Epiphany

The sadness of mute isn't the silence. No actually the silence hasn't been factual as it has been imagined.

One can imagine silence by pretending the air didn't just resonate with words. Or tune out.

So if the silence hasn't existed, how can there be a mute?

What if I told you: The greatest tragedy is not that mute is without words. You can see it like so. But that the tragedy is Mute really likes to say it as though it is moot. And so you're fooled into thinking all is essentially moot and thus as good as mute.

What?
I was just saying: You can turn the volume back on now.
But you were making a point...?
Oh. The point?

Is Moot.

A time once existed of abundance. When 55 words seemed frugal.
But here I am. Your penniless beggar.
Walk past me now as I mouth empty air.
To remember the songs I'd once known.

A film black and white.

Where is the box of colours?

Messy bed poor house

A nightmare, so subtle

Riddle half-solved in the season of jasmine.

A trip had been taken and the passenger was unknown.

A Greek star across the sky.
A French blank expanse for a ground.

Two women got down gracefully. As phone calls went unanswered, waiting was paid no heed.

A director of Importance.
Who watched movies to further the skill of appealing to the public.
Even when sleep was scarce.
His routine he didn't skip on.
Even if phones went unanswered.
Even if wishes floated as he was too busy to catch them.
The director of Importance wouldn't let it be known of the passenger unknown.

The cluelessness further heightened.
The train was also kept a secret.

Alas! 'twas the mighty Internet age. A tapping of fingers and a delayed inspiration. Ah! Wiki-it!, thought the clueless one and chanced upon half the key.

A greek Star across the sky.
A french Blank expanse for a ground.

The answer , if you will, was caught between the lines.
The train is now known as is the ride.

We don't know which of the two won, 'tis a shame.
For this, afterall, has been our director's cruel game.

But the Director shall not tell.
For our knowledge means nothing.
To people of Importance.

A fist traces circles upon a missing heart

I used to wonder how it was done.

Night after night. A slippery limestone cradling a person. Feet in floaters.
How could someone?
An incredible a thought. For the Immature.

A distant Pajero throwing up cooling sand.
Streetlights a safe walk away.
Gleaming glass doors sliding open a relaxing whiff of dampness where the cool air hugs the humid one in slow joyous tears.

I'd told you I liked the fragrance of my earth as it cooled with the monsoon showers.
But I wanted to tell you all now, that there is another such that I like.

I'd lead you through the quick tempered asphalt.
Down the glory of camel herders.
Flanked by the modest pointed trees we drew with dangling fruits for several years.
In Social Studies class.
That we also called Lu'lu.

Then I'd show you where I found the starfish with narangi hands.
Clutching onto a dark spotted rock submerged under half my arm's depth.
And I'd tell you....
I'd wondered if it would feel like the white coral that Mummy had found.

Small beady calciate under my feet that slip and twist the small ankles into a crash of crushing pain.
But it didn't happen.
Because I skipped away.
Only a bad kid would dig their feet into black waters at night. Haina?

But that fragrance was locked and stored away like the bottles filled with coloured sand landscapes.

That was never to be shaken.
Purchased for an unknown reason.
A strange pull to those souveneirs.Without which a foreign visit would remain incomplete.
That was often bought by the tourists we looked at in detached amusement.

Sucker!

He didn't take a fancy hookah away or an Irani kaleen. He'd probably think the heritage village was real and snap a roll away too! We'd shrug our shoulders and laugh.

But it is a fragance not a delicate balance of silica submerged in colours of a fake smile. I can't place it in front of you all.
It was never meant to be put in the curio cabinet. Nor was it purchased. It was an heirloom of sorts - I was the first to recieve it.

How could someone?

Feet in floaters.
Turn the left foot and see a prominent dutiful til.

A slippery limestone cradling a person.
That I took away from Atlas.

Night after night.
Now I know.