This is one of the loveliest of all the stories that i have written .. i want you to have a look at it..
WHEN BIRDS LEAVE THEIR NESTS...
He took slow steps through the concreted sidewalks of the road. Slow soft steps... as she had once showed him.Bougainvilleas and scarlet roses hung in bunches from the stone walls of the house where his Slow soft steps stopped.
Push one gate and then pull to open the other, you can easily escape the unpleasant creak that those rusty railings made. These were too her words.He never knew from where he had recollected them.
For memory and memories were not his friends.Enemies neither.Like a long forgotten acquaintance.. Like a loose contact.. or like a lost contact ?....
The pillared 'pink -painted' house had all its doors and windows open,except that one little window that was once a home to a 'little bird'.Yes, he remembers that too, she was a 'little bird', with a lovely pony-tail fountain on her back,with deep dark dimples.
True, they weren't related to a bird. But still he knew that she wasn't a bird but still 'little' to him. And how the little bird threw her head back laughing hard, pressing her stomach, widening her eyes, and dimples darkening.He knew that too.
The house observed a complete stillness as if a mourning was going on.. Was it?
He took careful steps that went round and round in the swirling stairs outside the house. It lead to the little bird's room,with the one closed window.
The stairs lead to a wooden door. The door opened to a room. Probably the little bird's room.
The room with the one cloed window.
The room of many colors.- of rosy sweetness , of reddish madness , of greenish stupidity, of blackish insecurity.
After all, its the little bird who owns it. Sorry, the little bird who owned it.!
He saw a long procession,through the little bird's one closed window(now open). It carried a wooden coffin. It seemed like a row of ants carrying a cookie piece. But very slow as if the little soul inside the coffin mustn't know where she was taken. The little bird did leave a lot of traces in her room. The arc shaped balcony had much to say about her,as it had been a quiet observer. So Quiet, that even when the little bird walked off it, it did nothing than just being silent.Infact all the living beings that night seemed silent. All of them. Obviously that includes the little bird too.
The balcony gave him a great view of the evening sky. It showed him birds that were flying back home after the days' end. Al birds back to their nests except one. The one with a lovely pony-tail fountain at her back and deep dark dimples. Only that bird and that little bird hadn't returned.As she has now been returned back to the earth, a few miles away.
When he moved his legs,he found himself stamping on a piece of paper. It has a convent style handwriting that said :
" Little bird " hasn't left her one closed window, but has gone to a nest whose windows were always open to her "
He sighed- desperate or relieved ?
Your choice.
written by ROSHNI RAVINDRAN .
WHEN BIRDS LEAVE THEIR NESTS...
He took slow steps through the concreted sidewalks of the road. Slow soft steps... as she had once showed him.Bougainvilleas and scarlet roses hung in bunches from the stone walls of the house where his Slow soft steps stopped.
Push one gate and then pull to open the other, you can easily escape the unpleasant creak that those rusty railings made. These were too her words.He never knew from where he had recollected them.
For memory and memories were not his friends.Enemies neither.Like a long forgotten acquaintance.. Like a loose contact.. or like a lost contact ?....
The pillared 'pink -painted' house had all its doors and windows open,except that one little window that was once a home to a 'little bird'.Yes, he remembers that too, she was a 'little bird', with a lovely pony-tail fountain on her back,with deep dark dimples.
True, they weren't related to a bird. But still he knew that she wasn't a bird but still 'little' to him. And how the little bird threw her head back laughing hard, pressing her stomach, widening her eyes, and dimples darkening.He knew that too.
The house observed a complete stillness as if a mourning was going on.. Was it?
He took careful steps that went round and round in the swirling stairs outside the house. It lead to the little bird's room,with the one closed window.
The stairs lead to a wooden door. The door opened to a room. Probably the little bird's room.
The room with the one cloed window.
The room of many colors.- of rosy sweetness , of reddish madness , of greenish stupidity, of blackish insecurity.
After all, its the little bird who owns it. Sorry, the little bird who owned it.!
He saw a long procession,through the little bird's one closed window(now open). It carried a wooden coffin. It seemed like a row of ants carrying a cookie piece. But very slow as if the little soul inside the coffin mustn't know where she was taken. The little bird did leave a lot of traces in her room. The arc shaped balcony had much to say about her,as it had been a quiet observer. So Quiet, that even when the little bird walked off it, it did nothing than just being silent.Infact all the living beings that night seemed silent. All of them. Obviously that includes the little bird too.
The balcony gave him a great view of the evening sky. It showed him birds that were flying back home after the days' end. Al birds back to their nests except one. The one with a lovely pony-tail fountain at her back and deep dark dimples. Only that bird and that little bird hadn't returned.As she has now been returned back to the earth, a few miles away.
When he moved his legs,he found himself stamping on a piece of paper. It has a convent style handwriting that said :
" Little bird " hasn't left her one closed window, but has gone to a nest whose windows were always open to her "
He sighed- desperate or relieved ?
Your choice.
written by ROSHNI RAVINDRAN .
