She calls you. Its 2 am. Its way past her usual bedtime. She shouldn’t even be awake. You think she dialled your number by mistake, in her sleep, you ignore her call. But then again, the silence is your room is broken your phone vibrating again, with her number flashing.

You reach out and take the call “Hey! How are…”, only to be greeted by a muffled “Hi, can you talk?”, giving away the fact that she’s not okay. She begins pouring her heart out to you, pausing to breathe, barely, and to hear your reassuring “Yes, I’m listening, go on”. And as she tells you how messed up everything back home is, your heart beats almost as fast as hers is pounding.

Your thoughts begin to wander just then, you’re listening to her voice, but you can’t think of what to tell her. How do you make her feel better? Just a little-less-miserable than she was before she called you?

You decide make her laugh. You “jovially” put in a smart-alecky one liner. She pauses, tries to comprehend your words, and just continues talking, breathing heavily. Yes, that was a failed attempt.

Maybe she needs some water, you decide. Your voice guides her to the nearest water bottle and you listen as she takes a sip, and then another, still planning your next move. Still thinking about how to fix her.

You want so much to make her feel alright. To ease the pain. To let her know that it’s going to be okay. But you just don’t know how to use your words anymore. Years of reading and practising the English language fail you. Helpless. That’s how you feel. Helpless.

You just listen to her, cry silently with her, without letting her know. And before you know it, you’ve managed to put the angel to sleep. You can hear her breathe silently, you can picture the serene face. You feel better, atleast you made her stop crying. But, now, what do you do about the tears flooding your eyes?


A Wish

His heart seemed to palpitate, regretfully,
Just to hear that one voice, that would make his day
And let him die peacefully…

It was his birthday today,
He couldn’t decide if he should be happy or sad,
He thought about the last eighty years as he lay

He had lived his life in repentance.
He wondered if his son remembered,
Not having spoken to his kin proved to be a bitter sentence

All that he wanted was forgiveness,
For the deeds that appeared justified then,
But now had transformed his life into a living mess

Something told him, that his wish would be granted,
His conscience pricked the fatuous desire,
He wanted to believe that thought, but it fainted

He didn’t let the tears spoil the postcard, the last one
His son had sent, countless years back.
He lay there, feeling numb and lone

He faintly heard the shrill sound of the phone,
And his cold fingers slowly gripped the receiver as he lay,
His heart thumped hearing the voice’s tone.

God had displayed his benign grace
And fulfilled his last wish
A smile spread across his wrinkled face

But he did not respond, not a word he said,
His heart’s last temptation had been satisfied
He lay, as if cold and dead…

Not for reproduction.

The Phone Call

It was a dark evening this Thursday night,
And as she sat on the green garden grass,
She gazed above and saw a moon, so white,
Glaring right back at her

She held the pendant which read,
‘To My Little Angel’, close to her heart
And remembered her father and what he said,
I’ll always be here for you’.

But it seemed as though the sky, so dim
Told her, something wasn’t right,
There was something, pulling her away from him,
An invisible and mysteriously invincible strength

She didn’t know why, a tear trickled down,
She couldn’t understand why,
Those tears filled her eyes, so brown,
And then unknowingly, began to weep out loud

The night surged on, and there she was,
Without a sound, still holding on,
Wondering why her cries wouldn’t pause,
Why her eyes didn’t dry…

She went astray in the thoughts, of those memories, so sweet
And thinking about those marvellous days she spent
With her dad, made her heart skip a beat
She knew, something wasn’t the way it used to be…

The phone began to ring, in the dead of the night,
Feeling so numb, she ignored the shrill sound,
It rang yet again, so she got up, slowly with all her might,
She walked, slowly to the buzzing receiver.

She greeted the solemn voice, with a meek ‘hello’,
The voice seemed to bring her, the news she dreaded,
The news which made her face turn yellow,
And she insensitively dropped the receiver…

Not for reproduction.