Exclusive FREE session on RIG VEDA for you, Register now!
Exclusive FREE session on RIG VEDA for you, Register now!

Contact

Contact

4 mins 262 4 mins 262

It is 1987

I cry and cry, rolling inside the cradle

My father understands that I want to communicate

He peeps in and offers me a tiny smile

Slowly, he leans forward and whispers something

I pause my crying

I understand his love though not his language

He had understood my want though not my language

I stare at him blankly for a few seconds before smiling

He whispers something again, and I begin laughing

We continue our conversation for some more time

Language is left languishing in the bedroom attic...


It is 1998

I hold his letter in my hands and I can feel his wrinkles

The paper is stiff yet the written words start trembling

The ink soaked in the paper competes with the warmth soaked in my heart

I smile looking at the two dots at the end of each sentence

"I never like using periods in my letters to you" my grandfather would say

"Why not use commas or semicolons?" I would retort

"Life needs those tiny pauses" he would explain

No wonder he loves the French and Italian films

He also loves Tom Clancy and Robin Cook

Which shows itself in his writing

Every paragraph leads to a breath-taking revelation

I love the smell of the words - the Parachute hair oil dripped words

And the smell of the wooden table that the letter had rested upon

I often get scolded by my school teachers

For using a black ink pen for the entire answer sheet in examinations

"Black ink is only for highlighting important words" they say

I refuse to change to blue ink

At least till my grandfather does...


It is 2007

I am on a phone call and my mother is on the other side

The eardrums reach beyond the reception levels

The brainwaves strengthen the weak network signals

My mother always speaks softly

Like how courage whispers to a bird on the brink of its maiden flight

Like how passion whispers to a man lost in a mundane existence

Like how childhood whispers to a mother arranging her daughter's scattered toys

But her silences are my precious treasures

They reach me sooner than language

They describe me her crowded train ride, her spicy lunch

And the half kilo carrots that had accompanied her home

"Then?" she would always ask

I would want to share the million happenings I had hidden from her

Inside my maturity locker

A broken tooth had been a three-day headline 15 years back

And a broken heart seems an unnecessary triviality now

"Then?" she would always ask

"Nothing more" I would reply and wait for my mother to end the call

Her silences are my precious treasures...


It is 2017

The WhatsApp icon lights up my dark mobile screen and my heart

185 seconds had elapsed since my previous text message

What would she have replied?

I spend another 185 seconds creating a list of possible replies

Another 185 seconds in affirming that she would have sent the most ideal reply

Another 185 seconds in fear that she would have sent the worst reply

There is a pleasure in these anticipations

Pleasure that delays clicking a button and ending the mystery in a second

Pleasure like when you have added the single missing semicolon in a 500 line code

And happily wait with a God's pride before executing it

Pleasure like when you chance upon a lovely sight

And cherish it before pulling out the camera

I believe I love texting her

More for my anticipations than for her replies

The unopened message where I love the idea of her

And the opened message where I love her...


It is 2027

I stand at my balcony, in my Indian flat

My colleague is resting on his couch, in his Spanish home

My thoughts pause themselves as his come flooding to me

Each of his thoughts begin to get mapped to their rightful node in my network

My network expands like a floating jellyfish

As our thoughts come together, I see the big picture and also the solution

"This is great" my partner thinks

"I thought so too" I respond

No common server platform, no whiteboards, no discussions

A faulty algorithm has been debugged and solved with just our thoughts

Happily, I rub the tiny circular device attached below my ear lobe

The thousand thought networks inside my head glow in a gentle light

"I wish you guys were with me in Paris" My sister's thought reaches me

"She's lying! She's totally enjoying her vacation there" my brother's thought rushes in, bumping her thought

"Why should we be there? I am enjoying Paris as much as you" I respond,

Letting my sister's Paris-thought network in my head lighten up

"Still..." she lets float an unfinished thought

Thoughts of love and family begin to race forward and recede like waves

I pull out the circular device from below my ear

And begin talking to myself

A strange new world this is

Communication happening through thoughts and introspection happening through words...


Rate this content
Log in

More english poem from Soorya Prakash

Similar english poem from Drama