Skip to main content

For a Short While.


As opposed to the blistering heat that would turn us into goo, today was cooler. The trees on the campus, which usually make it bearable to walk through every day, felt like an addition today. A coolness to the cold. Not a necessity but a decoration.

Instead of sweat collecting on faces, which would frown in annoyance, our foreheads were relaxed, no wrinkles in sight. There weren't many classes either. In fact, none at all.

The rain had made the earth softer, the leaves brighter, and some of the faces lighter. It lend the world colour like it was asking us to look at the rainbow we had on land. 

Birds sang, dogs lazed around, and the world felt softer and rounder. I couldn't see the horizon, but I could feel it. It was as though the rain had washed away not just the dirt but some worries, at least for a moment.

Some water splashed onto my new slippers, but I didn't care much. Not as much as I would on some other day. It felt like anger wasn’t suited for this weather. While, of course, one doesn’t choose their feelings according to the weather, the way I reacted was certainly influenced by the brighter hue of the leaves and the cool breeze.

The rain could calm some storms, even as it created puddles and soaked through shoes.

I hated the rain when it left my dried clothes wet again. But today, I had no clothes hung up. There was no laundry to worry about, no chore to be undone. Today, the rain was a visitor, not an intruder.

The rain touched us all, clinging onto leaves in tear-shaped pleas, breaking through roofs, splashing against ankles, and soaking some from head to toe.

It had done its work on the world and on me, softening the hard edges and brightening the dull places, even if just for a short while.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Fading Glory.

It's getting worse each time. A stabbing pain pierces the right side of my body. Is it real or fake? I can't tell, but it feels real enough. The pain is undeniable. It's like the cry of an athlete dislocating their knee, or the off-pitch note of a singer losing their voice. Years of honing a craft, developing a skill, and with one accident, one minor moment, it all slips away. It's harrowing to face the prospect of dying on the field you played to stay alive for. The sheer exertion and endurance of these athletes—it's a testament to their dedication. The sweat on their faces is more than just a sheen. Wipe it away, and it reappears. Bruised and darkened knees, common slides on any type of ground—their bodies are used to being used. They throw themselves into their sport until it consumes them entirely. It's both their beauty and their burden. Do the expectations and reports weigh on their shoulders? Aren't we supposed to lift them up on our shoulders? My mat...
Post a Comment
Read more

Loss.

It's done. In a weird way, I feel nothing. I never feel it when I—when we—win. I feel immense joy and pride, but inside, I feel dead. It's not something I can attribute to anything around me, but rather a hollow void that gnaws at me from within.  It’s more like the crippling pain of loss is the only thing that truly makes me feel, a sharp contrast to success that leaves me questioning everything.  Winning brings a dull ache, a disbelief so deep that it borders on denial, as if the reality of the moment hasn’t quite sunk in yet. It’s as though victory is plastered over by emptiness, a numbness that lingers long after the cheers have died down.  And in that quiet, when the adrenaline fades, I'm left wondering why success feels so lifeless, so devoid of the depth and intensity that failure forces upon me. It’s as if, without the sharp edge of loss, I’m left drifting, unable to truly grasp the meaning of what I’ve achieved.
Post a Comment
Read more

Permission to Dream.

I had a dream. I ran out of the airport, got into a taxi, then out again, and ran. I ran so fast, yet my left lung didn’t pinch. I ran home. The company house I had called home for so long. I told them it was technically my tharavad. They laughed, and I understood why. But I knew every inch of that place. The way my feet could map the cool tile floors, the small gaps between them, the familiar weight of the air inside, the walls that had seen me through everything. I opened the door, and everything was just as we had left it. It was a dream. It’s been a while since I dreamed. And yet, this one felt jarring—not in a way that unsettled me, but in the way that it confirmed something. I knew I was heading home. I knew the airport, I knew my destination. But as I stepped inside, I felt as though it was telling something. Telling me.  That I could call it home. That I had permission to call it home.
Post a Comment
Read more