An old charcoal pencil,
a polaroid picture of me with my tongue out, as a ten year old.
A pair of neon horn-rimmed glasses with a brown sling.
The frayed ends of a multicoloured feather I picked up from the school quadrangle— fifteen years ago.
A bright blue lapis lazuli with grains of sand.
A broken bracelet watch and an oversized ring.
Chipped crayons. A string of synthetic pearls.
A tuft of black dog hair.
A small notebook, with words that make no sense today.
A page full of symbols — an entire diary written in symbols.
A language a friend and I invented in school.
A wish, a kiss, a laser beam of sunlight.
The sweet aroma of hot jaggery,
the fragrance of melted butter.
Constellations stitched together as one bright unit of light.
A studio full of mics, screens, lights, TV, and
wasted bits of cut cue cards.
Waves of humidity on a summer’s evening,
fans swirling in full might on a balmy afternoon,
the redolence of piping hot masala chai filling the living room,
the shuffling of cards and the turning of pages,
the ringing of the school bell and the sharp sound
of the cycle wheel skidding on construction sand.
The clinking and clanking of peanuts fried in an iron vessel,
the crackling of fire, steaming of vegetables,
and steady rains that don't flood.
A few drops of tears. A huge wave of the sea. A seashell.
Here's a box full of wonderful wishes.
Photo on Unsplash by Marius Matuschzik