The Purpose

There is a flower: fragile, fair and full of sweet life. 

And, underneath it, the soil, tainted by the waste of all dead things. The rocks around it, hiding the traces of anaerobic microorganisms from the bright air of aerobic moisture. 

Here is the Sun, burning away its glory. The Moon steals its light. The wind chimes through the natural whistles of the dried waterways, while the lava eats its way up the dormant Vesuvius crust. The oceans press on the tectonic plates, while gently floating ships that tears through them. The sky breathes in the fumes of pollution that corrode it by the moment, while the stars continue to flicker and fade in distant galaxies, unexplored and out of man’s far reach. 

The flower, the fire, the wasteful soil, the un-begrudging rock, the sun, the night, the wind, the water – they exist with purpose. The flower feeds the world with the fruit that ripens in its centre, the soil houses millions of burrowing organisms, and the rocks store forgotten minerals until someone remembers them again. The Sun spills essential light on all that is the Earth, the Moon calms minds as it agitates seas, the lava moves crusts while oceans flood earthquakes. The sky covers the habituated world, while stars in far galaxies splutter the last of their energies to sustain their own Planets Living. 

Everything that ever existed had a purpose. Everything that exists has a purpose. 

So, maybe, there is a huge probability that I, too, probably, exist because I have a purpose. 

It may be too much to presume, that out of 7 billion, my singular purpose in life is to be a world leader who brings about world peace. Or an on-screen celebrity who inspires the hearts of millions of fanatics. Or even a knowledgeable guru who spreads ultimate, gate-opening wisdom to thousands with nothing more than a single phrase. My purpose may not be to become a politically radical rebel, nor may I be destined for the petty pleasures of multi-billionaire charity-donors. It may not be written in my future to become the best sportswoman nor the best journalist, reporter or photographer. I may not be the next Face of Asia, or represent the country in the United Nations. I may not grow up to become the leading authority in NASA, determining whether that speck is an ordinary comet or the prophesized Armageddon. 

But yes, I exist because I have a purpose. Then, what is my purpose?

Is it that amazing event that props up as a culmination of all actions I have ever done in my entire life? Does it like being called my destiny? Will it reveal itself to me before I die? Or, is my purpose, like in Jewish scriptures, an unknown role played by an unknown person that constructs each trivially important part of the Grand Scheme? Is my purpose to be the best friend in the world? The best sibling or the best child? The best mother or grandmother? The best example for exemplary conduct? The paragon of hope?

Is my purpose to be the best person in the world? The first person to discover Merpeople? The first one to hold a record for laughing for days? The one who invents the best thing that ever happened to mankind? The best-est friend? The best sibling or the best child? The best mother or grandmother? The best example for exemplary conduct? The paragon of hope? The icon of something magical? The identity of all things that need to be brought into light? The voice of the speechless? 

What would destiny make out of my interests? Will it take my book-worming skills and use it to spread a net of knowledge over the mass ignoramuses of the population? Will it twist my expressions to make a person cry out a complex they need to break, or give them motivation? Will it take my fresh ideas out of my head and use it to create a hand hold over the world’s people? Will it make me the best artist, the best imaginator, the best speaker? Will it give me enough ESPs to sense the Apocalypse? Will it replace the fortune-telling octopus with me, instead? Will it make me the next greatest phenomenon after Albert Einstein and Jesus Christ? The biggest superhero after Batman and Superman? Will it make me the greatest strategist after Krishna and Chanakya?

Will I light up the eyes of the ones I love by just flicking my fingers and smiling my smile? Will I be the greatest magician after Merlin? Will I be the first one to throw up seeds of happiness in the air for all those who need it? Will I become the second female Buddha? Will I become the found legacy of the lost Atlantis, and change the world for the better? Will I be the first to extinguish technology and squash it out of this world to give a chance for Nature to live? Will I become great? Will I make or change history? 

Will I, will I, will I? 

My purpose – what’s it doing in my life? Is it to travel on a journey that brings Utopia to life and repeats H. G. Wells? Is it to become a human hybrid, a mad scientist, a forgotten angel? Is it to bedazzle the world, or to blot it? Is it hidden in my passions, or tucked into my dreams? Is it that glowering line of happiness that makes my family smile in pride, or that smirk in my friend’s face? Is it calmness the sunset pushes around me, or is it that flash of realization that crosses my mind when I look at something and end up seeing it?

 I live, I breathe, I walk, talk and interact because I have a purpose. I draw, I sketch, I fill colors because I have a purpose. I laugh, I love, I dream because I have a purpose. I design logos, illustrate images, manipulate photos because I have a purpose. I dance, I sing, I write because I have a purpose. 

My purpose – is it to make others understand the beauty of lines and curves? Is it to show some tens or hundreds how much I love God? Is it to create art that no one can ever imagine, repeat or take their off of? Is it to travel worlds that exist between reality and fantasy? Is it to paint bridges from one’s dreams to waking world? Is it to find true love, or is it to lose truth and find only love? Is it to learn and teach to accept everyone, or is it to become an epic whose name is forever etched into the ruined, graffiti-ed walls of history? Is it to release magic into people’s lives, or help them create it? Is it to become a universal symbol of peace, integrity and care? 

Is it this – 

Is it that? 

I am too young to know my purpose, but too old to not know it is the reason for my existence. One day, I will come to know of – once I fulfill it, or before, or during. But for now, this alone is the bliss I have always needed. 

I am not another unwanted life that survives in this world because she has to. I am not the eggplant that adds but taste while it lives its short life, but the carrot that works up your eyes to make you see better. The sharp incense that makes you smell better, the gentle hum that attunes your ears better, and the soft caress that makes you feel better. I have a role in this world, a place to enact my version of events to add to the greater good, a set of words to be refined through for the greater knowledge, a cache of dreams. 

I have something better to live for than a bunch of poor excuses in the names of hopeful romances, wistful pleasures and breathy escapades. 

I live for me. I believe in me. I have my purpose. 


 - Maitri Harys

Halloween in India

(Written on October 31st, 2011)

All Hallow's Eve...

What do Indians do about it?

 1) Since it sounds vaguely familiar, they  relate it to Holi, the festival of colors. When you put in a dash of colors, paints and the phrase "harvest festival", what else comes to your mind?

2) Since Diwali just got over, they see it as an excuse to chuck the leftover and badly-in-need-of-better-cooking sweets to their neighbor's kids.

3) Another occasion to go to the shopping mall, get a dress and mangle it - and call it your very special designer Halloween costume. We are a very creative race, after all.

4) If the West call it the 'Mischief Night', it doesn't matter to us... It's only another day of role-play in which we do our usual stuff (somehow, the Western part of the world thinks it's called mischief).

5) We don't outwardly celebrate it 'coz we respect our dead souls and their peace. You can't seriously be stupid enough to call back a spirit that's done with you and the rest of the world. 

6) The West have a warped version of Diwali. We distorted the concept of Halloween to get back at them. HA!

7) "Dress up as ghosts? Seriously? Have you seen us with make-up???" (What? No? Good. We don't wear them. Except when we get out of the house.)

8) An blessed evening in which the kids get out of the house in a costume even kidnappers refuse to touch, and there's peace and quiet in the house; finally! (Maybe, that's for the father... coz the mother still has to deal with the kids down from the street. What an MCP world!)

9) As Indians, we love our rain and getting wet and happy in it. We just can't say the same thing about our favourite sweets.'Trick or Treat'-ing in  Indian October is a baaad thing for all that sucrose and ghee.

10) We are a fore-warned and fore-armed race. There's already disasters coming out in the form of Diwali crackers. Why risk another 'trick'? We want our kids to grow up without getting frightened of "BOO!" and silly shadows.

11) Orange pumpkins refuse to grow where majority of human beings do. Instead, we use our creativity and hold vegetable carving competitions for new substitutes. Cabbage usually works out good.

12) Halloween is supposedly against the religious beliefs of Indians. That's right. We worship our dead for fifteen full days a year (remember Maalayapaksha, otherwise called Shraardh paksha ?), having that impromptu awareness of how great our ancestors were (we have their DNA, you know); unlike ungrateful some others, who do it once a year, and only after being forced to, after beling allowed into a hideous costume of their choice.

13) Indians don't get the "bad luck" part of the Western idea of Halloween. To us, odd numbers are gooooood, and auspicious. Hence, the religious costumes. 

14) Halloween was technically started to tell the world about how gods and saints defeat monsters. Now all the saints are gone, and the monsters increase every year. Which self-righteous Indian would attribute to that? We are God-fearing people down here!

15)  Halloween encourages death of black cats. Indians are logical and know about DNA - a lot, actually; so, just coz the poor feline happened to have black fur, we don't automatically hate it. (Indians kinda like cats. We have the largest number of tigers and black panthers in the world to prove that fact.)

16) Shamans? Sorcerors?? "Have you seen our religious leaders? Then, you would understand how much we need such sources of good evil in the world."

17) We are not pagans. I know it sounds flippant, but Halloween did originate as a Gaelic pagan festival, and that’s why All Saint’s Day is on Nov. 1. 

( “What are you doing for Halloween?”

“Nothing…what are you doing for Hanukkah?”

“Nothing, I’m not Jewish.”

“And I’m not Pagan!”  )

18) Western people say "Indians don't celebrate Halloween coz they have no Ghandi (apparently that's how we're supposed to pronounce candy)". They just don't understand that its our way of honoring their dead - we speak their language - and they disrespect our dead! And they still can't get over the fact that we don't kiss their *****. I mean, seriously?

19) Indians don't encourage deprecating cavities. Our teeth is the only part of us that's strong enough to tear through our proteinous, fibrous, vegetarian diet, and you want us to weaken it? Sorry, no can do. I mean, no can-dy.

20) Another reason to pull an all-nighter party in a night club that looks like it got supernaturally attacked by the Aliens. 

21) Halloween is so important to white people because they have to wear a costume.  It is a chance to literally show everyone how clever you are without having to say a word. Don't we Indians do it everyday?

22) The West can't get more offensive with their Halloween costumes when they try to imitate recently dead celebrities.Indains, in retrospect, like to dress up like living heroes (cough, cough, Rajinikanth, Amitabh Bachchan) or glorious gods who didn't die of natural causes at least a thousand years ago. 

23) Halloween teaches bad values; "Give me candy, or I’ll do something you don’t like" (WTH??) - it's pure blackmail. Indians are pretty sharp in noting that point.

24) Just imagine... asking your friend for a Halloween treat. "Dominoes sure sells good pizza around this time (price hiked up to an exhorbitant rate), and he's nowhere to be found." Yeah... Indian definition of 'treat' is much better than the Western one. Unfortunately for friends.

25) It is an offense in India to dress up like somebody. Because, someone invariably hates, loves or worships the true owner of your original costume. And we have the Right to Expressing our views. 

26) Indians make practical conclusions. Diwali and Halloween are knit into the same time period; both involve lights, sweets, costumes and demons. Diwali dresses look flattering, and Halloween costumes, well, don't. So... Diwali wins the race, doesn't it?

27) It irritates Indian traffic when people in garish clothes prance around waving baskets and pumpkins. In the sweltering heat and piouring rain of our indigenous streets, we just don't have the space to go and beg for 'trick or treat' alongside money.

28) To us, Halloween is just another non-understable American tradition that had lost its initial features, like Thanksgiving minus the Native Americans, Mardi Gras without the Spanish people, etc. Soon there will even come by a Diwali without the Indians.

29) The concept of ugly witches... it's too MCP. Why aren't there ugly warlocks? Indians, too, have witches (cough, cough, Mohini pisaasu), but they are all said to be beautiful beyond comprehension. Literally. Hence, we find t a bit disconcerting to go around spreading lies. 

30) We are a loud and obnoxious race of people who can't keep their mouths shut for a long time. Which means, Indians do not appreciate Halloween because it makes us involuntarily comment on the hideousness of our loved ones' costumes, which warrants immediate estrangement. We do not like to be lonely.

31) Seriously? You need more reasons? Come on! You know this one as well as I do! Halloween, according to the Indian race, is the only day out of 365, except for April 1st, when people don't get arrested for supporting terrorists in damaging their cities. 

Phew! Indians do think a looooot! :D

NOTE:

Just make sure that your family ghost is not reading this note from over your shoulder, coz he/she might get real angry and chomp off your ear. With your already abysmal listening abilities, you cannot afford to lose a ear, understand? Even if it's Halloween, I absolutely forbid that! X| ! (Remember George Weasley, and that wasn't even October 31st...). Please refrain from ghost movies, too. Too much westernization, of course. :/ :P :D

Not Every Color has a St. Valentine Specialty

Honest Confession No. 1:

I detest, loathe, and preferably-every-unpleasant-feeling-there-is St. Valentine's Day. 

No, no, this is not because I've never had a 'valentine' before, nor because I never plan on having one ever on this despicable date. (I profusely apologize to all those who were born on this day, and mourn your damned fate. I seriously do.)

Nah, it's also not because of the fact that "love" is a commodity that should be celebrated all year round instead of one, hot-pink stuffed day with streamers and red balloons blinding you. Though it's a very nice, very arguable point.

I don't like St. Valentine's Day because of some very different, very other reasons...

For one, this guy, St. Valentine, was an imprisoned saint/priest, who fell in love with a princess during his last few days of life...? Despite the Shakespearan aura of Romanticism in the "original" story, it is only a story about a priest who broke his Holy Vows and yielded to the bonds of mortal, human emotions. In the end, even God - the guy who's responsible for your entire existence - is pushed to a seond option when Man puts his own desire forward. 

Why commit yourself to something when all you did was to not honor it? Why did everyone start celebrating this day as the Festival of Love?

Honest Confession No. 2:

I sincerely state that I am a girl, therefore, I am every girl, and, hence, I believe in the trap of 'True Love' and the tosh about soul mates.

Being in love with somebody? Wonderful feeling, that. Especially, when the other-body knows about it and is cool with it, maybe even throws in a cheeky grin towards you every now and then. Feels like heaven, even if neither of you own a scrap of Raymond Suitings. 

Being in love with love!? Bloody hell! That's intoxicating - hyperventilate-able - uncontrollable! Makes you love everything in this world - even the horrible people and all their distorted mental allusions. Feels like you're in a constantly bubbling liquid in a heated cauldron, with the fumes of feelings stirring you around the vessel as though you are but another sprig of flavoured mint. 

Either way, love makes a person giddy and steady at the same time. A peculiar feeling, but it's there in everybody - when you see Mom, Dad, Bro or Sis; when you see your best friend and run to hug her or him, despite the fact that you had barely parted a few hours ago and was on the phone till the earlier moment; when you see your exam sheet returned to you, and told that you got the highest mark; when your boss begins to be this overprotective-brotherly person who tells you that you can have all the time and all the freedom in the world to finish the job you love doing.

It's nice. And I'm a girl, who, in stereotypical terms, is condemned to be a sentimental fool. I do not know if there is a differnece between 'sentimental' and 'fool', but I must be one, to be vulnerable enough to burst into tears because there are homeless people still existing in this world, where it gets cold and they freeze.

Honest Confession No. 3:

I love wearing clothes that are of, at least, a hundred colors.

I own more clothes than a lot of people. I have probably dresses of all colors. By all, I mean all. 

And it's my wish to wear what color I like! 

"Yellow pota enna de? Yellow??" asked a pillion rider to her friend in the front on a red-and-black dio to my right - at the Nandanam Signal, on my way to my diploma class. I never heard the reply, but hey, the giggling wanted me to turn around and ask them what dirty pink (what the girl was wearing) stood for. Definitely not a very nice one, if one at all!

I'm sure St. Valentine never wore anything that wasn't white, grey, black or dirty (from the jail dirt). Where did this stupid color code come up? From colored flowers?? 

WTH?

So, back in the days when people wore only the colors of their house banners (after Valentine's untimely and extremely popular demise), were they judged thus? 'Tudor green, thou art fast to one's hand'? 'Lannister yellow, is your heart mellow?'!?!

Alas, sleep has overtaken me! St. Valentine had his day, and I will have mine within a week - and one dayin the distant Apocalyptic future , even my birthday will be celebrated as some stupid festival - who knows? :P :/

~ Maitri Harys

Unique: Not Someone Else

Unique U

What is there to lose when you are but only you…?

I put my hands in front of me, I see skin stretched over bones around which were strained muscles and rivers of veins. I saw my fingernails, small and shiny, pink and bitten ‘round the edges. I blink. Images change little.

However, change is one of those constant things life’s made upon. Unless there is change, there is no progress, and no one moves forward. Some realize this, while some choose to wallow in the past of someone else’s.

But why?

To be like someone is a great thing to ask for:

1) It would give you the bliss of carefree-ness, and the sense of freedom that accompanies one that has no responsibilities.

2) There is no strain, for all you have to do is imitate.

3) There is no accomplishment, for the result is another person.

4) The only part that feels good about such an endorsement is that, you are not alone in making mistakes; another one, your role model, has partaken in it, too.

~

Yet, to be the person you are, is a difficult, obscure task. Because, in order to be the person you are deep in your subconscious, would mean asking you to sit still for hours and observe yourself without any self-serving bias and influential, rather flattering opinions of others. It would mean going away on a weekend alone to a lonely island, and finding the hidden treasure all by yourself. It would mean flying on a ‘copter all by yourself to the ends of the earth, unaccompanied, unseen and unappreciated. It would mean holding your breath underwater for long amounts of time with no one else around you to pull you out when you faint. It would mean struggling not to cry when you cut a fresh, young onion up for your favourite dinner.

It would mean to fight your own defenses to the outer world to find your soul underneath, and to handle it with care, inspect and analyze it like a doctor, and find out how it can be used to make your life worthy to the world that you live in.

Does that mean you shall have to be a superhero? No.

Does that mean you need to be a political head? No.

Does that imply you must be a sensational leader? Not really… but it’s your wish.

Because, the only advantage you are going to get when you are like yourself is – Happiness, with a capital ‘H’. Not a lot of results, when compared to anxiety, acceptance, comradeship, a lot of unwanted possessions, or even the satisfaction of being in the “in-crowd”, but definitely something that demands a second thought to being yourself.

When you lift your hands up and weigh the concept of real you and the concept of a modeled you, the clear, lighter one would be the modeled one, who is probably based on a person you greatly admire. Which means that being you brings a lot of baggage, is a burden that no one else can carry, thus, making you unique to your heart’s contents.

Being unique is being the fish that swam upstream in a flood-time. Being unique is a kite shaped like a balloon. Being unique is having a hairdo everyone turns to look around. Being unique is possessing a loud, booming laugh that sets everyone around you off like a cracker. Being unique is wearing multi-colored sunglasses, and stating that each eye of yours has a different visual defect. Being unique is dancing in the middle of an austere crowd that listens to opera in the middle of the road. Being unique is driving a remodeled scooter after picking it from the scrap-shop. Being unique is coming barefoot to P.T. classes. Being unique is having a ready bottle of Coca Cola for your distressed friend. Being unique is using a different pen for each different sentence that the teacher is dictating. Being unique is being innovative, creative, intelligent, conservative, rebellious and spiritual at the same time.

But the best type of being unique is being YOU.

The kind that is labeled YOU-nique.

~ Maitri Harys

Mornings After Rain

Morning after rain.

Doing things slowly. No crickets chirping. The lost buzz of the incessant numbers of dragonflies on the tarmac. The stillness of the air, the absence of the breeze. The unseen ripples on the roadside puddles.

Each sound echoing more than the other.  The crowded house as silent as the sky. The ringing loss of the pitters and patters of last night’s howling downpour. The craving for a warm coffee. The disdain of the messy bed that still looks as inviting as a Las Vegas casino that is rigged to make you win. The gentle sway of your loose hair around your head, that you had freed to keep your exposed neck protected from the cold.

The soggy newspaper is not so soggy in your hands; just barely is there a hint of dampness about it. The smell of cooking breakfast seems to rebound within the walls of your home, as though each wall decided to play squash with the scents of hot, toasting bread. The woolen shirt on your skin, the one you had hugged around yourself in the freezing chillness the night before, is heavy and stifling. There is a certain reluctance in your feet to accept the loss of this chillness, as you walk bare-feet clad on the nonchalant floor, when just a few hours ago, there was marbled ice that you had stubbornly refused to rest even a toe on.

There is a drowsy laziness about you. You look at your fingers, wrapped around your coffee mug. The sounds from the kitchen sound miles away to you. The TV sits idle in the corner, even though you had but watched it all day yesterday like a raving lunatic. You watch the soft fog licking the surface of your steaming coffee, as though it were but the caress of the wind of the liquid that was supposed to heat your oesophagus. You think about yesterday, the frantic urgency to catch hold of some semblance to your usual life, the way you had tried to hold on to your earlier plans before the torrential appearance of sky-water had disrupted them. You try to think why you had panicked, how your phone hadn’t picked up any signal the whole day of hell yesterday.

You thoughtlessly skim your fingers around the rim of the coffee mug. It is hot, but you don’t notice. You enjoy the sharp, sudden sensation of blood rushing to your stricken fingers. You wonder why fear had seized you last night. You don’t seem to remember the pitfalls of your stomach, of that fluttering fright of the postponed exam date. You look at your bitten nails, wondering why you had been so restless yesterday. You watch the uneven cuticles for a few more minutes, taking in the toll of your single-day anxiety. You lean back, and close your eyes, swallowing the silence that is enveloping you, right now. Your ears pick up, barely, the creaking of the faraway gate and the hum of the fan three rooms down. The floor under your toes has gotten warm with your body heat, so you hastily pull them up and sit cross-legged on the sofa. You hug the mug to your now shivering neck. You look at the clock and note the time. It was nearly an hour since you sat with your coffee.

You taste the liquid you held in your hand inside its porcelain holder. It has gone from steaming to warm to less-than-warm, bordering on cold. Your mother scolds you, tells you it is bad to not drink it when it’s hot, and you chuckle. You don’t like to drink milk hot. You don’t like to drink coffee hot. You like the cold, the chilled, iced versions of coffee, tea, milkshakes and juices. You chuckle, remembering how you did not think like that when you got slapped by the freezing raindrops last night. You had thought of warm milk all the time you had been drenched. You sour up, remembering how deliciously cold it had been the previous day, and look outside the window accusingly, as though the heavens would conjure up the clouds and the cyclone again, and send down the rain. You take a precursory glance at the part of the ceiling of your house, where rain water had leaked in for the past two weeks. It is still dripping wet, pun and all. Now, suddenly, you don’t want the rain to come again, since all the towels you had used to keep your home dry are now hung out to get dried.

You sigh, gulping down the now-cold coffee in a single swallow. It does not taste bad, but you don’t focus on that. Your eyes are now captivated by the frigid scenery outside the window on your left. You put the mug down, and open the balcony door. The light pours on you, washes over you, bathes your skin, basks your senses; but you have no care of it. The You-shaped silhouette on the floor behind does not interest you like it had always in the past, sunny afternoons. The gentle tinkling of the chimes above your head matters not, for you never noticed its intimate meeting with the door you had just forced open. The low parapet in your balcony houses still, the last vestiges of the cold you had missed barely minutes ago. The floor out here, it is still icy, delicious to walk upon. You forget that your feet are sensitive, and walk on as they become numb to the iciness. The walls seem far away, slippery, and the house behind you, nonexistent. Your elbows meet painfully with frozen cement upon brick, but you pay no heed to its cries. Your eyes, ears and mind are in a different world than the one you had just left behind with the cold-coffee mug and the echoing smells. Your senses of touch and taste had dissolved into a higher blend of hyperconsciousness and nothingness. You inhale and exhale, but you forgot to breathe.

Droplets of water cling to every withered leaf on the tree that grew in the house opposite to yours. The bark, twisted and broken, glistens with a mixture of dew and raindrops. The tar on the road under your vision is dark, sparkly, as though diamonds had been hidden in their tiny, innumerous cracks. Your car, which had not found shelter in your garage last night, stood by your house, studded by gazillions of zillions of million water circlets. You stand there, fascinated by the way light bends around each tiny water bob, glinting on the pastel metal surface of your car, wherever little it is spared of wetness. You look right, you look left, as though following orders you had not been dictated to follow, but, still, an innate drill forced you to. The entire street your house stood upon is still. Not a bird flitted past, nor a hungry butterfly drove your neighborhood flowers crazy; a single bee not in hearing range, nor your familiar street-visitors, the crows. Still, like a photograph; still, as a painting. Your intuition now urged you to look up at the tired sky, and your eyes lifted heavenward. Your eyes traced the hollow insides of the clouds, whose ghosts now floated across the vast expanse of blue like tendrils of pure, white, coarse cotton. Now there was a playful rabbit, and then, the outline of a serene face; now, a tiny, curling dragon, and the eyes and nose of a forgotten chimera. Your fingers rose without you intending to, and began to trace patterns in the sky, something you had always wanted to do when you had time to spare. Of course, you forgot you had not had time to spare since you started high school, but you still felt contented to draw shapes of lions and bears in midair as their cloudy imitations were herded by an invisible force of air.

It is a magical moment, and you feel ageless, tracing faces in clouds without a care, with speckled molecules of moisture gently brushing your skin, floating in the same, invisible breeze as the cirrus and cumulus above. You close your eyes as you feel water pushing its way all over your face, and sigh, bringing your hands to your face. They are warm, and smell of the ever too familiar coffee you had chugged in earlier. You close your eyes in divine appreciation of your favored beverage. Your palms close over your face, leaving but your nose and mouth free to inhale and savor the magnificence of the morning.

And then, all is shattered by the loud honk of the passing vehicle. Your palms drop and you glare at the offending old man on his spluttering old Bajaj scooter. Your ears hum and thrum as all sounds come back into them – the echoes of your waiting breakfast, the faraway bell from the temple on the next street, the melodious screeching of the backyard squirrels as they fight over food with their rivals, the crows and ravens. Your eyes begin to dim with dullness as they turn back to the house, where now your brother had switched the TV on and was watching a rerun of a match that had taken place some obscure number of years ago. You stand there for a moment, watching the bright spots of color peeking around the stolid form that was his, and could see only too-green, too-trimmed grass. More vehicles honk their way on the roads below and off to the side. The sun is a little higher up now and no longer are you a neat little silhouette on the floor, but a sharp outline of a dwarf almost half your size. The kid in the house opposite has begun his daily tantrum and his friend in the next door screamed with all her might in answer.

The echoing smell of rich, buttery toast reaches your nose, accompanied by the warm, liquid-y taste of tangy tomato soup, luring you towards the kitchen. You grip the balcony’s parapet, fighting to stay in the magical moment forever, but your stomach rumbles in protest. You resist, and it roars in rebellion. You give in, sigh and oblige.

Your brother looks at you groggily over his bowl of soup. He is momentarily smitten by the warmth of the soup on his tongue and the crunch of the toast between his teeth, and brightens up as only a hungry teenager in the morning would.

“It’s the right breakfast for such a morning, right, sis?” he asks, not waiting for my approval as he wolfs down his allotted number of toasts. I stare at my own breakfast and lean in to smell the heavenly aroma, letting the steam float to my face, feeling déjà vu as the moisture coats my skin.

Ah, mornings after rain. Why do they not last every day?

  ~ Maitri Harys    

Mermaid Merlynn

What started as a fan fiction, and is holding my imagination, is my new Mermaid Merlynn.

A dark story it is, about a young who decidedly lives her way in midst of all evil, not exactly the beacon of goodess, but yet, our Maitri (yes, that's the protagonist's initial name) lives a life of animals, Slytherins, secrets and her own imaginations... oh yes, and Sirius Black.

“I’m not worried,” Harry replied, turning to look at me. “You were her bridesmaid, weren’t you?”

I sighed. This was it. The truth revealing time. Bye-bye secrets.

“Yes, I was Lily’s Maid of Honor,” I admitted. “Since your aunt Petunia refused to speak to her, at all.”

“Your name was different back then,” Harry questioned on. “Wasn’t it?”

I nodded. “I was a different person back then, kiddo.”

A new kind of smile came to his face, a quizzical, amused smile. “Weren’t you engaged to Sirius Black?”

“Yeah, that’s right.” I said, not overdoing the cynicism.

Wanna get back to me about reading more of it?

Mail me at maitriharys@hotmail.com

.... Sometimes, you feel the world is too bland; when you're looking out of the window in the middle of Physics equations and wonder why there are no fascinating clouds in the sky when its summer (really gets on my nerves, it does)... when you're lying back down at night, and the moonlight is spilling in from the window, and you REALLY wonder why the ceiling is so - so BLANK - no colours, no mysterious swirling patterns of paints, no etched figures, no stories like a tapestry.... Just so PLAIN for inspiration..... Especially when you get a frustrating WRITER'S BLOCK ...

And, then, it strikes you. Like a lightning bolt hitting your head right on the mark.

Everything is not what YOU are.... Everything is not yours to be, yours to exist, or yours to complain about. It's just around there... waiting to be coloured, waiting to be filled with memories, clouds and happiness...

What are YOU waiting for?