One day, If you ponder upon your bygone graces, trying to grasp your hand around my ordinary identity yet failing all the same, Call me a smell.
Call me a smell that whirls inside the chambers of your conscience, drifting against your abandoned senses, reminding your phlegmatic veins of a surge long lost in time.
Call me a smell that loiters around the aged corridors of your mind, knocking carelessly on those carefully locked doors, calling forth the tattered whims and faded remorse, lashing out dreams of a promised Utopia.
Call me a smell that reminds you of a little girl hidden in a musty old book kept in an unkempt corner of your memories, the one with a ladybird and a bucket full of happiness, the careless one who never eloped.
Call me a smell that lingers in those familiar places with unfamiliar faces, bearing redolence of a crimson rose, withered between the pages of a forsaken diary that never made it's way to your poems.
Call me a smell that reeks of irrelevant vows and paltry confessions, wafting amidst the garden of our sincere regrets, baffled by the aroma of your self conceit, smothered by the delicacy of a subtle nostalgia.
Before you step down the stairway of your conscience once again, rain over me with the fragrance of your love, shower me with the mizzle of your sorrows. And maybe one day, if you remember my name, the petrichor might still remain.....
- A little tall with a good sense of bargain. When I came across this little kid in a marketplace, the first question that hit my head wasn't how can he be this good but why here at this age?
For us, life was always better. We slept peacefully knowing that the walls around us won't crumble, the food that mother made today, will be same or more delicious than the one before, the lights won't go out, the ghosts that roam around in our locality, we knew they were afraid of our mother.
Above all, we were allowed to have more than one dream. For them, they looked silly even if they carried one.
Living inside those plastered and dampened walls, restless nights with fear of rain dripping from the cracked top while some don't even have the privilege of a shade, they never speak of the could have beens. Neither do they look up to see the stars. Their world breathes, lives and dies here. All they see are facades of promises, all they hear are voices, barely audible to us.
And sometimes, when you ask them if those voices still there, they will smile like us, warmly but with a radiant feel of courage and a partial sense of pride.
After all, the voices are still there. Haunting some and tamed by others. But nevertheless, they all will be glad just because you asked.