The Gola.

"I want it to be rose flavored.."

"This is the real happiness one can taste and dive into."


No, it was Disha. And she kept adding more to it...

"Shagun, this is life. Little wonders. You dont know how much an ice cube wrapped in the divine sweet red rose syrup can make you happy!! I am loving it!!"

Slurp Slurp Slurp.

Sluuuurrrrrpppp.

I took one too. It was good. It was cold. Very cold.

"Garima.. we wont let you taste it, I told you to buy one for yourself but you didn't. Now.."

"I can still get one for you" I mumbled, I couldnt speak much.. My tongue was frozen and numb. I wish there was some same cure for pain too. That could numb the heart so that the pain is frozen.


I tried to touch the little cup of happiness and drink the magical tea in it.

Slurrrrppp...

She was happy. Why wasn't I happy? Why do small wonders don't work for me anymore? Am I out of the queue? I hate this fact.


I made a deliberate attempt to realize pleasure of eating a Gola under the hot sun. Where were the bells?

Slurrrpp..

I gave in.

No more resistance.



Slowly it grew on me.

On me.


And then.

In me.




I was happy.

Satisfied.
Satisfaction is a beautiful form of happiness.
It was a beautiful feeling.

It faded away, it was a momentary pleasure.

"Lets go home". We went back home.

Asha.

I knew I would write about her though I had been resisting it for a while.

She looks at me every time I step out of my home( if she is out too).
She is a maid who looks after a child, a child who calls her by her name. Asha, that is what her name sounds like.

It must be Asha, if it is not Asha then it must be something else.

I really don't know her name to be quite honest. As they say "Honesty is the best policy". Simple and sweet it is. And true too.

It is simply the best policy.

So, Asha. She looks as if she belongs to a royal Bengali family. Big eyes, long hair, a strong body she has, and a deep beautiful complexion resembling some dark chocolate.


Beautiful she is. Then that child, he is real snob.
Proud.
Ill mannered.
He speaks rudely to her.


But, my mother loves him because he is fair, beautiful and little curly hair portray his innocence. But he is not that innocent. What does my mother know about him? How many times have I seen him barking haughtily at his poor maid, who bears all his abuses and still carries him in her arms while his mother works in some distant branch of Punjab National bank.


Getting back to Asha. I feel she will run away from this place someday. No, she is not beaten up. But I feel she is not happy here.

She keep looking at me without letting her eyelids shutter her dark brown eyes.
She looks as if she wants me to come and talk to her. To soothe her heart. I feel she wants to share her thoughts, her heart, her hatred, her love, her pain, her life, wants, desires, dreams, everything. To bring her out, out of a dark world where there is no tomorrow. No aim.


I might talk to her one day.

Not sure when.

Not sure.

Unsure. Maybe one day when I am sure of what I am.