Silences. Isnt it in these moments of silences interspersed between broken words, that we actually talk? Where my tongue runs out of words to tell you what it feels like, my silence steps in. Perhaps we should have our own language. Our language of silences and hummings, with words acting just as pauses in between. And when that silence steps in, I listen to the cars that pass by in your city, the rattle of the plates in your kitchen and all of those small sounds around you, and feel like I'm living it myself. I could keep doing that for hours. Listen to your life without the unnecessary interruption of our voices, and feel like I am in it, here at the other end of the line. I smile, ecstatically. Maybe you can see it. I dont know.
Asmabi
Your gold bangles chime against the bristle of the leaves, tender By the blooming verges of the winding river, your anklets sing. Asma did not have to race against time to scribble the words on her worn out state bank of India 2005 diary this once. She knew what was coming. Beneath the pale moonlit sky, your gentle smile shimmers Your silken drape quivers in the soft midnight breeze. Thaamasamenthe varuvaan praanasakhi ente munnil What keeps you from my side, O companion of my breath! The words were clear against the yellowing pages of the 2005 diary; unlike the last song. A broken ente swapnathin in one line, a neelathamara in the next. Perhaps the blind singer who sits by the beach will sing it another day. Or Asma will ask her to. She can fill the missing words then like an old class test. For Iqbal doctor, Asma’s race against the blind singer’s old Malayalam songs was a class test in memory. She’s been losing it. Last Monday, Iqbal doctor ...
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