling to me.

It had been a wonderful moment last night when two strips suddenly made me realize something is kicking inside me. I could not help imagining how would it feel when I would be kicked by him or a her. I smiled to myself, wondering would it be pink or blue, like me or like him. No snoring like him. “But I’m not snoring right now” he smiled placing another peck on my forehead, squeezing me, his passion transformed to a different kind of embrace, a form I did not know existed in him. He waved through my hair, talking endlessly, very unlike his nature. Its mostly me talking about us, how we met, came together and life there after, but it was different that moment. I always thought he doesn’t remembers any thing about that day when we met for the first time. He remembered each and every of those and it was wonderful to hear his version of the story, lying in his arms, arms full of embrace, strength and clots that made my heart skip a beat as to why they exists. I don’t remember when did I sleep yesterday but his snoring woke me up and the moment I tried freeing myself from the tangles of his arms he woke up, “Are you alright?” his voice had a pinch of panic in it “you need anything?” He questioned.
His sleepy eyes looked wide open in the shade of the yellow table lamp, I could see so much in them, so much, something I had not seen in a long time. I hugged him tight and could not help crying. Who consoled whom, was unanswered and we both woke up twinned in each others embrace.

“Pineapple is her favourite fruit, she can live without a papaya” he said, inquisitive as to why could I not eat it, they both had their share of conversation, what to do and what not and my eyes wandered around. At the street outside the window of her clinic. He knew I wasn’t listening, he could always tell when was I lost, and I never had to apologize. He never wanted me to, he knew just the way to lift me up when I was really sorry. ” You are lucky mister, I am not sorry always” I teased him, “Indeed I am lucky” he smiled ” because, I have you”.
A sudden anxiety irked me, and I was restless to move out, he took my palm in his hands and rubbing it softly against his hard, I often wondered if he possessed some healing power. He is going to be a great father, I smiled to myself.

Ride along was irritating with a flat tyre midway. He was trying to fix it and meanwhile I preferred to take a walk along the road. “Be careful while you walk, it seems a bit rough, I would have loved you being here but now that you have made up your mind, I know you would walk till there, carry your phone and your wallet and please call me” he had more to speak but I had to interrupt, ” its a walk till you need time to fix up, Just a walk till the red light and I shall be right there or may be I shall come back to you” I hugged him, a little pda(public display of affection) and he won’t refuse, easier to exploit it sometimes.

It was a hot summer day and suddenly it seemed that it was a bad idea to think of walking. For a moment I thought of going back to him, but this boy walking in front of me with a dirty white sac tied to his head, suddenly compelled me to follow him. His sac was huge in comparison to his height and he seemed smaller, sometimes he stopped to pick crushed plastic bottles, and exposed his arms, he was a dark skinned boy with red and black strings tied to his left arm, and a fluorescent green plastic watch on his right. He seemed to have two different slippers on his feet, seemed it was difficult for him to walk in them. I suddenly was curious to see his face, to see his smile. I just wanted to see him smile. He suddenly stopped, and kept looking towards his left, I dint find any plastic bottle, but did see that yellow butterfly passing along. For a moment I though he is going to run after it, but he did not, it made me sad when he dint. I suddenly was feeling bad, bad for that boy carrying a sac, collecting plastic, wanting to be an adult masquerading his childhood not even letting a butterfly crush it, or bad for myself unable to spot a butterfly for the kid, dint know but it made me sad.
He kept his sac under a tree, and ran to the hawkers standing around the red light. He checked his pockets and kept staring at a particular one. I was noticing him from a distance, totally unfamiliar of a familiar fragrance filling up my senses.  He suddenly came back to his sac and took a huge plastic out of it and ran back to the hawker and transferred all from a basket to his plastic. It confused me, wondering why the plastic boy took all the waste in his plastic bag. I saw him smile, suddenly I realised I saw his face, his teeth seemed white from the distance, shinning with his eyes, his smile felt like falling peace on his dark skin, transferring some drops of laughter to me. I was smiling looking at him. He brought the plastic to his sac and was sucking the pineapple remains he got. I so wanted to cry looking at him, that joy in sucking nothing yet everything just filled in an overwhelming peace. I went to hawker to return with a plate full of sliced pineapples, handing over to him. He looked up to me, his eyes like two shiny buttons floating in a sea of water, his skin, dark in colour but clear, not clean, with patches of dust, his lips cracked at the corners of his mouth, his teeth yellowish white, his perfect smile. We dint speak to each other yet it seemed like we have been speaking right since I was following him, as if we spoke in a language of our own, I dint know his, he dint know mine still we spoke and we were still speaking.
He was honking from a long time, and finally I turned to him this time, taking back a pineapple smile from a boy I dint know still got to know.

Manowara Chowdhury