Words As They Guide To Write

By Ritu Borah

I do not write to impress but to improve .I repeat - I do not write to impress but to improve .These words may stress ‘blunt’ , ‘rustic’ , ‘rhetoric’, don't they ?But , their blessings and shortcomings are embraced .

Not much when those letters halt , and fail to find a way as some ideas pop out after the mind writes .(Oops ! I could have covered up this topic , those words you know) 

"Such a headdress of the worn -as jaundice bade distance from their own "

But there will be ‘unfinished’ , ‘unfiltered’ , ‘informal meetings’, at such places where those letters find ways to mentor as they have repeated again and again .

(Come on , I can picturize them but do I get a packet to match my beats ?, like morning hen with morning notes )Occasionally , I write with a vision of spontaneity. Words may look as humanoid build :"Summit to a notary club Catalogue to a lucky bet Movement is with brief Money out of control And Gandhi is out of hand Printing Factory is closed " .Sometimes with all weight , they take their seats , adjusting side by side , miss .( Sounds like they sail smooth)

Sometimes , standing they make their rough sail .( Hmm , I am short of words and I have to manage somehow).

They too begin like passengers do , and this journey syncs with the vision , what the author anchors .

They mission like the bus driver wheels :Turning the steer , halting at stops . shifting the gear ! slowing down to bumps ; following the rush : ( There would be a speck of vehicles running in front and behind , some running rear with broad backs and long tail : hard to overtake as they lead the convoy , a little slow ) .(Like the MRI City Scan screens ) Late endurance from interest to overtime: Know the pain of arms , neck , shoulders , joints , knee , calf , foot , and what not when driven/attended  long . ( Patience net loss to the per capita pursuit)Some even addresses untimely after a short nap , like the night owl does -( Sudden presence of inward flashes after struggle ) -

“The boy was playing solo without a feet asleep ,and nothing much in round did, but turn brown. The hand slasher with his toil , ripped apart ;to make the host of a game perish to wild dust .Move made blisters to have it's appearance ground ,not at par with holes but with cutting touch ,rush to life unrest with little , small longevity ;Slashing the ungrazed lovegrass, which shoots again ” .

Solely to reach where they have planned , for if less men go they will halt, and transport them to an another carrier till they reach their stops .(Like an uncertain clue but a probable plan to take )Words also strive a safe and secure journey (transferred epitaphs ) , which seemed to be how far have I reached, and how far more to go .when terrible incidents happen on the road ,or the warning display boards seen :" Don't drink and drive " , "speed thrills but kills". These signal us to drive smooth , don't they ?(I must take care of my writing , and be careful with words . I must be alert , and attentive throughout my discipline , just like an army officer giving instructions to his disciplined troops) -

Sipahiyo sabdhan ! , bishram ! , khulla line aage chalega ! , khulla line piche judega! , khulla line daya murega.. daye mudh ! , khulla line baye murega ..baye mudh! , khulla line aage badhega , Sipahiyo aage barh : left , right , left ; left , right , left ...

Everything that a journey counts objectively is cherished .Some of us claim it a bad day or days worth not remembering . Like incidents of being warned from pick pockets gang .They move from traffic to train , from buses to lifts , and , even those transgender, making business out of skills .(There's a difference between what I am planning to write and what it turns out to be ,So call some freedom wanting to hire the express train)They must live , they must feed , they must exist ,can't they leave this , and work if the world insists ?"They must earn their bread if they have hands to work and feed " , says a man to an another who looked confused without support . He failed to part away from his kindwho donated generously to them once.The perceptive mood is split into two :having swung to help but being influenced , and hesitant .(Words are like those fencing build around our borders . There is a limit to them ).And like wild fire it spreads into some warm hearts : salam sahab ! , Bharat mata ki Jai ! , Inquialab Jindabad !( Words echo in respect and pride )Words do like finding space to breathe in a over crowded local train -Breathing needs space to think . Hustle and bustle won't settle .Some men risk their life to reach .There should not be ‘squeezed’ , , ‘smogged’, or ‘prolong arrest of hearts’. But none like to wait long , do they ? Perhaps , less of us in an overcrowded train know this that space should not kill the very existence of travel.( Words that count as dead end meet)"Trolley'r Chabi kot ? , khujkari furiboloi gol" .( Words add sarcasm in our daily lives)

Words do guide good from chicanery cruise :

I have been warned of poison seeds by the authorities : Spam messages that lure people winning lotteries , or befool them with the gifts of free resources - like free recharge for months, Job guarantee , lifetime warranty of tensions dur , bank account's frozen warning , never share otp's , blackmail feuds , and terror networks wild funding .

They are the Founding father of stories .They also move like the ants do : walking pass their trails , pass their sensors , or patrolling to pass their trade .

‘Silence’ and ‘patience’ have a long learner's license and they stood the test of time as the old man waiting to say - bye . Like the man at 92 , half blind , half deaf , forgetting everything but a living legend who had seen his fourth generation .He sat on the sofa , Caressing his hands to its nook and corner , everything that trembling can do to find , and get a grip of his walking stick . When found, he says in a low voice," it's mine , it's mine".(I can write till my mind can think)Can I write when I am old ? They say that the old man is found wanting as he walks out of his home but don't know where he is going .( A dilemma of destined old age )

Some Words are like trembling hands . Hands that could not meet in pair to end their pray , like the last wish of an old woman in pursuit of lord's blessings seconds before death. ( Words make a genuine reminder of the last hurdle on their course. They flow from the mountains , forests , cities , villages , and meet their destiny. Sometimes they meet the sea , or an another channel , and other times dries up their course like a non - perennial hearth) What is nether , where I begin , and where I end ,nor by the will deposit what I buried at their depths .I may sound crazy as I write to fly as the birds do .I aspire wings like I were inspired by something new .I write but with a conscious heart tutoring their sail .These thoughts for heaven's sake I don't know if it will go , or lay with the burden that a few know ,wherever their ashes mix .

( Viz..transcendental fear that words know not )Even if I leave , my words will shake hand in hand with some that is the least that a man can wish , and still might miss not being the one that I dreamt .

( Hope does have visions , doesn’t it ? )

I am what I am in writing like monkeys in their troops . I saw one trying to enter through the door but left as he saw me . They tore leaves , climb up the wall , tore down some papaya's leaves, got down quick and hurried upon the neighbour's gate as soon as a woman picked up a stone and sling at them . They vanish raiding a few door in front of my enclosed eyes .(Words tell us some events worth noticing)I pray to God to give me light - lots of light ! - when words turn out confused without a road be seizing the mind's health .I pray like everyone but know no better than some ;My mom prays day and night , and owns a heaven's heart , She has cataract , and would often test from her near and the distance .She develops this habit of closing her right eye with her hand , and reading verses from the left eye .She worries that her left and right combined are unequal .She prays like mothers do for the well being of near , and dear ones .Yet me as an irregular habit , would rent out of heart , and at times meditate with obsession , or make amends that I will pray tomorrow. If I look at my mother's routine , her age knows no bound as she is disciplined like her father once. When alive , he used to wake up at dawn , and would stroll a few miles daily whether it be rain , storm or cold fever , and after an hour or two would return back home .I want to have that discipline of sitting long for donkeys years ,Or even writing like nerds do :somedays they inspire like I am riding on a horse Jumping with my ups and downs, other days conspire to withdraw from write. But on varied shoes fitting as I could , and imagining I could ride the distance.( Words value the habit of writing , to routinely write, to improve upon its take )Words act like the weather which retells this habit of change , the tongue , and tone of a colosseum I may :(The trees are swaying in delight , birds chirping, winds howling , and the humid weather has settled down . she wished her house shades under the trees . But like wild money plant , they reached and climbed upon a stilt house building like refugees do . They occupy as if they have nowhere else to live , and build homes like spiders did ).I eat and forget words too : They bring some new topics to the table as I eat ,but skip their footprints in between I write and think .My passion irritates sometimes , and I regret not getting hold of them .I scorch my trails , and build my journey around this small town .This is an another lane : a theatre of odds , even , and sometimes zero . Some leave , some connect , some change , some continue .The world lives in numbers these days , and letters add to their tally : we speak, we buy , we sell , we receive, we even count the words and think , - are we done ? , is something missing ? , or what are we searching in ?( Words that will etch out evermore...)I don't write to impress but for passion towards learn :

They join in a group Each huddle in a hue None knows their age From where do they clue Now , elderly is short of stay And old is a living sketch None knows their time Since when do they rhyme .( Words hold their breathe that none knows how long they last )I don't need to prove anyone , anything regardless of my seek. I like to express like flowers bloom , and showers heal .Yet I write midway between my moods , and emotions .I write to explore and find something new in my travelogue. For there are stories of missing land . 

“Words are like motherhood ;ever prosperous , ever flowing ,ever greeting from her eternal heart ”. (For the passion it takes is much more than I can write ) :Like two weather fix , and betook it's drill :One march from the heaven , as the other took halt .( Words unite the relationship - "write ! " ) .

By Ritu Borah