Suman

Suman Follow

Weaver of stories.
London / Odisha.

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And through a twilight trail of
forget-me-nots,
they found the dusty motor road
blaring with life
and its everyday drama.
Dickensian. 
Or, hello, December.
As November clings to its last breath, London saw a glimpse of snow today. Or flurries actually, to be honest. And what a moment of universal happiness it was! This took me back to another November when we lived in a world of perpetual winter, where snow fell in soft, white fluffs for almost every minute of every day. As a bleak, black-and-white world descended upon us, we would simply lose track of time, routine, and gradually color too. In contrast to the collective euphoria of occasional snow, here, everyone was bound together by an invisible thread of stoicism and a shared love of good food. The only cheerleaders in this stark, Narnia-esque backdrop were the groves of winterberries, so red and so very assuring.
My pint-sized Wordsworth.πŸ˜„ #letthembelittle
A strange stillness pervades my walk today, a stillness that's beautiful and desolate at the same time. All the leaves are gone and the trees stand quietly, unveiling their naked frames. Whether they stand bereft of their belongings or relieved of the burden β€” who's to say?πŸ‚
These days I carry this book with me wherever I go, in the hope of stealing a few moments of reading wherever I can manage. To read the journal entries of a favourite author dated back to the times when he was struggling to get anything substantial published is somewhat comforting. One finds peace in his lucid musings of nature and its invincibility, and a happy familiarity in his humble account of the people he sees everyday. But mostly, it is the quiet life in the mountains that draws me in β€” it's far from anything extraordinary and yet how profoundly poetic it all really is. I've always been a spectator of the mundane, of nothing heroic in particular but the day-to-day struggles of the ordinary people. It doesn't always have to be the roaring drama of the great epics; most times, life is every bit about the hushed battles we fight within ourselves. Each day, everyday.
A handful of moons.
Fire and ice.
Once upon a time in Hyderabad.πŸ‚
My second home and my first exposure to life outside my culture, this is a city I had once loved to the brink of my heart. In some unacknowledged corners, perhaps I still do. It taught me a lot about people and places, but above all it was the need to belong, to be rooted. Little did I know back then that I'll be on a grand rollercoaster ride of living in six different cities after that, only to come back to it one day with the detached and disillusioned eyes of a nomad. Nevertheless, the firsts always thrive, don't they? And so it happens that whenever I've found myself in Hyderabad, I'm always reminded of the wide-eyed, passionate young woman who had arrived one rainy July morning in the university campus, armed with her Shakespeare and Keats and a little something that resembled a small-town shyness that has never quite left her.
Remnants of an autumn.πŸ‚
Sometimes clichΓ©s are beautiful too.
The clocks have gone back an hour and once again time has been meddled with by man. We have tricked ourselves into believing that there is an extra magical hour of daylight now. An extra hour of life buzzing and whirring till night falls abruptly, a little too suddenly. Winter is upon us, officially and well, and whenever it is so, I find myself yearning for little pockets of different geographies. The claustrophobia of the heated indoors and being swathed in layers when outdoors gives birth to a strange restlessness in me. I long for places faraway and distant, both that I've been to and have had dreamy visions of. And then, I long for some that I once left behind with a heavy heart and a tired mind.