Once Upon A Memory - Part 2

Dear Papa,

Once upon a memory, we went off to work together, you and I.
That day started out as a normal day. Mom woke me up, gave me breakfast and helped me get ready. She combed my hair as I picked out a rubber band that matched my tee-shirt.
At the office, you were busy working and I was busy exploring. The fact that there was more than one clock intrigued me. One for East coast time, for West coast, for London, Delhi, and so on. Today I have a digital version of that wall on my phone - the world clock with all the time zones of places close to my heart.
Well, a kid can only explore so much and I'm sure I fell into a cycle of non-stop chatter soon after you explained the clocks to me. But you were used to that, weren't you? I used to always talk.
I remember feeling like a grown up when you gave me some work to do. Important work. I was really helping you out. There were some blueprints that needed to be stamped.
"Stamp here," you showed me. "Can you handle that?"
Apparently not. Did I stamp in the right spot? Of course. But apparently they were all upside down.
Regardless, all the hard work and effort I put in had made me hungry and my stomach was grumbling. Dad to the rescue, of course. We went to pizza hut and ordered take out. I ate an ENTIRE pizza all by myself (personal pan). Yet another accomplishment in such a short amount of time.
Finally, the day was nearing it's end so I drew on the dry-erase board while you finished your work (my work was already done because I was VERY efficient - even as a child.) I drew and drew and drew. So many different colors. Such a huge board. It was every child's dream*.
As you saw what I had drawn, you noticed something else too - the collateral damage. I had somehow managed to mess up the wall under the board. I hadn't drawn on it - I was way too professional to make an amateur move like that. But the particles from the duster must've gotten on my hands and then the wall. Let's be honest, I was short and the board was out of my reach. Something like this was bound to happen.
All in all, it was a pretty productive day. Probably the most productive that office has ever seen (no need to thank me). After cleaning up my mess, we took off and headed back home.
The end.


* At the time.  There was honestly nothing more fun. Kids today are missing out.

Magic8

Dear Magic8 Ball,
Please tell me what to do
Don't tell me "cannot predict now"
I'm relying on you

I don't need "it is certain"
Or "it is decidedly so"
I can work with "don't count on it"
Or "my sources say no"

Just don't leave me hanging
With "concentrate and ask again"
If I concentrate anymore
I'm sure I'll damage my brain

Is the future "outlook good"?
Do the "signs point to yes"?
Please tell me now so I can be
Relieved of this stress

So Magic8, please tell me
Don't be indifferent
Sincerely, a desperate
Final year student

Bliss

As I sit on this swing I can't help but wonder, "Can tomorrow not happen?"
Not that I'm avoiding anything, or dreading an event bound to happen, I just...Want to get lost in the moment.
There's nothing perfect about the moment. No special company, not an amazing day that I don't want to end, or an unfulfilled hope for which I want to stretch time.
Tonight, tired and sleepy, I feel distant. This happens every now and then - at the end of the day when I've stopped thinking, stopped reflecting, stopped worrying, stopped planning - just stopped.
Come to think of it, that's probably the perfection of the moment. I am just being. Nothing running through my mind, no task at hand, just nothing. Of course now that's not true. I'm writing now. But it still feels nearly the same.
Do you know the feeling? It feels like being a kid in the backseat of the car. Not a care in the world. Not late for anything. No where to be. Just watching the raindrops race down the window at night, as the street lights blur behind them.
That is the perfection of the moment. The simple bliss of a childhood which ended too soon. I realise that those older than me may consider my age as a part of those blissful years, but even they must agree that childhood goes by in a flash.
As I swing here, reminiscing, the moment ends abruptly. With these thoughts and memories buzzing through my head, I no longer wish that the day not end. A twinge of sorrow seeps through me as the bliss melts away. I lay down and close my eyes, the swing my lullaby. 

Eight Glances

First, let me tell you about the box.

At first glance, it was a pretty normal looking box. It was the kind of box you might receive if you order something online. Too small to fit a microwave in, but too large for a simple toaster. It was shabby and dented like it had lived a long, full life. Stained all shades of brown and slightly slant, it was impossible to take a “quick glance,” it was impossible to do much but stare. And as I stood there staring at it, I was so deeply captivated that I failed to notice that the box was even odder than it seemed.

At second glance, after you manage to pull your eyes off the box, the next thing you’ll notice is the oddity of its surroundings. This aged, strange, quirky box sat atop a recently polished grey table. The round table stood on a single, thick, central mast that was engraved in agonizing detail. As my eyes made their way down the table, I noticed that the stand was surrounded by green – green blades of grass to be exact. That’s when I recalled that I had been hiking through acres and acres of natural fields and hadn’t come across any other man-made objects other than a few vehicles, which passed by me on rough dirt tracks that cut into the fields.

At third glance – after you’ve scanned the remaining surroundings for any clue as to what you are seeing – you’ll notice that the box is swaying as if by a wind which is strong enough to shake it without displacing. It isn’t a constant movement but it isn’t rare or periodic either. There seems to be no rhythm to the movement. As we blink, it sways. This way, or that way, and then still again. Walking towards it, loose strands of my hair flutter from the movement and as they brush across my cheeks, I realize that they hadn’t moved at all the entire time I had been standing there. I stop where I am and stare at the box in disbelief. My hair has ceased all movement yet the box sways. Despite the lack of wind the box sways again – and again. I realize now that I’m holding my breath, so I exhale and inhale and walk towards the table which is barely an arm’s reach away now.

At fourth glance – standing next to the table you can see that it may not in fact be new, but sharply contrasts the edgy box, which looks as old as the earth itself. Running a finger across the table, it feels smooth where the paint is glossy and a bit rougher where it’s been worn down. Finally, I reach for the box. It looks coarse and feels grainy. Picking it up with both hands, I am even more intrigued. It feels empty but at the same time, it is considerably heavy for something so ancient and frail. Perhaps that is the weight of wisdom, which comes with age.

At fifth glance – or rather touch – I jump in surprise, dropping the box. Even in my hands, it swayed. I could feel it move. Is something inside? Trying to get out? The flaps of the box are all folded under one another so I kneel next to the box and carefully open a flap. As soon as I let one flap loose, the other three fly open with such force that the box jumps about an inch off the ground and rattles all about.

At sixth glance – I see nothing but I can feel. I feel surrounded. I feel sorrow and loss. I feel excitement and joy. So many emotions, so many memories – memories I can’t remember. Memories I can’t see but I can hear in so many voices – memories that aren’t mine.

At seventh glance, I’m looking all around. I don’t know how long it went on but all too soon it’s silent. The sky is starting to darken as the sun heads for the horizon, and the box lays on the ground – lifeless. Not that the box was ‘alive’ before, but it had a certain charm which seems to have gone with the wind. Not remembering when exactly I stood up, I kneel next to the box once again and cradle it in my arms.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and the flaps close again – one under another. Smiling, I place the box back on the table and set up my tent nearby. The next morning as I have breakfast I recall my dreams aloud. Odd I know, but the box listens. It sways when I laugh, and it sways when I sigh, and it sways more and more as the stories go by. Finally, I pack to leave. I take one look at the box as I go – it is the same yet somehow changed.

At eighth glance, I’m looking at the box from a short distance. It is as mesmerizing as the first time I saw it. Although I hope to see it again, I know that won’t be the case. I inhale deeply, exhale slowly and then go on my way. I hope that whoever happens to approach it next experiences my stories and secrets as I did of those before me. For it didn’t make me a better person, it didn’t make me a bigger person, but it assured me I was not alone. All of us have our secrets. All of us have our own dreams. All of us have stories to share. And all of this is what makes us who we are.

Even when you’re by yourself, you are not alone. Someone has been there before you, someone will be there after you, you are not alone.