Imaginative mind

Flow

Sunday morning, the bedroom is full of sun. Outside the new grass of March is blue-wet in the open, green-dry under the pines. Everything seems bright and clear. Vedika is up before everybody else.

Seven years old Vedika is sharp, a quick learner and headstrong.Her parents have signed her for voice lessons in a nearby music school. In a conservative Indian family voice lesson, violin or piano lessons are more preferable but not dance. This is the time in sixties, one of  the reality of society. But vedika’s curious mind wants an answer. So one afternoon, after lunch, her penetrating eyes glances at her grandmother. She is in a shiny mood. Vedika smiles and wraps her small hands around her grandmother’s waist. She says waving a brochure on her right hand, the shiny one with the information about classical dances. “ I would like a special gift from you for my Birthday.”

Her grandmother raises her eyes then lowers them to the front page of the local newspaper. “Sure, whatever you want.”

“Well then, I want to learn dance.” Vedika’s vibrating voice leaps up.

“What?” There is a big surprise on her eyes. She adjusts her gold rimmed eyeglass on her nose. A slight pause.Then she smiles.“ Darling, come, come close to me. There are some more wonderful things to learn like singing, violin, art but not dance. So ask for a different gift. How about a new pairs of gold bracelet or some new books?’’

Vedika drops her eyes to the ground. Her high hope disappears. “ Sure grandma, I will think about the gift and let you know.” She walks out of the room slowly with her head slightly bend, her hands dangling down.

Vedika is full of morning energy and her excitement bounces in her surroundings. It is like a big balloon rising up through her slowly, slowly, then very fast. From the trail of her eyes she looks at the big clock on the wall. It is almost nine. Her class starts at sharp nine thirty. She should leave for school now. The heart-shaped face with bright brown eyes, determination and pleasant smile appears at the front door.The thick wooden door parts.Just before entering into the room for the voice lesson her curious mind drags her to the big room to the left. The students inside the room practice dance lessons. They look so pretty with their rhythmic movements to the classical music. Vedika opens door slowly and walks in. She settles herself in one corner.The imagination in her mind takes wings.

Nothing disturbs her brilliant thoughts. They gather quickly and arrange themselves nicely.

In front of the big mirror Vedika looks at her reflection; the heavy, long eye liner on her eyes,the dark red lipstick, a medium sized red dot between her brows, the long gold earrings, the beautiful decoration on her forehead, the white and red flower arrangement on her artificial long black hair. She looks  very pretty. But she does not care much about the looks. She wants perfection in her dance steps. Vedika moves her foot, swings around to hear the vibrating sounds of the brass anklets with lots of tiny bells.

The classical music starts in a old record player. It swells  and scatters into the rooms in running notes. The atmosphere in the room gets lively.The dance starts. Vedika’s bright energetic eyes expresses precise and balanced movements and emotions with each steps. The bangle and the anklets jingle and create rhythmic sounds together with her graceful hands and persuasive foot works. Her big smile and different hand gestures throughout the dance expresses the joy of the nature and softly touches and conquers the audience.

“Vedika? What are you doing here? Go to your class. The voice lesson has started.” She hears a voice from the hallway. Her flow stops.The music trumbles to its final chords. Her foot stops. Her hands pauses in the middle of the last expression. She bows to her imaginary audience with a big smile. She has to go to the other class but one day she will learn the classical dance.

                                         

Advertisement

The chain of thoughts.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “New Skin.”

A book lays spread on the coffee table before Avery The scarcely perceptible wind flutters its leaves at intervals. Avery looks closely at the paper with the picture of a lost dog and the phone number to contact,  which the old lady in her neighborhood handed her while returning from the walk. Avery’s forehead is shaded with a heavy cloud and eyebrows pulled together. The sad face of the old lady, her trembling voice, and the collected tears on her lashes flashes on Avery’s eye. She has to help the lady in finding her dog. Outside the window, the sky is darkening so she decides to hit the trail in the early morning before she leaves to work.

Avery walks into the study room to get her laptop to read the news.  and something catches her attention. She slid the chair closer  to the screen. She blinks a few time  and looks again at the daily prompt that is to write’If you could spend the next year as someone radically different from the current “you” — a member of a different species, someone from a different gender or generation, etc. — who would you choose to be? Avery thinks to herself that it will be really wonderful to be somebody else for a year.’ Life is a stage and all of us play different roles in various ways, so it will be perfect to be somebody whom she adores’-Avery thinks to herself. Her lips half-opened in a vivid smile.

Avery turns her head slowly and  looks up to the ceiling, and tries  to remember all her wonderful heroes for whom she can change this life. She bends down to write the delightful thoughts that have entered to her head.

Avery’s first hero is’ Mother Teresa’,who was the strong advocate for the less fortunate people and her compassion, kindness and dedication to serve the poor, needy, orphan children. Avery also likes to be brave and strong as the kings from her History books. A big smile plays on her lip. In her mind the famous Mogul emperor Akbar is the perfect one, -‘ powerful, intelligent, great admirer of art and culture, loved by everyone’. But something is not right. Avery stops typing, leans back on her chair and thinks to her self’ that Akbar had to go to war which is the only drawback and it will not work with her. Because she can not see any violence she likes to see peace within her and around her’. At this serious situation another beautiful thought flashes in her mind, and her expression softens. Avery remembers that how she love the concise, witty, ironic, wise writing of Jane Austen and how she portrays the romantic lives of the middle class  English society.  Avery leans more closer to the key board with twinkling eyes with satisfaction to type  her other idea which is to be a romantic poet like William Wordsworth and how much she loves the poem of’ Daffodil’.

Suddenly Avery stops writing and leans back on the chair again. The serious thoughts draw her eyebrows together, and make the line on her forehead more visible. A heavy blanket of reality begins to sink in.

She thinks to herself that, the life she has presented with is very wonderful too. Her life may have ups and downs just like others, but she can not exchange  this precious life to be somebody else! She has learned so many things, and her life is blessed with many wonderful friends and families. She can try to bring  the  likable good qualities of the famous king Akbar into her life to make it more meaningful. And also Avery decides to try her best in cultivating some of the writing abilities of Jane Austin or William Word worth in her creation although, it may be a little hard. Avery gets more philosophical and thinks ‘ that we all have inner heroes, if stirred to actions the inner hero is capable of  performing tremendous goodness’. Just like Mother Teresa she can try her best to help the others in need in her community. By re-living and thinking through the lives of our models, we can find ways to make  and remake ourselves in the ongoing quest to build our own life worth living.

So Avery decides not to exchange her life even for a year she is very satisfied with the current one. Her eyes sparkle joyfully. Avery stops writing, and reaches out for the phone. She calls the older lady to cheer her up and to assure her that  next morning before she leaves to work ,she will try her best to find her dog.

Success through my eyes

If “failure is the condiment that gives success its flavor” (Truman Capote), how spicy do you like your success stories?The Spice of Success

Success and failure are closely related.Failure has been branded a taboo in our society. We need to understand that the elements of success are hidden in failure.Everybody who achieves unbelievable victories also knows saddening defeat. Failure is essential and even inspiring. “Develop success from failure. Discouragement and failure are two of the surest stepping-stones to success.”- Dale Carnegie.

I always notice that success correlates to power, money,possessions,fame.The term varies from person to person, from gender to gender. The definition of success is shaped by social and cultural expectations. Life is very precious and tomorrow is not guaranteed. For me success is like wrapping my life with love, compassion, generosity,gratefulness.And to make it spicier I need  more burning desire to experiment and explore which will help me to identify my inner strength and energies to discover the full potential . I want to live my life passionately spreading joy and happiness and continue my  persistent  journey for a spicier successful life.

A Dream Manifests

1

“We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect”.- Anais Nin

I open my eyes slowly and turn my head to look at the clock and it is almost five.  Time to start the week. The pink of the new day seeping through the white curtains. I walk to the deck to do my sun- salutation. Some of the trees in the yard  have taken on their own personalities and paint the garden into a thousand different shades.I breathe in the cool, crisp air and try to concentrate on my routine. In the middle of the downward dog  position I notice the bright  message notification on  my phone . Guess what? That is  today’ s assignment to write’ Who I am and why I am here’. I stare at the sentence again and  like it, but it is  too early for that. I decide to write it  during my lunch break.

I grew up in a house where in every corner on the tables there were books and literary magazines. My paternal grand father owned a book store and a printing press and my father was a writer. I used to see him in most evenings writing on his desk. It was like  paradise. I did not care about food or sleep. I just wanted to read. People say it is the sign of an introvert, but that did not bother me at all. Every page of a book lights up my mind and gives wings to the soul. Even my paternal grand mother used to write stories for small children. I did not enjoy playing with dolls or  any type of toys but I fell in love with books. On every birthday  my friends and families showered me with books. I looked forward with lots of excitement to every summer and other holidays to spend my time  reading new books. Gradually I started filling up pages with my beliefs, emotions and looked at the finished drafts as my perfect creation. I love the idea of expressing myself in various captivating ways. “Books are the quietest and most constant of friends; they are the most accessible and wise counsellors, and the most patient of teachers”.- Charles William Eliot

As the children grew up I got more time on hand . Shopping stopped giving me satisfaction. Now, I want to have a more meaningful life, more satisfaction and fulfillment. I have decided to embrace writing again to share my thoughts through  short stories on this blog. l want to raise people’ s awareness on  different social  and cultural topics through my writing and  bring smiles, inspire, spread positive thoughts. And, have  a deep connection with readers by accepting their input and feedback.  “The unread story is not a story; it is little black marks on wood pulp. The reader reading it, makes it live: a living thought, a stay”.-Ursula K Le Guin

n