Sitting together in the quiet of the night, we watched the stars as one shot across the sky. The warmth from the room behind us spilled onto the balcony, mixing with the cool evening breeze. In this peaceful moment, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only us and the night sky.
– naturaeon
(Journal Page by Poorvi)
Magic happens when you do not give up, even though you want to. The universe always falls in love with a stubborn heart.
(Journal Page by Poorvi)
Whether you like it or not,
your genes have a political past,
your skin, a political cast,
your eyes, a political slant.
Whatever you say reverberates,
whatever you don't say speaks for itself.
So either way you're talking politics.
– Wisława Szymborska
(Journal Pages by Poorvi)
All the words that I gather,
And all the words that I write,
Must spread out their wings untiring,
And never rest in their flight,
Till they come where your sad, sad heart is,
And sing to you in the night,
Beyond where the waters are moving,
Storm darkened or starry bright.
– W. B. Yeats, London, January 1892
(Journal Page by Poorvi)
— George Sand
Your memory remains in exile. What has become of me? Time danced across the landscape of life. This abundance of light was my own doing. In a way, I’m still a daughter. In a way, I greet remembrance with stagnant water.
—Noor Unnahar, poem Stagnant
It’s the small things in life that you gotta enjoy. An inside joke. A Sunday brunch. A day out with friends. The cute new guy in your class. A flirty text message. Neon socks. Coffee. A smile on your parents’ face. Fireworks. Chicken. Tom and jerry and Mickey mouse. Special episodes of favourite shows. That extra hidden money in your pockets. Old journals. Old school magazines,with whom memories come back flooding. A basketball going perfectly through the hoop. A sudden rush of adrenaline. Unexpected rain. A summery, happy day. A chocolate. Late night conversations. An old dusty photograph buried under your enormous pile of clothes. A simple ‘i love you’ from your best friend, not boyfriend. Long walks. Short sprints. Music. Listening to a song after what seems like decades. Meeting or talking to an old friend after what seems like years. Seeing a smile break out on a face after what seems like days. It’s all worth it. The small things in life make you elated. Even if just for a few seconds. They make your day memorable. And that’s what life is, isn’t it? A collection of memories strung together to make a collage which you take with you, which no one can ever snatch from you. And don’t let anyone do it, because these memories make you go the distance in those times you think you can’t get through.
-1:25am
Twenty minutes before Mrs Mooring was pecked to death by crows, we sat in Mother’s backyard where the tea was just warm enough and the books lay piled and unread on the coffee table.
I checked the time on my watch, discreetly, but with enough discretion of my discretion to make sure that Mrs Mooring saw me, and more importantly, my watch. Satisfied, I feigned a look at the kittens playing in the field. I wanted to be with them, but Mother had other plans.
“Oh, Wuthering Heights,” Mrs Mooring commented. She’d spotted one of the books, like you’d spot a bird on a tree with a monocular.
“Yes,” my mother said. “By one of the Brontë sisters.”
Emily Brontë’s name was right there, on the spine of the book.
This was fifteen minutes before Mrs Mooring was pecked to death by crows.
“I take it you’re the reader of the house?” Mrs Mooring grinned at me like a hag. She’s the sort who’d live in a house of candy and biscuits and desserts of all kinds. Hansel and Gretel would be goners if it were her.
“Yes,” I said. “But I haven’t read that one.”
It got a laugh out of Mrs Mooring, which bounced off of my mother. “Much too young, are we?” Mrs Mooring said.
I smiled politely, and very discreetly checked the time again. Thirteen minutes to go. I wondered if Mrs Mooring had ever heard of Turgenev, Balzac, or Eliot. No, she must have. She must think Turgenev was an officer of the Tsar, and Balzac was probably some American invention, and Eliot… well, isn’t that Mr Eliot from the law firm?
Mother and Mrs Mooring were chatting about something while I harboured these thoughts. My tea was getting cool. The steam had disappeared, just as I liked it, and Mrs Mooring shot a disapproving glance at my filled cup when hers was nearly empty.
Eight minutes left.
“You’re awfully fond of that new watch, aren’t you?” Mrs Mooring commented. Her frown formed creases that were a full right angle. You could draw her portrait and the artist would be called an impostor incapable of the most basic skill.
“Yes,” I smiled. This time, it was genuine.
“She got it from her father,” my mother said. “He in turn bought it in a Lisbon market, on his way back from India, you see.”
“That’s what he says, anyway,” I said, still smiling.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mrs Mooring looked at me with mock horror.
Four minutes, and she was going to screaming, crying mess under a blanket of black feathers and blacker beaks.
“Oh, she means nothing by it,” my mother said. “She just says the funniest things, sometimes.”
The crows were starting to gather now, on the roof, in the trees, on the grass (as long as the kittens permitted them to). I watched them enough that Mrs Mooring turned around to look at them too.
“Awful lot of crows today, aren’t there?” she said, turning back to me and my mother.
One minute.
“It really won’t do to keep looking at your watch so often,” Mrs Mooring groaned, putting her cup back on the saucer. “It’s poor manners, especially for a lady.”
“Do you think I’m a lady, Mrs Mooring?” I asked.
Mrs Mooring cocked her head and cooed an ‘aww’ at me. “Look at this one. So precious. What else would you be, dearest?”
The crows were in flight.
