• say_me_krish 10w

    @_aradhya @_aesthete_
    You both are great inspirations ��

    Thanks for the read @writersnetwork ��

    ~A long one~
    (I know only three or four people gonna read this completely)


    When I met Ruby for the first time, she was sitting unchaperoned in that Redwood bench; the one, which I adore since boyhood. All she had cradled in her hands was a Parker pen and an antique diary. I didn't pay much heed to her on the first day. If I would have realized her worth, I would've walked with happiness for an extra mile.

    A poet I was, some call me a mad-man, some call me dark. I call myself a fragment of the cosmos and my poems, a solace. The day I met her, I was into my usances of sitting on the bench, plugging earphones and writing whatever the winds muttered in my ears. As usual, she sat in the other corner, looking at the diary. A girl of 10 maybe, a desolated figure she was; tears befriended her. That day, the poem I wrote was titled 'ᴄᴀᴛᴀsᴛʀᴏᴘʜɪᴄ ɢʟᴏᴏᴍs'. Coincidental, isn't it?

    The next day, the sun pushed the clouds away to look evident and radiant. The bench was welcoming me. I saw Ruby today as well. She was gasping, I didn't know why. I went close to the bench and asked her, "What happened?". She didn't reply. I asked her name. "Ruby", she whispered. I eventually developed a soft corner for her. This is all what poets do; they know it all, the pain and the loneliness, but they do.
    Love, pain, poetry.
    Later Love, and write about pain in poetry.

    As days passed, I got to know about this thing that her father was a poet as well. I tried to read that diary, but she said, "My dad gave me this. He says me to pen down definitions of words in your own way. It's something close to me. I wanted to give this to one person. He's far for now. So Please....."
    I didn't understand much, I just stayed mum. I used to bring her chocolates everyday. As soon as the clock's hands danced on 4, I used to run with my book and chocolates in hand, thoughts in mind and happy butterflies encaged in heart. We became good friends. I used to show her my poems, the 'dark' ones, they say. She used to love those. Her eyes used to shine seeing me in her path. Her mellifluous tone sounded more beautiful when she called me "Bhaiyya". She no longer weeped. She was radiance in her own self. My purpose was served.

    She used to come with her mother, a tall figure, who loved silence. Her mum would just smile at me, talk nothing else, take her daughter with her and go away. It was some kind of a tough tone, but the moment I see Ruby, everything was sort to fine. The cycle just went on and on for days. Autumn paved its way for monsoons. The park was overflowing with water, and hence, my bench was bellowing for seeing me, and I yearned for meeting Ruby. Two months just went away in total boredom and wayment.

    As soon as sun shone one day, I ran to the park with some gift wrapped in silver foils. But I didn't find her. I rushed to her home. It was locked as well. I asked her neighbours. They informed me where they were. I ran in fear, with a thousand thoughts in my mind, till I saw that huge display saying "ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴛʀᴇᴇ ᴍᴜʟᴛɪsᴘᴇᴄɪᴀʟɪᴛʏ ʜᴏsᴘɪᴛᴀʟ - ᴡᴇ sᴀᴠᴇ ʟɪᴠᴇs".
    I began speaking in big voices; long breaths accompanied those. "Where is Ruby?"

    Just then, I saw her mother, they say bloodshed, this time, it was tearshed. Adrenaline rush flooded in the greatest speed possible. I became more scared than before.
    "Wh--wh---what happened to Ruby? Say that first".
    She spoke for the first time. Her voice was soft.
    "Here, she wanted to give this diary to you".

    " Where's she?"
    "She had brain tumor. Scars and holes loved her. It took her into its painful bosoms. Now she'll be saying Hi to her father and give his Parker pen."
    And she went away, with a shadow of silence.
    /And silence screamed this time/

    This 20 year old me cried like a newborn child gasping for proper breath. A poet I was. My heart was meant to be shattered again and again, the play repeats. The same old playlists with the same old dark songs must be heard again. I must wave to solitudes again. I broke down. With a heart weighing a ton, I opened the diary. My mind forced me to read the last lines.
    ���������� (noun):
    1. Waters which disappeared when I spoke to Bhaiyya.
    2. Bhaiyya's best friend when someone leaves him.

    ���������� (noun):
    1. A virtue which will embrace me soon.
    2. A messenger who will take me to my father and mother.

    "Wait. What? Was her mother a ghost? Was I speaking to an apparition?", I was in total awe. I shouted with the loudest pitch.

    /And screams wished for mornings this time/

    "Chris, you'll have to recollect broken pieces, the scattered ones. They'll lie spread again for sure", my mind says.
    Will it be a catastrophic reality; a Catastrophic gloom again? I'll go ask the redwoods.

    ~S r i K r i s h n a  P  S | Sep 22, 2020.

    'Bhaiyya' is the Hindi word for brother. ❤️
    @writersbay @sangfroid_soul
    #skp_writes #pod #furniture (the erstwhile prompt)
    #questionku (The stanzas in the bg)

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