I had intended to do this a lot earlier, but then again I never do what I want to do or ought to do. I'm going to have to take a break from Mirakee. A month, maybe two, maybe more. I really don't know. But I do hope to be back soon. I do hope to be back.
This evening when I'm back home, Maa tells me she ain't happy. She already knows what I forgot, this, and also probably that. A reminder of how I've always, always been a spoiled brat. You possibly missed a few calls, not because "I've been worrying, my child" But "my daughter always has been so. Obedient? Not at all." A question becomes the priority, "Did you pick the cardamom rusk I asked?" only then do I realize, the responsibility I've been tasked. I'm guilty I know, I bend my gaze and politely confess an honest "No" "It's been an hour or more; but you, when was the last time you affably did a chore?! My head's been sore all day, And my tea's almost freezing cold." I turn back in a millisecond or even less, dust the sand off my slippers, half foot in, half foot out. A caution voice knocks on my insides, sorry, but I can't let you just out. Oh you girl, are you to be reminded every now and then Peace walks, you say? A better name I offer, guilty pleasure is the thing And silences, well they've always tasted best when served along a curses' string I'm already out the door, to check, my wallet, it's still in the threshold. Such foolish of it, a willing whore. I tiptoe my way in there, a wolf on the run, oh yes yes, conditions applied, ofcourse no hauls. I wouldn't wanna kill anyone of hunger afterall. It's almost my victory when I get to my own hinge. Two eyes, and a mouth follow suit, or vice versa; unfortunately, swinging me in an ire fling.
There are a few more things that I can see, and a couple more I can hear, shrill screams and pretty laughs. Honestly, I've stopped keeping the count, so much to preserve my already worn-out pride. Except for a quivering one, the muffled one of all, couldn't manage to keep me apart from my attention; seeming strangely familiar, as if coming out of a broke auctioneer. It took me a few seconds longer to cognise, all the acquainted syllables, the familiar pattern, one word after every breaths' halt. "Sorry Maa. It's me. You had to drink your tea cold at my fault."
We make too much noise when we come home every night, our feet tickling the wooden floor boards till they break into a creaky giggle. But it's been months, and my feet have learnt all their triggers. There's someone new in your bed, and no one laughs when I leave. It seems I've learnt to leave without a sound.
Amidst all those who are waiting to fly And all those who are eager to land, There's this third kind of travellers in a plane.
This third kind, they're a tired lot. tired of flowers and luggage chutes and packaged foods; tired of screaming babies who shouldn't exist in the first place; and of people talking way too much or none at all; This third kind, they're tired. Of middle seats and aisle seats, and mostly the window seats; because the sun rays can't hide long enough behind clouds for them to ever catch enough sleep.
This third kind, they're designed for travel, and they know it. They're seamless travellers, and they abhor it. Swapping one boarding pass for another, they stuff the old ones in a compartment of the luggage they're too tired to carry. Its been way too long since they've gone home, and even their belongings reek of alien places and abandoned hope.
This third kind? They're perhaps the ones who's eyes light up in turbulence. Oh, you ought to see them, they're never going to put on their seatbelts, nope. I mean, they fantasize about capsized boats, and crashed planes, perhaps, you know? "Good riddance, this never ending journey will finally come to an end!" This third kind? they're the ones who go down smiling.
Ironically though, this third kind? They're the ones who always survive plane crashes.
Don't even begin to ask how. Evolution has its ways.